THE JOURNEY
THROUGH THE NIGHT
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” (James 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. 13:11-14)
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. And for 3 days he experienced the tomb, the womb, till he was born again into the New Light (Acts 9:1-19). That Light overcame his darkness (Jn. 1:5). He preached to himself the words of Isaiah that he would later preach to the Ephesians, “Awake O sleeper, arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light” (Eph. 5:14; Is. 60:1).
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 in 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 where the only news is a suicide now and then? Was he a character like those painted in the lonely paintings of Edward Hopper, or what’s worse, Edvard Munch?
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 is within.” The garden is within. The temple is within. The journey, the road, the mountain is within. And what I have to let go is within.
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. 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.
St. John of the Cross, the scriptures, this issue of YOU urges that you spend a bit of time each night reflecting on the journey of life —the meaning of life — what the Father is calling you to be and to become.
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?
On this feast day of St. John of the Cross I went looking for an essay I wrote way back in February of 1981 - for a newsletter called, "You".
© Andy Costello
