On Prayer

What can be the reason for this experience in prayer? Saint John of the Cross affirms that supernatural faith, inasmuch as it places us in an immediate contact with God, affects the intellect in a strangely painful way with the onset of contemplative graces. The truths of revelation that the intellect embraces in faith now seem to surpass comprehension in a manner unlike any previous experience in prayer. A deeper understanding of theological faith can explain why this occurs. It is inadequate to conceive of our faith as simply an assent by our mind to truths that are then held securely with personal conviction. This is not at all the full picture. On a very personal level, in our relations with God himself, faith is a kind of real conduit into the actual mystery of God. As a theological virtue, it unites the intellect quite directly and immediately to the mystery of God. The effect of this union, depending on a soul’s closeness to God, is to stretch the intellect beyond what it can assimilate in its natural capacity. The result in the time of interior prayer is a painful experience of obscurity within the intellect toward the God of ultimate mystery known personally in faith. This is not an experience of dark doubts about God. Rather, it is as though a light has begun to shine too brightly, preventing our eyes from seeing what is there in front of us. The closer we approach the light of God, the more his presence blinds us. The ordinary act of comprehension in regard to natural objects of knowledge does not function in this way. But when the knowledge is of God himself in his immediate personal presence to the soul, the consequence is vastly different.

Haggerty, Donald. Saint John of the Cross: Master of Contemplation (pp. 67-68). Ignatius Press. Kindle Edition.

Songs of the soul in the intimate communication of loving union with God.

1. O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest center! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

2. O sweet cautery,
O delightful wound!
O gentle hand! O delicate touch
that tastes of eternal life and pays every debt!
In killing you changed death to life.

3. O lamps of fire! in whose splendors
the deep caverns of feeling,
once obscure and blind,
now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,
both warmth and light to their Beloved.

4. How gently and lovingly
you wake in my heart,
where in secret you dwell alone;
and in your sweet breathing,
filled with good and glory,
how tenderly you swell my heart with love.

We encounter the importance of seeking a contentment with nothing other than God in many places in Saint John of the Cross’ writings. Shortly after introducing the image of the faculties as “deep caverns of feeling” in The Living Flame of Love, for instance, he affirms that a primary impediment to contemplation occurs when attachments cling to us and are repeatedly sought instead of our seeking God himself. These attachments are always contrary to accepting a contentment with having nothing: “Any little thing that adheres to them in this life is sufficient to so burden and bewitch them that they do not perceive the harm or note the lack of their immense goods, or know their own capacity” (LF 3.18). The words are a strong admonition. It takes very little to upset and block the proper dynamism of a holy pursuit of God in or out of the life of prayer. We can end up living unaware of the harm inflicted by very common tendencies that, in effect, keep us from being content with having nothing, that is, nothing but God. We have a capacity for greatness, for being filled with the love of God in our prayer. Yet we may live our hours of prayer like restless marauders in a search for prizes or enjoyments worth very little, seeking for delights that satisfy us only in negligible and fleeting ways. Without an awakening by which God becomes a passionate pursuit engaging our life’s entire intensity, our soul can descend easily to a dull caricature of its actual potency. As Saint John of the Cross writes:

It is an amazing thing that the least of these goods is enough so to encumber these faculties, capable of infinite goods, that they cannot receive these infinite goods until they are completely empty, as we shall see. Yet when these caverns are empty and pure, the thirst, hunger, and yearning of the spiritual feeling is intolerable. Since these caverns have deep stomachs, they suffer profoundly; for the food they lack, which as I say is God, is also profound. (LF 3.18)

Haggerty, Donald. Saint John of the Cross: Master of Contemplation (pp. 48-49). Ignatius Press. Kindle Edition.

SONG OF THE SOUL AND THE BRIDEGROOM

I
THE BRIDE

Where have You hidden Yourself,
And abandoned me in my groaning, O my Beloved? You have fled like the hart,
Having wounded me.
I ran after You, crying; but You were gone.

II

O shepherds, you who go
Through the sheepcots up the hill, If you shall see Him
Whom I love the most,
Tell Him I languish, suffer, and die.

III

In search of my Love
I will go over mountains and strands;
I will gather no flowers,
I will fear no wild beasts;
And pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

IV

O groves and thickets
Planted by the hand of the Beloved; O verdant meads
Enameled with flowers,
Tell me, has He passed by you?

Where have you hidden,
Beloved, and left me moaning?
You fled like the stag
after wounding me;

I went out calling you, but you were gone. This initial stanza of “The Spiritual Canticle” unlocks the bolt of a door, allowing us a first glimpse at the soul of Saint John of the Cross and his intense love for God. In these opening lines of a lengthy poem, we hear the agonized voice of a lover tormented by her solitude, in a terrible suffering after the departure of her Beloved. The piercing lament of the bride, wounded in the depth of her soul, is an image of the lover of God who seeks for his return after earlier enjoying his close presence. The mood of loneliness in the poem will shift over the course of its forty stanzas to a recognition of the Beloved’s presence even in his concealment. But for now, as the poem commences, the pain is strong and irremediable. Many of the stanzas of this exquisite poem, full of lush natural images, were composed by Saint John of the Cross without pen or paper, the stanzas kept in his memory, while he was locked in a windowless, six-by-ten-foot converted closet, with only a thin slit of light high up in a wall. That room served as a makeshift prison cell in the Calced Carmelite Friars’ monastery in Toledo, Spain, for nine months of his life, from December 1577 until August 1578. Only in the very last period of the nine months did he receive pen and paper from a sympathetic friar serving as his jailer and write down verses. He later recounted to Carmelite nuns that another important poem, “The Dark Night”, was completed before he left that prison cell.

Haggerty, Donald. Saint John of the Cross: Master of Contemplation (pp. 18-19). Ignatius Press. Kindle Edition.