The Dark before the Dawn

There is a saying that the darkest hour is right before the dawn. Personally, I am not up and about enough at this time of the day to prove it true or otherwise. I can, however, vouch for it's truth in my life over the last year.

In my training and my own reading, I have come to understand a little about what St John of the Cross describes as 'The Dark Night of the Soul'. This phrase comes from a 16th Century poem written by St John of the Cross to describe the journey of the soul to mystical union with God. The darkness is not about terrible things happening in life, but about the unknowable nature of God.

I must confess, I thought I knew what the Dark Night was all about. I thought I had experienced desolation and the necessary spiritual emptiness that is necessary to allow us to grow closer to God. Perhaps I had - on a small scale. But nothing could prepare me for the new experience I have been through over the past months.

I want to be clear. At no point did I feel depressed or even completely lost. Yes, it was difficult, but mostly because of my own resistance and inability to see a different way of being. Spiritual desolation is described as a feeling of emptiness, an absence of God or a dryness. I must say, after encountering 'The Dark Night' it is a difficult experience to put into words. Last November, I gave it a shot.

The Dark Night

So, this is the dark night.
I stumbled into it.
First in fear,
I cowered in the corner,
too uncertain to reach out.
Dreading the unknown touch.

But now, it is named
and the grip has loosened.
I still cannot see my hand
in front of my face.
The darkness has depth,
    substance and weight...
    and weight.

This thick, soupy air
fills my lungs
each breath a burden
I try to resist.
No light pierces
this pit of mystery.
What is there to do?

Searching my surroundings
it feels familiar and warm.
I stretch... I breathe... I rest...
and sleep, a deep slumber.
I breathe, rest and wait.
I am one with the dark.
The dark night is me.

Now, the dawn is breaking. I can see the light that was there all the time. New paths are calling me and fresh possibilities are opening before me. The darkness of the womb gives way to birth. The cold, dark soil breaks a seed open to create new life. The darkest hour brings a stillness before the dawn breaks and the bird songs begin.
  

The Discipline of the Examen

I've just got home from my first session of our "Waiting on God" Advent series. I have been amazed by the interest in this series. We have three groups meeting through the week for the four weeks leading up to Christmas. This is not your usual study series, as we are not studying the Bible as such. Instead we are exploring and experiencing a different spiritual practice of St Ignatius each week. There is some learning about the practice and then we experience using it.

Tonight, we looked at the Examen. I expected some people to find the practice too prescriptive or analytical, but I was wrong. The people who came along tonight loved the practice and have said that they are going to try it through the week. I am looking forward to hearing how they went.

We discussed the importance of routine and discipline in life. This is something I am not too good at. I have never been particularly self-disciplined. I get things done, but often need a bit of pressure imposed by  deadlines or my own expectations of myself. 

I remember someone asking me when I was a teenager, "How's your relationship with God going?" My polite response was, "Good thanks", but I recall thinking it was none of their business. I am at the age now where I am asking myself that question. The Examen is a way of doing this daily in a disciplined way. I am looking forward to exploring Lectio divina next week.

If you would like to hear more about our "Waiting on God" series let me know.

Bartimaeus and Being Blind

Today's reading was the story of Blind Bartimaeus. I remember participating in an Ignatian meditation based on this reading about twelve years ago and finding it a very significant experience. This is the first time that I have preached on the reading. I based my message around a reflection I wrote putting myself in the shoes of Bartimaeus.

I think this reading speaks directly into my experience of contemplative prayer. It is when I am blind that I gain my sight. Coming into a contemplative space is about losing my sight. It is about coming before God with nothing, for it is when I have nothing that I have everything to gain. Bartimaeus knew his needs and desires. He was not going to remain quiet on the roadside. He was bold and called out his needs. Maybe, we too, need to be bold in expressing our deep desires. 

What do you want me to do for you?

Isn’t it obvious!

Can’t you see!

Dare you look in my eyes

and see what I cannot.

I know I am blind.

I have never seen the dawning day,

nor the trees swaying in the breeze,

birds soaring in the sky

or even the pity in my own parents’ eyes.

My need is great.

I need you.

I will not sit silent by the road side

hearing your footsteps pass by.

I will call out to you,

even though they muffle my cries

and demand I become dumb also.

But I will not cease calling,

crying out your name.

I need you.

And then you ask,

What do you want me to do for you?

-

I want to see.

Not just my own hands, or those who sneer at me.

Not just the bread I eat or the flowers on the wayside.

It is your face I want to see.

I need to see the love that is possible,

the compassion that is tangible.

I know I am blind.

I want to see – and then no choice I will have

but to follow.