THE JOURNEY
THROUGH THE NIGHT
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YOU
February 1981
by Andrew Costello
This issue of YOU will present a meditation on the need for taking time out in the night for prayer—for reflection — for decision making — for conversion — for seeing where we are in the journey of life. It will be more poetic than analytical — in hopes that moments of prayer will arise in the night to the Father.
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THE MEDITATION
The night is still—dark.
There is still time in the night for prayer. There is still
time for God. It’s never too late to enter the garden (Mt. 20; Jn. 18:1,
20:1-18: Gn. 2:8).
God is still “the still point of the turning world” (T.S.
Eliot).
To know God I must be still (Ps. 46:11; 131:2). To be
complete, whole and well rounded, I must be still. I must stop and see where I
am.
I must tell all the voices, the noises, the tapes, the songs
on my radio station, the distractions, that are riding along inside my car,
inside my head, to “Shut up!” I must pull over to the side of the road and
yell, “Be quiet! Let me look at a map for a moment.”
IN NEED OF PRAYER
Where am I?
There I am — still hiding — “among the trees of the garden”.
The Lord God is calling, “Where are you?” (Gn. 3: 8-9).
Where am I? I’m in my womb, my own tomb. I ought to know. I
built it myself. And I’m sick and tired of the life I’m living, the death I’m
pursuing. I need to shape up. I need to wake up. I’m like Rip Van Winkle,
asleep for too many years. I need to crack my egg shell and get out of myself.
I need a rude awakening — a “Great Awakening” — a re-birth (Jn. 3:1-21).
I’ve been in my own orbit too long. I’ve been revolving,
jogging around the track of myself. No wonder, I’m always so tired.
It takes a lot of energy to keep trying to float my balloon
above the crowd — to be higher than the rest.
“Everyone who exalts himself shall be humbled” (Lk. 18:14).
I too must come down to earth. I have t let the air out of
my ego. I need to stop wasting my breath on myself, blowing up my big plans, my
big dreams. My illusions are delusions.
My balloon, my bubble needs to burst. I need to fall down on my knees in the
night. I need to pray. I need to admit I need God. Like Christ I need others —
to be with others — and not above them (Phil. 2:5-11).
In the still of the night I have to bring all this to God in
prayer. I have to share my chalice with him. Later on I might even reach for
his. But right now I need to realize I don’t have to be inflated. I don’t have
to wear a mask and try to hide myself even from myself. I try to deny this
all the time, but when I am alone like
this in the night, I can’t hide from myself any longer. Thank God.
Yes, it’s about time for another one of my conversions.
Maybe this one will be the big one. I’ve been holding out and hiding in the
garden of myself too long. It’s a garden of paradise and because I’m in the
dark I don’t know it. I’ve been eating from the wrong tree. I’ve discovered my
nakedness and I don’t like the looks of myself. Here I am God, over here,
hiding in the dark. (Gn. 3:8-13)
Will God come to me or do I have to go to God? Is God on the
other side of the dark waiting for me to come to him or do I grovel here and
wait for God to come to me? Should I be active or passive? Martha or Mary? I’m
confused. I’m in the dark.
The mysterious fifteenth chapter of Luke has three stories.
In the first two stories God is “The Hound of Heaven” chasing after me. God is
the Shepherd looking for his lost sheep. God is the Woman looking for her lost
coin. But in the third story, God the Father waits at home, hoping each day for
my return—the Prodigal Son.
Each person is different. Each day is different. Each night
is different. God is different.
Perhaps the ever practical St. James gives us the best
answer, “Draw close to God, and he will draw close to you” (Jas. 4:8). In human
relationships, when there has been a rift or a fight, that is the way a reconciliation
often takes place. Both make moves towards each other. Both give and take. We
get tired of carrying around all these extra pounds of hurt and animosity.
Grudges take up space. Resentments are heavy. They clutter up our garden.
Does God always make the first move?
The night is the time for still thinking, for praying, for
asking big questions like that.
The night is the rest stop between two days: yesterday and
tomorrow.
It is the time my eyes can rest from the stage lights of the
day. It is the time I can rest and be with God and look back at the highlights
of my day. It’s the time to look at the dark spots too—the shadows in my life.
It’s the time I can be honest with God about the wheat and the weeds, the sheep
and the goats in my life.
DARKNESS vs. LIGHT
But this kind of thinking is also so self-centered. It’s too
much about me in the night. What about God? I need to be still, quiet and
experience God’s presence—God’s love.
Where are you God?
What are you like?
Are you hiding in the dark too?
When am I aware of God more: in the darkness or in the
light?
Darkness and light? Which is the better way to describe God?
Which is the better symbol of God?
Or is God both? Is God both the Light and the Dark? Both are
needed for everyday—for completeness—wholeness—roundness—fullness—the circle of
life.
