 |
“The Ecstasy of St. Teresa,” Bernini (1647-1652.) |
Continuing with my examination of St. John of the Cross:
As I last described, when I was converted to Catholicism, I went on a frenzied quest to absorb as much spiritual materiality as I possibly could: I read books that were beyond my level of understanding, horded religious images and statues, wore countless holy medals about my neck, wanted to experience a constant flow of spiritual consolation, and became obsessed with always feeling the overwhelming presence of God. When it didn’t happen, I panicked. Probably, a week or two after my conversion, I began scouring the internet for a secluded and traditional religious order that just might accept me. I found several located on the East Coast that seemed to fit. I quickly took the first flight I could, visited them all; and then, got accepted by one. The place was a remote monastic enclosure buried in the hills of Pennsylvania. I crawled in, and waited for God to heal me. Selfishly, I think I wanted Jesus all for myself. I wanted him as my personal physician. I didn’t intend to do much on my part. Like my favorite work of art, “The Ecstasy of St. Teresa,” I wanted to drift on a heavenly cloud and be pierced by God’s Love. St. John wrote the following, concerning penitents such as I was: “Those who are inclined toward these delights have also another serious imperfection, which is that they are weak and remiss in treading the rough way of the cross. A soul given up to pleasure naturally feels aversion toward the bitterness of self-denial.” I longed for the sweetness of the Resurrection, while completely bypassing the Crucifixion. I wanted to alone storm the gates of heaven. Again, St. John gets this mind-set: “They strive to procure this by their own efforts, and tire and weary their heads and their faculties. When they do not get this sensible comfort, they become very disconsolate and think they have done nothing.” This happened to me quite suddenly: after a few months inside the sheltered world of the religious life, I began to sense an encroaching restlessness and melancholia. Suddenly, I flew to France to stay at a sister monastery. It was beautiful and incredibly romantic. I received locutions there, but then craved something more from God. I was insatiable. I took, but gave nothing back. In reality, I had changed very little. Certainly, I was now on a different side, but I was still selfish and proud.
To be continued.