Beyond this Present Darkness

For the last two or so years, my spiritual life has been a desert. An oasis here and there, for sure, but in itself, it has been a dry wasteland, watered only by the salty precipitation of the valley of tears (forgive my attempts at poetic metaphor, but I have always enjoyed imagery).

For the most part, I have kept quiet about this and only a few people have known: my former roommate, Travis, who I annoyed constantly with tales of my struggle, and my fiancee, Jennie, who has frequently come to tears for fear that she will never be able to fix me. The darkness has taken over much of my life. Once confident in my fervent love of the Lord, I began not to feel His presence anymore as I once had, and I have only started to realize how weak my nature is and how dependent I have been on consolations.

When I was in the seminary, I was filled with joy. Peace dwelt in my soul and every moment seemed saturated with divine grace. I was in a garden, lush with life, the life of Christ, the green wood Himself (cf. Luke 23:31). When I left that place, I took that peace with me, and my family and friends noticed a marked change from how I had been in high school. While studying at Lincoln, I became one of a few men who were admired for knowledge and service of the faith, and I was proud of it, although I thought myself quite humble (that should have been the first sign). It was there that I found myself becoming increasingly distracted. I was rarely praying the Liturgy of the Hours, even though I had abundant time, and it became a burden to my spiritual life because I no longer felt peace in praying it and became distraught, fearing that I was doing something wrong or had fallen from God's favor.

As I struggled with these fears, I became scrupulous, examining every detail of my daily life, looking out for sin. After a long time doing this, even the most minor imperfections appear as if they are mortal sins. When told by others that they were not sins, my mind would immediately say, "but what if...?"

My prayer life became more and more scattered. I went frequently to daily Mass, I went to adoration often, and I tried to pray throughout the day. I arrived at Franciscan University with an attitude which I recognize in retrospect as a false interpretation of St. John of the Cross (a friend of mine recently remarked that no one under 40 should read his works because they will often fall into scrupulosity, abandonment of prayer, and despair). The first two, I reluctantly struggled with, the last I feared for two years, but refused with a stubborn act of my will. As I came to Franciscan, I had such a negative attitude toward "spiritual emotionalism" that, plunged into a charismatic environment, I became a material (but not formal) quietist.

Avoiding praise and worship music and preferring Mass off campus, I became more and more discouraged as I grew to distrust my emotions in spirituality. Distrusting my emotions, however, led to other dangers, as I later realized. After a while, I missed a few days of Mass (not Sunday Mass, mind you, but daily Mass). After that, I missed more and more days, going in a very scattered pattern as I tried to balance prayer and study. Nothing kills piety quite as effectively as a combination of desolation and excuse. Still, I refused to give up. Easing my spiritual life a bit and removing some of the burden, I told myself again and again that it was okay not to go to daily Mass. It was not a sin, let alone a damnable offense.

I realize now that this dry spell, as long as it has been, is a test. Reading a passage from "The Furrow" by St. Josemaria Escriva, I read a passage which told me that hope is not the practice of trying to see the light, but of believing that the light is in God, and that as long as I am with Him, I have reasong to hope.

It is a test of hope, because God wants to know that I trust in Him. Along with that comes the destruction of my petty legalisms and my material semi-pelagian tendencies which tell me that if I do not pray a certain way, I will not be saved.

It is a test of holiness, because God wants me to desire holiness more than anything else. Along with that comes the abandonment of things which keep me from Him, including myself.

It is a test of love, because my willingness to fight this fight, as much as it saddens me, is a testimony to my love of God.

This test is the fire of which the Church speaks. I am being purified. In went a man who, feeling secure in himself and his holiness, in his pious prayer and his litigious liturgy, viewed God as one who ought to be pleased that at least he is mindful of His word and asked for God's gifts as a spoiled son; out, I hope, will come a man humbled, secure in the Lord's mercy and resting in His holiness, living in faithful prayer and daily life, who views God as one who is pleased to love His creatures and dwell in them not because of their greatness, but because of His.

To be made into this man, I see that I need to ask God first for humility, the humility to appreciate myself, to take myself lightly, and to recognize my desires and emotions as good, then for wisdom, the wisdom to approach Him as a person, not as a drone for His service, nor as a servant prideful of His place in the Kingdom, but as a person, invited into a relationship with the Living God.

This is all very fresh in my mind. Perhaps I will revise it at a later date when God grants me more understanding of the situation.

God bless,

Micah