Day and night: while one half of the globe is sleeping, the
other half is awake. And the great wheel of earth keeps spinning. The sun is
always rising, always setting, at every moment somewhere around the globe.
Death and resurrection are always happening all over the world.
The earth is spinning. Time is flying. A.M., P.M., and A.M.
once again. The hands of the clocks keep turning, going around and around and
around. The digital clocks and watches silently keep moving their numbers
forward, only to start over and over again.
Day becomes night becomes day becomes night for billions and
billions of years.
Creation.
Recreation.
And God said, “Let there be light!” (Gn. 1:3)
And Man said, “Let there be night!”
And why? We’re smart. We prefer ourselves to our neighbor.
It’s as simple as that. It takes time to stop and help our brother and sister who could use a little
care—healing—listening—time (Lk. 10:29). We rather keep them in the dark and worry
about our own barns (Lk. 12:16-21). And when we deny and cheat each other—even
with a kiss—we do it in the night—to avoid the light of each other’s eyes (Lk.
22: 48,57; Mt. 6:22-24). And then we either commit suicide in various forms and
at various speeds in hopes to hide in the ultimate darkness or we hide behind
closed doors (Mt. 27:5; Jn. 20:19).
“I am the light of the world. No follower of mine shall ever
walk in darkness; no he shall possess the light of life” (Jn. 8:12)
And yet Christ often spent time in the dark in prayer (Mt.
14:23; Mk. 1:35; Lk. 22:39).
And why?
The night is a great time for prayer. It’s a grace time to
find a quiet place in our garden—our bedroom—our cellar—somewhere in our
lives—where we can have communion with God.
Yes we need sleep. We need rest, just as we need work. And
to be complete we need both and much more (and at times much less).
We need the night and we need the day—obviously. We need
days on and days off.
We have these urges, these opposites, these pulls for
stopping and going within us. And we know that activity and rest can yank us
apart.
We can rush into over-activity and become workaholics. We
cause our own stress. We pack our own suitcases. We determine our own weight.
We can be trampled in our own rush to get ulcers. “What profit would a man show
if he were to gain the whole world and destroy himself in the process?” (Mt.
16:12)
Yet we can also fall into our own hell because of
inactivity. Other people can be the cause of hell for us. “I was hungry and you
gave me no food. I was thirsty and you gave me no drink. I was away from home
and you gave me no welcome, naked and you gave me no clothing. I was ill and in
prison and you did not come to comfort me” (Mt. 25:42-43)
We need to rush to our brother’s aid. We need to rush to our
sister’s call. We need also to rest, to sleep, to build up energy for the
morning.
NEEDED CHANGES
We need variety. Too much light can cause blindness. Too
much night and the world would die of coldness. We need the sun: the source of
power and energy — on both sides of the globe. Everybody needs energy.
Everybody needs rest.
We need change. The sea needs to be rough; it needs to be
calm. We need the seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter. We need the flow
of the day: sunrise, the music of birds, alarm clocks, the bathroom, breakfast,
traffic, punching clocks, work, coffee breaks, talk, production, results,
traffic, home, shoes off, family, stories, supper, doing the dishes,
newspapers, TELEVISION, card games, meetings, darkness, sleep, night, love.
But what about God in our day? What about God in our night
before we fall asleep? Or are we always sleeping when it comes to God?
That’s how Paul and Augustine were till God’s light broke
through their night, into their darkness, into their sleep. In the garden
Augustine picked up the words of Paul and read, “It is now the hour for you to
wake from sleep, for our salvation is closer than when we first accepted the
faith. The night is far spent; the day draws near. Let us cast off deeds of
darkness and put on the armor of light. Let us live honorably as in daylight;
not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual excess and lust, not in
quarreling and jealousy. Rather, put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no
provision for the desires of the flesh!” (Rom.
Now that’s a conversion. It was a great awakening. In that
garden Augustine saw his nakedness and instead of hiding and covering himself
with a fig leaf, he covered himself with the garment of Light—the Lord Jesus
Christ.
What happened to Paul and Augustine and so many others can
happen to us. There is usually a dramatic day — a birth day — but there is also
usually a difficult pregnancy.
CONVERSION
A conversion is a journey from the light to the darkness to
the light. It begins with a hesitation, a dissatisfaction with ourselves, our
home, our style, our everyday life. Then comes the crisis. Then comes the
decision to stagnate or leave home. Then the journey begins. It’s a letting go,
a going out, a movement through a dark night. Saul thought he had the light. It
led him to do what he did to persecute the people of the early Church. Then his
light went out. He fell to earth. He was humbled. He hit bottom. He lost his
light, his sight, and became a little child once again. He had to be led by the
hand into Damascus
God made the move and came crashing into his life. Saul
changed to Paul. The story of Abraham, Moses, Samuel, David, Isaiah, Jeremiah,
Ezechiel, the Apostles, became his story.
