Dark Night of the Soul

In the late 1570s, the Spanish Carmelite monk who would become St. John of the Cross was imprisoned by his brothers, opposing his attempted reformations within the Order. Alone, betrayed, hard work dashed and life left seemingly aimless, St. John proceeded to compose the wonderful poem, La Noche Oscura del Alma. Later in 1584, he proceeded to write a theological commentary of the same title on the poem, discussing each stanza.

Dark Night of the Soul is, as with most mystical texts, not an easy read, and not one for every reader. Beautiful as his ideas are, most translations (particularly of E. Allison Peers, from which this author uses as reference) are bulky and wordy. In some cases, this is necessary, but in most areas - notably Book 1 Chapter 1 - many terms are overly specified and repetitive.

In recent (relatively speaking) years, the concept of the Dark Night of the Soul has been given a more scientific treatment and title: Positive Disintegration, the theory of personality development that sees tension, anxiety, despair, and other severe negative experiences as vital to human growth. It is comparable to a snake shedding its skin, or to better reflect its horrible agony, a phoenix arising from the ashes. But like the serpent and his skin, it is a key part part of his maturing, though the Disintegration is a spiritual phenomenon rather than a biological.

The Dark Night, though, is best described as spiritual desolation: sorrow becomes the norm, sensations become caustic and uncomfortable, and, darker than any night on earth, all light fades away. St. Therese of Lisieux once told her Carmelite sisters about such an experience concerning the afterlife, saying "If you only knew what darkness I am plunged into."

John of the Cross, for his part, attempts to describe the experience of his joy of union with divinity versus the unspeakable pain of arriving there. He looks back on the terror of the night with such words as "O guiding dark of night!" and "O dark of night more darling than the dawn!" His life is so much larger and so much more wonderful for this harrowing; "My cares all fall away / Forgotten in the lilies on that day."

Left distant, blackened fear and misery becomes an abstract grey. We grow complacent to it, sometimes condemn those trapped within it ("Why don't they just get over it?"). Sometimes we take the fortunes of the light for granted, forgetting why we crossed what bridges we did and why we burned others. In either case, contemplation alone cannot provide a satisfactory result. The best comparison is that all food is better when one is starving; the same applies to most aspects of man's nature.

Kant / Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals

Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals

In his work, the Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals, Immanuel Kant utilizes an innovative method to overcome the tendency of relativizing morals to some non-rational and contingent standard (such as emotions as his contemporary, David Hume, had done) and offers an interesting analysis of morality from the perspective of universal principles demanded by the very nature of a rational moral agent.  He defends the universality and absolute character of moral principles by positing categorical imperatives, known a priori (i.e. before experience).  The scope of his work is clearly stated in the preface: to simply establish “the supreme principle of morality” (255).  The method that Kant employs to discover and formulate this principle is to work from the common experience of moral obligation and, by analyzing this experience, to seek the a priori prerequisites necessary for the possibility of such an experience.

The progression of his argument follows logically connected steps: the experience of moral obligation leads to positing freedom; freedom leads to the idea that the will is autonomous (i.e. able to have causal efficacy apart from external influences: desires, inclinations and so forth); the will’s autonomy leads to its formulation of a universal principle of morality as the ideal foundation of all actions of rational beings.    

What rule can explain the absolute and universal character of moral obligation?  According to Kant, the only rule/law that fits this requirement is a categorical imperative, which commands certain behaviors as necessary without reference to any subordinate ends, as contrasted with hypothetical imperatives, which can only command something as a means to an end (265).  His first and most fundamental formulation of this imperative clearly emphasizes universality: “Act only on that maxim whereby thou canst at the same time will that it should become a universal law” (268).  From this formulation, it is clear that an act of lying could never be permitted because, if a liar sincerely intended his untruthfulness to be universally commanded, his intention would cancel out the very meaning of truth and would thereby be self-contradictory.

 It is noteworthy that the categorical imperative is merely formal: referring neither to the object of the action, nor to any consequences/results of the action, but merely to the maxim itself, intended as the guiding principle.  Although Kant offers a compelling argument for excluding any reference to the object and consequences of an action – traditionally considered as important elements in moral judgment – by pointing out that the contingent character of particular objects and situations compromises the universality of moral obligations, his final position ends up being alarmingly “content-less”.  Man is to judge his morality purely according to how his intention conforms to the universal principle, which has its origin in himself.  The problem with this position is that, without any positive content (such as the notion of a transcendent natural law indicating certain objects of the will as good or evil), arguments could plausibly be made by people, who truly feel themselves to be intending universality, for actions that are, in fact, objectively evil.  In addition, the categorical imperative is not able to handle moral questions specific to particular situations.  For example, the moral law binding for a man committed to celibacy could never be willed universally without losing the man’s very possibility for existence; but such a law would certainly be appropriate for those people whose function in society required celibacy (for example, priests).

