Malachi 3: 1 – 4, 4; Philippians 4: 4 – 7
Every day, towards the beginning of Morning Prayer, we ask that the light of God’s presence would set our hearts on fire with love for him. Ten minutes later we’re off to whatever lies before us as the day gets going. Sometimes that may be something quite mundane, and sometimes I’m left wondering whether our hearts really have been set on fire, or whether it would make any difference if they were. Answering emails, stapling or setting up for Holy Hamsters are of course as much an outworking of love as falling on our faces in an ecstatic trance would be – and rather more useful. But I still have a nagging sense that, on their own, they’re not exactly incandescent.
Today is the day when we remember St John of the Cross – poet, mystic, theologian, and spiritual director of many, including Theresa of Avila. He died on this day in 1591 from a painful illness. He was 49. John was born near Avila in Spain to an impoverished noble family and went to a charity school. He worked as a nurse and was educated further by the Jesuits before entering the Carmelite order when he was twenty one. He distinguished himself in philosophy and theology at Salamanca University and was ordained when he was twenty five. Soon after this he met Theresa of Avila who persuaded him to help her with her reform of the Carmelite order. However, 16th century Spain was not a religiously tolerant environment. After about ten years John fell prey to a group of Carmelites who opposed reform. He was jailed in a monastery, where he was kept under brutal conditions which included frequent beatings, and isolation in a tiny cell. The cell measured ten feet by six feet, barely large enough for his body, although he was small man. Except when rarely permitted an oil lamp, he had to stand on a bench to read his prayer book by the light from a hole into the adjoining room. Fortunately he managed to escape, and spent a further ten years as superior to several monasteries. Finally he fell out of favour again and was banished to southern Spain where he died.
It’s appropriate that we should be thinking about John of the Cross during the dark days of Advent. He composed much of one of his greatest poems while he was imprisoned in the dark in that tiny cell. Despite these conditions, in his commentary on the poem, he said that the stanzas were composed “with a certain burning love of God” 1. It was John also who wrote of the dark night of the soul, a stage of development in contemplative prayer with ‘symptoms’ akin to depression but different in origin. In this darkness, as the soul advances towards union with Christ, intellect, memory and will are led into the night, but spiritual illumination follows. Paradoxically, what is experienced as darkness is in reality increased proximity to the light of God.
John practised and advocated contemplative prayer, that is prayer which goes beyond images or words; a resting in quiet attentiveness to God or a simple loving seeking after God in the darkness. He describes this kind of prayer in this way:
When a soul has advanced so far on the spiritual road as to be lost to all the natural methods of communing with God; when it seeks Him no longer by meditation, images, impressions, nor by any other created ways, or representations of sense, but only by rising above them all, in the joyful communion with Him by faith and love, then it may be said to have found God of a truth, (Note to Stanza 29 part 8)
1 Kavanaugh, John of the Cross Selected Writings, p219.
For John, the way to God is emphatically not by working hard – either at what we do in the world, or at prayer. The way to God is rather by love because our responsive love is the only thing which pleases Him. The only thing God desires from us. Prayer is in a sense the most direct expression of our love for God. Of course prayer isn’t easy, and as with any relationship we don’t necessarily feel love all the time in an emotional way.
John has this to say to those who argue that doing good is more important than praying:
Let those men of zeal, who think by their preaching and exterior works to convert the world, consider that they would be much more edifying to the Church, and more pleasing unto God — setting aside the good example they would give – if they would spend at least one half their time in prayer, even though they may have not attained to the state of unitive love.
(Note to Stanza 28 part 3)
At least half of the time in prayer! That certainly is a challenge. What would you think if Stephen and I did that? Perhaps it’s not possible outside a monastery. Perhaps half of our available time sounds more achievable? Or half an hour?
Which brings me back to where I started. Have our hearts been set on fire? How do we best express our love for God? We’re not all called to be mystical poets, but we are all called to pray as well as to work for God. I wonder what would happen if we all slowed down, relaxed our grip on activity and took prayer more seriously instead. I wonder what adventures in prayer we might begin. And I wonder how different we would become.
Amen