He was converted. He converted. He changed in his
relationship to God and to the Christians. Louis Bouyer described a conversion
as a substitution of a living faith for a dead faith or no faith at all.
Do I want to change? Do I need a conversion? Is my faith
dead? Am I satisfied with the lights I live by? Who are my heroes? What are my
values? What are my beliefs? What are my attitudes? What are my driving forces?
What motivates me? What is a good day for me? What is a bad day?
Am I ready for a conversion? Am I ready for a change in my
life? What is God calling me towards tonight? Have I hit bottom yet? Am I in
the dark when it comes to God? Is my faith living or dead?
Do I believe in the dawn — a new day — the resurrection of
the light or do I prefer to stay in the dark?
MAKE A DECISION
I sit here tonight in my dark room and think about all this.
It’s my life. It’s my choice. With or without God? “That is the question.”
That’s the real question. What a choice. I’ve been avoiding that decision for
years. The hands of the clock, the beat of my heart, the movement of the earth,
life, keeps going forward whether I’m asleep or awake. The years of my life
keep going on and on and on and God’s beat seems to become less and less and
less.
Conversion. Change. Repentance. About face. Make a decision.
Hear the word of the Lord.
Stop. It’s all rhetoric. I’m all words. Lord, story this
merry-go-round. I need to get off by myself and do some deep thinking without
words.
The night is still — dark — silent. It’s a still time for
praying.
Pause.
Reflect.
Be quiet.
My life: I have a birthday and a deathday. Name
______________ (1939 - ?) The dash in between in my life. And at times it feels
just like that—a dash—a run—a rush. I
need to stop and be still in the night.
“What do I want to do with the rest of my life?” I begin to
laugh at myself. I’ve returned once again—full circle—to my regular
self-centered type question. It should be (and I know it), “Lord, what is your
will, your pleasure?” “Here I am Lord. Speak for your servant is listening” (1
Sam. 3).
“Abandon your boats, your nets, everyone and everything and
come follow me” (Mk. 1:16-20)
The Lord is asking me to leave home, to leave my garden, to
leave everything and search for a new tree of life. I hesitate. Everything?
Everyone? The cross is a no frills tree. It sounds so harsh in the night to
hear words like that. Yet I know from traveling and backpacking trips that it’s
much easier to travel light. It’s much easier to climb stairs, mountains, the
unknown, light, without baggage.
I begin to pray once again
I begin to listen for hints from God within, in the still of
the night.
SOMETHING NEW
I’m 75 - well into the second half of my life. I’ve read
Sheehy, Erikson, Gould, O’Collins, and Levinson. I’m up to date. I know all
about Passages, stages, Transformations, The Second Journey,
and The Seasons of a Man’s Life. But how come I’m standing still. Is
there anything else? Is there anything new? I’m always looking for something
new.
The night is quieter than the day. It’s a good time for
thinking. There is less of everything: cars, lights, talk, music. There is less
of everyone: people are sleeping.
I begin reflecting on John of the Cross, whom I’m finally getting
to. I bought his book years ago, The Collected Works of John of the Cross,
translated by Kavanaugh and Rodriguez, Complete in One Volume. The problem is I
only made it to page 81. It was too dry. It was from another culture—another
era. It wasn’t popular. It wasn’t “me”. And so I turned to other books.
But now that John of the Cross is “in”, typical me had to
start reading him once again. He’s still dry, but I’ve worked my way through
the dark night of the senses and I’m headed for the dark night of the soul—that
is, in the book, not in my life.
I also sit here prejudiced against John of the Cross. I’m
filled with preconceptions about him. That’s another thing I have to work
on—another change -- another conversion.
I pictured John as a real “grunt”. Did people close their doors and hide their
stereos when he walked by? Would he be a perfect character for a black and
white Ingmar Bergman movie that takes place in December in some lonely bleak
village in northern Sweden
Memories of hearing that John of the Cross was the one who
always said, “Nothing, nothing, nothing, ... nada, nada, nada,” must have gave
me these impressions about the man. But how do we really know another person?
Reading Kavanaugh and Rodriguez’s description of this 4 foot 11 inch Spaniard
helped change my mind about him. From letters and other evidence about John of
the Cross they point out that he had a great sense of humor. He loved to make
people laugh. People liked to have him around. And his great friend, Teresa of
Avila, wrote to another nun, “You would not believe how lonely his absence
makes me feel.”
That did it. He sounded real. I began reading a little bit
of him every night. It sill sounded slow—but John of the Cross was not
complicated. He’s simply telling his readers to let go and let God into their
lives.
