Today's Lenten reading comes once again from St. Therese de Lisieux's Story of a Soul. Just to provide a very brief bit of context here, this is from Chapter X of the book (a book she was ordered to write under obedience), where she describes the very dark night of faith she has entered. Therese had her entire life enjoyed the most intimate experience of the presence of Christ and of the Blessed Virgin. But now at a very young age (she died at 24) she has been stricken with tuberculosis, and as the physical suffering increased, the interior anguish and darkness of faith increased exponentially more. This was written perhaps two months prior to her death. As an aside, the Mother Superior to whom she is writing, and who has ordered her to write, also happens to be her oldest sister. This stage of her book marks a decided change from a somewhat timid, impish child to a very mature woman of faith:

Dear Mother, the image I wanted to give you of the darkness that obscures my soul is as imperfect as a sketch is to the model; however, I don't want to write any longer about it; I fear I might blaspheme; I fear even that I have already said too much.

Ah! may Jesus pardon me if I have caused Him any pain, but He knows very well that while I do not have the joy of faith, I am trying to carry out its works at least. I believe I have made more acts of faith in this past year than all through my whole life. At each new occasion of combat, when my enemies provoke me, I conduct myself bravely. Knowing it is cowardly to enter a duel, I turn my back on my adversaries without deigning to look them in the face; but I run toward my Jesus. I tell Him I am ready to shed my blood to the last drop to profess my faith in the existence of heaven. I tell Him, too, I am happy not to enjoy this beautiful heaven on this earth so that He will open it for all eternity to poor unbelievers. Also, in spite of this trial which has taken away all my joy, I can nevertheless cry out: "You have given me DELIGHT, O Lord, in ALL your doings." For is there a joy greater than that of suffering out of love for You? The more interior the suffering is and the less apparent to the eyes of creatures, the more it rejoices You, O my God! But if my suffering really was unknown to You, which is impossible, I would still be happy to have it, if through it I could prevent or make reparation for one single sin against faith.

My dear Mother, I may perhaps appear to you to be exaggerating my trial. In fact, if you are judging according to the sentiments I express in my little poems composed this year, I must appear to you as a soul filled with consolations and one for whom the veil of faith is almost torn aside; and yet it is no longer a veil for me, it is a wall which reaches right up to the heavens and covers the starry firmament. When I sing of the happiness of heaven and of the eternal possession of God, I feel no joy in this, for I sing simply what I WANT TO BELIEVE. It is true that at times a very small ray of the sun comes to illumine my darkness, and then the trial ceases for an instant, but afterward the memory of this ray, instead of causing me joy, makes my darkness even more dense.

Never have I felt before this, dear Mother, how sweet and merciful the Lord really is, for He did not send me this trial until the moment I was capable of bearing it. A little earlier I believe it would have plunged me into a state of discouragement. Now it is taking away everything that could be a natural satisfaction in my desire for heaven. Dear Mother, it seems to me now that nothing could prevent me from flying away, for I no longer have any great desires except that of loving to the point of dying of love.

Today's Lenten reading comes from St. John of the Cross' spiritual classic, The Dark Night. As an aside, by default I consistently now type that as The Dark Knight, and then have to fix it. In this passage he is commenting on the line, "In darkness and secure," from the poem that provides the setting for his treatise. In St. John's spiritual vision, he recognizes two dark nights, each with two forms (active and passive), through which a soul must advance. The first night is the night of the senses, through which the appetites of the soul are mortified and the soul grows in perfect detachment. The second night is the night of the spirit, through which even the interior part of the soul finds itself in darkness, so that God may perfectly communicate Himself to the soul. This is not an easy thing for Christians to accept, because we often want to believe that to the faithful soul God's presence will always be intimately and immediately perceived. In reality, this dark night becomes necessary because the means by which we ordinarily perceive God are simply insufficient for his perfect, self-same communication, as the finite is incapable of receiving the infinite. In this passage he is commenting on the latter night. Understand that this night to which he is referring is an experience of those who are very advanced in the spiritual life, very advanced in contemplation, and so it is going to appear perhaps even repulsive to many of us. However, I share it here because there are many who are indeed advanced in the spiritual life and turn away when they begin to experience this night, because they do not recognize what God is doing in them. I hope this can be of some help:

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