The wedding was over, the bride and groom off on their honeymoon, the guests long dispersed. The days of feasting had ended, and we were back in ordinary time. For a couple of nights running, I fell into a deep sleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but on the third night, just as I closed my eyes and began to drift off, I was wrenched back into wide-eyed wakefulness. In moments, I was engulfed by the chilling terror that had been stalking me for several years now.
At times like this, Father Isaiah had taught me to cross myself and to pray for the light. I tried to do this and got nowhere. But that was the way the darkness worked. Prayer got numbed because suddenly God had vanished. I lay trembling for nearly an hour this time before it passed, and then I lay awake the rest of the night thinking somber, hopeless thoughts. How could the Orthodox sing so triumphantly about Christ trampling down death? Death, it seemed, reigned everywhere.
Each time I went through this valley of the shadow, I was convinced that no other Christian had ever experienced such hell. Yet the contemplative tradition insists that some version of the experience of existential dread is an integral part of the spiritual journey. However, we are not meant to remain in darkness but instead to claim as our own the victory of Christ. At some level I knew it was terribly important that I learn to stand firm in the face of the void, but I didn't have the courage.
I turned to philosopher Josef Pieper's well-known book, The Four Cardinal Virtues, paying particular attention to the chapter on fortitude. Much to my surprise, I discovered that my fear was not a problem — in fact, just the opposite. We cannot even have the virtue of fortitude unless we are vulnerable to fear.
Instead of feeling guilty for being afraid, it was more important for me to identify exactly what it was I feared. That seemed easy: despite my faith, I feared the death of everything on this earth that I loved. As human beings, we have a natural aversion to death. However, the virtue of Christian fortitude allows us to meet death head-on, whether that be through the patient endurance of evil for the sake of good or through dying on the battlefield. Fortitude at its most developed level is the willingness to be martyred.
All this was helpful, but it was St. Thomas Aquinas's concept of the "purgatorial" dimension of fortitude that finally gave me an insight into those dark nights I'd been going through. First, it seems that only after a visceral experience of the godless universe can most of us begin to grasp the full meaning of salvation. Second, the dark night shakes us out of our usual complacency and gives us a glimpse of our naked selves, a necessary step if we are to spiritually grow. And finally, these experiences of darkness open us up to a new way of seeing — or, more accurately, not seeing — God. Our easy familiarity with a God we believe we understand must give way to a numbing sense of the absolute otherness of the Divine.
Aquinas's description of the purgatorial dimension of fortitude also helped me identify some spiritually unhealthy reasons for my painful struggle with the darkness. I'd spent nearly twenty years of my adult life calling myself an atheist, and it seemed that this way of thinking had worn certain ruts in me. I had taught modern literature for over a decade; I was used to seeing this awful vision of darkness described in beautiful, alluring language I couldn't resist. When I returned to Christianity in my late thirties, I came wounded, both morally and intellectually. These black nights were showing me where I was still vulnerable in my faith.
I'd also fallen prey to a particular temptation of the contemplative life: consistently choosing solitude and silence over corporate church life. Mornings at home were beautiful — if I arose early enough, I could sit on my bench under the pines, meditate in the top of the barn, read for an hour if I chose. Morning Mass interrupted this lovely quiet time. Why even bother to go? Yet those bouts of spiritual darkness had taught me why: to move safely through the spiritual realm, we need both the fortifying nourishment of the sacraments and the loving support of the Body of Christ.
Finally, I hadn't listened to my spiritual director very well. All along Father Isaiah had been telling me in so many words that I could not "outthink" the darkness. Instead, I had to learn to call upon Christ immediately, without wasting a moment. "O God, come to my assistance," the monks say first thing at dawn. "O Lord, make haste to help me." In my pride, I'd tried to resist the darkness on my own.
The antidote to such hubris is given by St. Paul: "Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground" (Ephesians 6:10-13). In other words, it is only through the grace of God that we can firmly reject this crippling, but compelling, vision of nothingness.