And maybe that’s the real reason I avoid someone like John of
the Cross. He’s a radical like Christ. “Whoever wants to be my follower must
deny his very self, take up his cross each day, and follow in my steps” (Lk. 9:23)
“One
dark night,
fired
with love’s urgent longings
-
Ah, the sheer grace! --
I
went out unseen,
My
house being now all stilled;”
That’s how John of the Cross describes his departure on the
journey through the night towards the dawn.
The words that hit me were, “I went out unseen.” Suddenly I
realized how radical John of the Cross was. The best conversions take place
within—no horns, no pulpit announcements, no notices in the local paper.
I am the problem—not John of the Cross.
THE BASIC PROBLEM
Spirituality doesn’t begin outside myself. It begins within.
So what else is new? I had blocked out Jesus’ words, “Be on guard against
performing religious acts for people to see .... Keep your deeds of mercy
secret.... Whenever you pray, go to your room, close your door, and pray to
your Father in private” (Mt. 6).
“The Kingdom
of God
Like the inner life of Dag Hammarskjold and millions of
saints whom nobody ever knew were saints, nobody should really know about our
inner life with God except God and a spiritual director (if you can get a good
one and John of the Cross is pretty tough on them).
I rejoiced. I can still go to McDonalds and watch Monday
Night Football and make comments about the announcers. John of the Cross is
interested in the Kingdom within. Yes he is from another era and another
culture, but it’s a basic revolutionary idea to challenge a person who wants
more (or less) our of life to read John of the Cross. He presents a liberation
theology that is tough.
What he tells his readers is, “Let go. Let go of everything
till there is nothing else and then
don’t get a big head out of that—that you are holy and better than the rest of
the human race.”
He tells the beginner in the spiritual life to use some
energy and effort and actively get rid of anything that he or she is attached
to. Start with what you can see, taste, touch, smell and hear. He calls that
the journey through the dark night of the senses. That should leave us with a
lot of room for greater love of God and neighbor. Planned time for prayer and
meditation is necessary. Read the Bible. It’s nothing new. It’s the old first
stage of the spiritual life—the purgative state. Our life is like a field. It’s
filled with lots of weeds and rocks and roots. The first step is to clean it
out. It’s an emptying process—a kenosis. Sins must go. Faults must go.
Laziness, gossip, possessiveness, and anything and everything that destroys
family, community, everyday life, must go.
That’s the first step — the easiest step. We need God’s
grace — but we are very much part of it. The second stage of the journey, the
dark night of the soul, is deeper and harder for us and God to deal with. We
let God take over. Our prayer life moves towards quiet contemplation. We shut
up. We listen. We block out images and ideas from our intellect and memory and
imagination. Here the struggle is with pride and spiritual delusions. We want
the whole world to know that we are holy. We brag to ourselves. And John keeps
telling us to strip ourselves of all those things that can keep us from God.
LETTING GO
We need less.
We need mortification
We need nothing.
We have to let go of all that holds us back from God. It’s
as simple and as deep as that.
As John of the Cross said, “To have all (todo), you have to have nothing (nada).”
And like Augustine and Francis Thomson and everyone who goes
through the conversion process we hesitate right there. We zero in on the nada
and don’t look at the todo. We’re
scared of what might happen to us when we have nothing left and don’t look at
what we have created the vacuum for—the All—God.
And right there John is tough. We even have to let go of all
our images of God. All impressions, all knowledge of God must go. We can’t nail
down God. Yet like Christ we can let the Father nail us down on the cross. We
will experience the darkness that Christ felt
that Good Friday afternoon near the end of his journey through the dark
night towards the Father. Darkness will fill our world (Lk. 23:44), but because
of Christ we know that there is a dawn, a resurrection, a Way out.
We need time.
We need rest.
We need to be still in the night to absorb what God is
saying to us in the dark.
The conversion process is slow. “It’s like yeast which a
woman took to knead into three measures of flour until the whole mass of dough
began to rise” (Lk 13:21). “A man scatters seed on the ground. He goes to bed
and gets up day after day. Through it all the seed sprouts and grows without
his knowing how it happens. The soil produces of itself first the blade, then
the ear, finally the ripe wheat in the ear. When the crop is ready he `wields
the sickle, for the time is ripe for harvest’” (Mk. 4:26-29)
That’s the story of our life. It’s filled with days and
nights and slowly we will become bread, the body of Christ, so that the people
of our life can feed off us, so that Christ can lift us up and offer us to the
Father.
The night is still — dark.
We need both prayer and rest in the night.
Contemplation, meditation, reflection, looking backwards and
forwards is the gift of the night.
The night is still. There is silence in the sky along the
black roads that stretch from star to star. The black holes in the universe
look empty.
Where are you God? Are you out there in the dark — emptying
yourself in the dark night — in the eternal emptying (kenosis) of yourself in
Christ (Phil. 2:5-11)?
Or are you here in the dark of my room waiting and
“hounding” me to let you overcome my darkness?
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