The second formulation of the categorical imperative could be seen as Kant’s attempt to satisfy the need for acknowledging an objective content in morality.  According to this formulation one ought to treat oneself and others “in every case as an end withal, never as means only” (272).  Kant necessarily deduces this formulation from his idea that the will of each rational being is self-legislating (though, paradoxically, also subject to its own law).  Although the second formulation is laudable for the dignity it ascribes to each person, it seems to contradict a basic point of Kant’s epistemology (i.e. his theory on the way man obtains knowledge) as presented in the Critique of Pure Reason.  According to his epistemology, man cannot know a thing as it is in itself (noumenon), but merely as it appears to him (phenomenon), the knowing subject, through forms of knowing imposed by him on otherwise unintelligible sense perceptions.  However, the second formulation implies a knowledge of “what is” because, by saying that a person is an end in himself and therefore deserves manifestations of respect appropriate to this fact, Kant is essentially saying that what is should inform what ought to be (which in fact was the basis of most classical views on morality – founded on metaphysics).  This fact is in complete contradiction to his epistemology and to his oft repeated principle that morality must be derived completely a priori, without any reference to human nature, anthropology, the objective good in real things and so forth.

In the final analysis, Kant’s effort to found morality solely on an a priori principle leaves much to be desired.  By placing the origin of the imperatives in the subject, he opens the door to moral subjectivism; what is to prevent a person who is a “self-legislator” from deciding to modify his own laws?  In spite of his best efforts to the contrary, Kant’s Fundamental Principles seems to be only a short step away from falling into the very moral relativism that he strove to eliminate. 

 

Immanuel Kant, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals. Trans. W. Hastie, ed. Wallace Brockway et al.. Chicago, IL: Encyclopedia Britannica Inc., 1952. 34pp.

Manifesto of the Communist Party

The Manifesto of the Communist Party was written in 1848 by Karl Marx, with the assistance of Friedrich Engels. It opens with a presentation of the views of the Communist party: essentially, that throughout history, there have always been class struggles, necessarily ending in either a revolution or in the termination of both classes. The current class struggle, as presented by Marx and Engels, is between the modern bourgeois (the employers of wage laborers, and the owners of the means of production) and the proletariat (the class of modern wage-laborers). Their main argument against the bourgeois is that it exploits the proletariat and concentrates the means of production and property into the hands of a few.

Once their views are established, the writers then discuss various objections against the Communist party followed by their rebuttal of those objections. The final two chapters describe various Socialist and Communist literature and the position of Communists in relation to the various existing opposition parties. The writers end with an irresistible call to arms: “Workingmen of all countries, unite!

Although the authors of this book do make several important points – the dangers of Capitalism and the inhumanity of treating the proletariat simply as a means of production and increasing capital – some of their views should be questioned.

First, the entire argument for Communism is based on a materialistic philosophy. In materialism, all ideas, including moral, political, artistic, social, and philosophical ideas, are determined by economic factors. Therefore, when the economic atmosphere changes, the ideas valued by society also necessarily change, even affecting moral views. The problem with this philosophy is that it looks only at the quantitative aspect of reality, neglecting the evident fact that when we speak of morals a qualitative aspect is necessarily implied. In addition, materialism completely ignores the spiritual nature of man, making no distinction between matter and spirit. Within this train of thought, there is no room for the idea of God.

Second, the stance of the Manifesto towards the family is questionable. The writers claim that the present-bourgeois family is based only on capital and private gain. In addition, they wish to take away the most basic right of the parents to educate their children by forcing their children into public education. Furthermore, they treat all marriage and family solely as a civil institution, depriving them of their sacred character. As a result, communists wish to form a community of women, essentially dissolving marriage altogether and placing the responsibility of raising children in the hands of the community. The problem with this theory is of course that the family is the most basic unit in any society. To do away with it would be to do away with all society and would result in a mass of humanity incapable of relation.

Finally, the process of the revolution itself seems to rest on an overly optimistic view of human nature. Marx and Engels admit that in order for Communism to get started, it must be initiated by a form of despotism. This is very dangerous. Due to the fallen nature of man, when one or a group of people are given absolute power and control over things, they don’t easily give it up. Thus we see throughout history that Communist governments tend to remain in either a state of despotism or totalitarianism.

The Manifesto of the Communist Party is certainly both educational and entertaining. The writers employed a convincing tone by appealing to an experience common to all men: those who have been exploited in some way wish to stop it, and those who have not been exploited wish to prevent it. The detailed exposé of the struggles of the proletariat captures the emotions to such an extent that, by the end of reading, one is ready to fight! But, readers beware! If I were to recommend reading it even just for educational purposes, then I would recommend a very cautious, careful, and critical reading of it. Furthermore, I would suggest reading it in conjunction with Divini Redemptoris by Pope Pius XI.

A Case Against the Canonization of G.K. Chesterton by an Adoring Fan

I cannot profess to have read every single work that Gilbert Keith Chesterton has produced - frankly, I don’t think anyone really can; more are discovered each year - but all the same, he is among the greatest writers in all of history from the invention of language. Every time I read one of his works, I find myself not reading just a remarkable writer who is talented at the English language, but someone who is having fun; someone who is playing with words like toys. One can almost hear Chesterton giggling to himself after a particularly witty remark.

