St. John of the Cross: Freedom in Darkness
Br. Lain Wilson
When I first moved into the Monastery, my seat in Chapel was directly beneath the window of St. John of the Cross. I often thought of John’s own words, from his great poem The Dark Night, as I sat beneath his own darkened window:
One dark night,
fired with love’s urgent longings
—ah, the sheer grace!—
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled. . . .
On that glad night in secret,
for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.
The man who would take the name John of the Cross was born in 1542 in southern Spain. He had a difficult upbringing—his father and elder brother died when he was young, and his family had to move for his mother to find work. After studying theology and philosophy at university and being ordained a priest, he had a transformative encounter with the reforming Carmelite nun Teresa of Avila. With her, John would become one of the most significant drivers in establishing reformed monasteries and convents.
These actions brought John and Teresa into conflict with the non-reforming members of the Carmelite Order. This came to a head in early December 1577, when John was arrested and imprisoned for nine months in the monastery in Toledo. There he was publicly lashed, kept in a tiny, dark cell, wearing the same dirty clothes, and subject to a strictly limited diet. But it was also in prison that he composed some of his most well-known verses, including most of the Spiritual Canticle. Following his dramatic escape in August 1578, he returned to reforming activities, spiritual direction, and writing, including The Dark Night, composed during his recovery.
This theme of darkness is paired with freedom in John’s own life and teaching. Just as John escaped prison into freedom in the night, so too will we find in the night, in contemplative prayer, in successive “dark nights” of the senses and the spirit, the freedom to encounter God:
O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.
These “dark nights” may provoke a crisis of faith, and coming through this crisis is an act of surrender—a free act of obedience—to the hidden purposes of God.
Just as John escaped prison into freedom in the night, so too will we find in the night . . . the freedom to encounter God:
Iain Matthew, in his book The Impact of God, notes that John’s The Dark Night echoes the Exsultet prayer, sung at the Great Vigil of Easter. “This is the night” the Exsultet repeats as it recounts God’s saving acts of freedom and redemption. Matthew writes: “Night signifies that which comes upon us and takes us out of our own control; it announces that as the place of resurrection. A God who heals in darkness—this is John’s word of hope in a destabilized world.”
As we see all the brokenness and suffering around us, John’s “word of hope” is a word for us, too. And, like the Exsultet and its proclamation of the hope and promise of Easter, John reminds us that the darkness in which we live now is only temporary. He writes in his The Ascent of Mount Carmel: “When faith reaches its end and is shattered by the ending and breaking of this mortal life, the glory and light of the divinity . . . will at once appear.”
Questions for Reflection
Have you ever experienced a “dark night of the soul” that opened a doorway to a place of transformation or greater freedom?
What did it open up for you?
Can you recall a time when poetry, other literature, or scripture gave voice to something you couldn’t yet articulate out of your own experience?
How did it deepen your understanding?
