St. Peter Canisius Apostolate

It’s true that many saints suffered through what St. John of the Cross called the dark night of the soul. What does St. John mean by this?

The dark night of the soul is the second purgation of the spiritual life — the one we must pass through before we achieve that mystical union with God described by more than a few saints.

The first purgation of the spiritual life is called the dark night of the senses. This means we need to prune ourselves of those things that give us physical pleasure so that we are able to focus more intently on God. Abstinence and fasting from food are the two primary ways of engaging in the dark night of the senses, but we can expand this to all sorts of things: T.V., movies, secular learning, sex, and an assortment of physical comforts such as a bed, a pillow, and the kinds of shoes we choose to wear. (Read enough lives of the saints, and you’ll quickly be overwhelmed by the many and various ways they chose to mortify themselves.)

If I understand St. John’s teaching, the first purgation — the dark night of the senses — is something we can actively engage in. We can choose when to start denying ourselves creaturely comforts. There is a point when God, the master vinedresser, comes in and prunes away those things that are holding us back from him. But for the most part, the dark night of the senses is our job.

The dark night of the soul is radically different. We have no power over whether God makes his presence known to us. We may, at times, feel deep consolation, while, at other times, feel vast dryness. This is God’s choosing. We have no say in any of this.

Now here’s the point: just as the dark night of the senses purges us of our intemperate desire for creature comforts, the dark night of the soul purges us of those interior delights we so often love more than God. If we love the gift more than the Giver, where does that leave us?

Since the soul has different powers (intellect, will, emotions, imagination, etc.) each of these powers will undergo a darkness, a purgation, in order that our love of God is purified. So sometimes our faith will be tested, and other times our ability to pray, and other times our desire to do the good. There’s no rhyme or reason — at least not from our viewpoint.

The point I’ve been working toward is this: The lesson for us ordinary Christians is that when it comes to the spiritual life, it is unwise to trust our emotions. I rarely feel close to Jesus during Mass, but what does this feeling mean when I receive the Eucharist? Provided I’ve done nothing to cut myself off from Christ, it means absolutely nothing. My feelings tell me one thing, but my reason that’s been informed by faith tells me something different. Which one am I going to base my actions on? Will I continue going to Mass despite that I don’t feel close to Jesus, or will I leave the Church and find some other community where I feel close to God?

This battle of emotion versus reason is true for all parts of the spiritual life. If through prayer and discernment you believe God is calling you to an apostolate you feel deeply about — say, youth ministry — don’t be surprised if once engaged in the apostolate you don’t feel as passionate about it any longer. There are all sorts of reasons for this, but the ultimate reason is that God is stripping you of consolations and is asking the only question that matters: “Are you doing this for you, or are you doing this for Me?”

What I’ve come to believe is that for most of us, God wants us to see if we’re true to Him. This is the test of Abraham in miniature. If we promise to pray a full Rosary once a week, we will be tested. It won’t be fun. The twenty or so minutes will seem like six-and-a-half hours. Or if we promise to read the Bible daily, the words will suddenly seem as vacant and trivial as the classified ads. The question is always the same: “Are you doing this for you — for your own personal satisfaction, for your own personal glory — or are you doing this because you long for Me?”

It’s a question about our motives, and the only way God can ask it is by stripping us of the warm-fuzzy emotions we think we deserve and sending us into the desert.

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