Loving God in Darkness

By Cara E. Ruegg

Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky (1817–1900) Storm

“The most beautiful act of faith is the one made in darkness, in sacrifice, and with extreme effort.” - Padre Pio

We all experience it: the storm that shakes us as it did the apostles. The wood of the frail boat creaks; it shudders beneath the thrash of waves. We look up into the sky and we do not see any light, not the slightest flicker of even the tiniest of stars. Our Lord, He was here, awake. His eyes were the bright sun and his words had kept the waves still. Now He’s asleep. We know He’s here. His promises assure us of that fact. It would be silly to jump ship with Him still in it. It would be silly, in fact, to think it would sink with Him still in it.

Whether it be the paralysis of scruples or the temptation to doubt our Faith, we will undoubtedly experience a storm in this life of peril, a cross that weighs us down to such an extent that it causes blood and sweat to drip into our eyes so that we can barely see our way. But He does not abandon us. In this time of crisis in the Church, we need to constantly remind ourselves of that fact. He is merciful. He loves us and wants our salvation even more than we do and we are not alone. We may doubt that we are doing the right thing in response to the crisis. We may even be tempted to question our Faith; especially now when many in authoritative positions in the Church are suddenly saying things that are contradictory to what we read in our catechism and in the bible to be true. But Our Lord is still here, beside us in the dark. What does it matter if He appears awake or asleep if He is still in our soul? We can still speak to Him even when it feels like He isn’t listening, because, we know He is, in fact, listening. Our feelings do not define reality and the devil, the King of Confusion, the Disrupter of Peace, he isn’t stupid; he knows how to get to us and no matter your level of God-given intelligence, sometimes the devil can penetrate so deep that even the strongest faith, the deepest intelligence can seem to be shaken, beaten at, thrashed about amidst dangerous waves and those things that once seemed to make such perfect sense, they can suddenly seem to make no sense at all.

There are many whose examples we should carry before us during these times, Saint Therese of Lisieux being one of them — the little saint whose prayers seemed to penetrate the heart of a murderer before she was even a bride of Christ, the young woman who bore little patience when  it came to waiting to give herself in the deepest way she could think of to her God; who did all she could to hasten the accomplishment of His will in her, even if it meant making a trip to the pope and speaking to his excellency when she was told not to. She should be one of our many beacons of light precisely because of the intensely agonizing fight in darkness that she overcame. In letters and in her own autobiography, she compares herself to a “frail skiff without a pilot, at the mercy of the stormy waves” and with her Jesus “asleep in [her] little boat” (The Story of a Soul. Ch V.) This image of her in a boat, with her Jesus asleep are painted quite often in her writings, but what does she do? She lets him sleep; she dare not wake Him. He is tired. She wants only His pleasure. She allows herself to endure this storm, this dark night for as long as He wills.

Saint Therese of Lisieux endured many trials: the death of her mother at a young age, an intense bout of scruples, the sickness of her beloved father, his death, the gossip behind parlor walls that actually attributed his fall into illness to her, his youngest, leaving home. All of these crosses, as well as the “pin-pricks” as she would call them of religious life, were at times like fog to obscure not only her vision, but that of her sisters, who she often wrote to encourage and comfort. “My dear Celine,” Therese wrote once, “…It is not in the sweetness of repose that Jesus would have us discover His Adorable Presence. He hides Himself and shrouds Himself in darkness…” (Story of a Soul. Kindle Locations 3337). She then goes on to explain to her sister that it is the “weaker souls” he uplifted with his “eloquent words”, but His faithful friends were “few that day when he was silent…” and yet, despite how terrifying the sounds of that must’ve surely been, she then goes on to say, “sweet melody to my heart is that silence of the Divine Master!” (Story of a Soul. letter XV Kindle Locations 3338).

However, possibly greater than the hardships of religious life or the death of those she most loved, was Saint Therese’s temptations to doubt the Faith, in particular the existence of heaven, which she endured most bravely. All the more intense would have been this temptation for a nun to bear who had given up her whole life for this loving God. The distractions of the world weren’t there to take her mind off of it. The silence of the cloister would have been nearly smothering to her at such a time. Imagine you left all, made the sacrifice of a family of your own, vowed yourself to obedience to a superior that was not always very pleasant; and then imagine if the thought of heaven, a thought that soothed every cross, suddenly rebelled against you. How much more painful to a bride of Christ would the temptation to doubt your Faith be.

Saint Therese mentions this suffering in her autobiography, saying that Jesus allowed her soul “to be overwhelmed with darkness” and that the consoling thought of Heaven “now became a subject of conflict and torture.” She goes on to say that it were as if she could hear the voice of the “unbeliever” who taunted her with the mocking idea of a “night darker still, the night of utter nothingness!” (Story of a Soul. Ch IX)

While she speaks of this suffering in her autobiography, she does not paint the full picture, possibly because, as she herself said, “I fear that to write more were to blaspheme” (Story of a Soul. Ch IX). The portrayal of this suffering is found to a much greater extent in her private letters and in the accounts her sisters gave later. One of these accounts which her sister, Pauline, gave was this: that in answer to her temptations, Saint Therese took the book of the gospels and wrote the entire Credo in her blood (Dolan, p. 166, paragraph 2). Let us pause and let that penetrate. She wrote the entire Credo in her blood. Just imagine how intense those “feelings” that heaven did not exist, that she did not believe must have been for her to respond in such a way, such a violent way. No wonder she is the patron of missionaries. Even if not literally, she still stood before the executioners who tempted her to give up her Faith, and said firmly, “I believe” and like Saint Peter Martyr, who wrote “Credo” in his blood as he was dying, so did she.

In this era when the idea that truth is subjective is a commonly widespread notion, during this time when the church itself seems to be infested with wolves from within, Saint Therese is the saint for our times. So let us kneel and pray the prayer of Little Therese of Lisieux and offer up our moment in such darkness to obtain light for sinners. (The Story of a Soul. Letter IV) May we follow her example on how to act when Our Lord is asleep in our boat and not lose hope by any means, but fall into His arms, cling to Him in this storm, and simply trust. 

Bibiliography:

Dolan, A. H. (2006). The Intimate life of Saint Thérèse: portrayed by those who knew her. Fitzwilliam, NH: Loreto Publications.

Lisieux, T., & Taylor, T. N. (2006). The story of a soul = Lhistoire dune âme: the autobiography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux. Teddington, Middlesex: Echo Library.