Dark Night, Holy Night

St. John of the Cross experienced nine months in the Dark Night, according to some interpreters of his life.

His Dark Night was not without some comfort, unlike the experience of some of the saints.

Here is his poem, which on this night of the Birth of Christ seems appropriate to examine.

The house at rest, St. John tells us, is the soul waiting in the rest of the darkness of Faith.

The secret ladder could be seen as the virtues of faith, hope, and charity.

The main experience of  the Dark Night is that it all happens in secret, without the knowledge of the world, for the most part, unless the person shares the experience.

One works, reads, walks, shops, all in the darkness of living only by Faith and not by sight.

But, slowly, surely, a change takes place, like on a dark night when the stars come out, one by one, and the bright planets create a pattern of light in the darkness.

I remember in the fall of 2012 being in the convent in Cobh and looking at the stars over the sea. The sky seemed darker than most skies, and the stars and planets brighter because of the darkness.

As St. John notes, only what is in the heart is bright-the love of God, the searching and waiting for God, the desire for God.

One begins to love the Dark Night, because one has an underlying sense of resting in God, even though in darkness and this knowledge, that God is leading one brings a comfort, even in the unknown.

Because of faith, one knows that God is transforming one, slowly, painfully, but is that not a blessing and a promise of greater light?

Faith is the light of the Dark Night.


On a dark night

On a dark night,
Kindled in love with yearnings
--oh, happy chance!--
I went forth without being observed,
My house being now at rest. 

In darkness and secure,
By the secret ladder, disguised
--oh, happy chance!--
In darkness and in concealment,
My house being now at rest.

In the happy night,
In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught,
Without light or guide,
save that which burned in my heart.

This light guided me
More surely than the light of noonday
To the place where he
(well I knew who!) was awaiting me
-- A place where none appeared.

Oh, night that guided me,
Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined 

Beloved with lover,
Lover transformed in the Beloved!

I shall continue with the rest of the poem later....

Upon my flowery breast,
Kept wholly for himself alone,
There he stayed sleeping,
and I caressed him,
And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret
As I parted his locks;
With his gentle hand
He wounded my neck
And caused all my senses to be suspended.

I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.