As an apologist, Chesterton effortlessly takes the most elaborate, complex, and compelling arguments, sticks a sewing needle into its gears, and the entire effort of the argument disintegrates due to the most innocent of observations. His knowledge and talent was nearly superhuman, in some truly genius paragraphs you can almost feel him becoming an instrument of virtue and divinity.

That said, I cannot quite say I agree with his canonization. Even as he fits many of my personal criteria for holiness, he was not quite a saint, as I see it. A saint, to me, is possessed of different sort of spirit, something almost alien to them. There should be an enigmatic quality to them, one foot in the cosmos and another in the divine realm.

Chesterton most certainly knew of this matter, but I maintain he did not particularly experience it, anymore than the average God-loving person would. As with any life, there was mystery and mysticism, but somehow I feel that most men and women of the saintly accord are acutely aware of such experiences, seeing them where we do not, and in some cases, knowing why they occur. One of the best examples is likely Simeon Stylites, described best by Mr. Edward Gibbon in History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, chapter 37, “Conversion of the Barbarians to Christianity,”

In this last and lofty station, the Syrian Anachoret (anchorite - ed.) resisted the heat of thirty summers, and the cold of as many winters. Habit and exercise instructed him to maintain his dangerous situation without fear or giddiness, and successively to assume the different postures of devotion. He sometimes prayed in an erect attitude, with his outstretched arms in the figure of a cross, but his most familiar practice was that of bending his meagre skeleton from the forehead to the feet; and a curious spectator, after numbering twelve hundred and forty-four repetitions, at length desisted from the endless account. The progress of an ulcer in his thigh might shorten, but it could not disturb, this celestial life; and the patient Hermit expired, without descending from his column.

Another story I heard from a friend seems to sum up the matter beautifully.

I remember hearing a story about a monk named Ajaan Panya.

A younger monk was sitting next to him, and a Thai laywoman was talking to Ajaan Panya.

Eventually the young monk stops, does a double take, and realizes what they were saying. "Ma'am, did you say that the molar (the tooth) of Ajaan Panya's that he gave you split into three pieces?"

She said, "No, venerable sir: there are now three versions of the same molar."

The young monk looks at Ajaan Panya, who is staring into the middle distance with the expression of a wry, seemingly knowing, but utterly silent smile.

The young monk says, "...any explanation, Ajaan?"

Ajaan Panya takes another sip of tea and says nothing.

I love G.K. Chesterton with all my heart, but there are no tales of such things with him. Not even the most isolated fleeting mentions in his own works give notice, and all his friends - well-read and most of them famous authors themselves (George Bernard Shaw, H.G. Wells, Hilaire Belloc, etc.) - give no mention of them. It is very safe to say they simply never occurred. Every last thing Chesterton did, which is part of the reason why I have such a sincere and deep admiration for him, was well within the bounds of reason. It seems that with most saints, such was not the case.

He had the love of Fred Rogers and the wit of Shakespeare, but somehow I do not think he shall be, or should be counted among the colossal stoic fury of the saints. Perhaps he would rather make a tremendous chronicler of Heaven; but a saint, I cannot quite agree.

As he said when receiving the title of ‘Honourary Crusader’ on his visit to Worcester College, “I am not so sure I am a Crusader, but I am at least sure I am not a Mohammedan.”

Sonnet 1 (On the Faded Light of Virtue)

O sinful state where mankind lay

To kiss a hand, to list inspire

Thou curseth love with hope burnt gray

Impossible beneath thy ire  

Where gone virtues simple ways?

Whither went the bygone times

To refrain vice through all our days

When men did suffer for their crimes?

Favour not the greed and lust

Drink in joy and not for health

Long the chains that bind us rust

Work for honour, not for wealth

Sadness, those days, we miss them so

Of course, those days, no one hath known

Interview with Fr. Sebastian Glentz

After reading the Communist Manifesto, I had some thoughts which I present in the form of this interview.


Sources Used in Interview:
Fry, O.S.B., Timothy, ed. The Rule of Saint Benedict. New York: Vintage Spiritual Classics, 1998.

Engels, Friedrich, and Karl Marx. Manifesto of the Communist Party. Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1952

Fatima - A Timeline

Fatima Timeline

Source Used aside from web links:

Apostoli, C.F.R., Fr. Andrew. Fatima For Today: The Urgent Marian Message of Hope. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2010.

Same song, different verse: Dark Night of the Soul and Silent Hill

In 1999, the company Konami published a video game for the Playstation called Silent Hill, a psychological horror with fearful aspects focused on the usual surprise and shock that any slasher movie or ghost story could convey, but toned with very heavy personal spiritual experiences. Given the nature of the horror genre, it is almost invariably negative, but I am personally fascinated by its wonderful parallels (that I see) between it and the work of St. John of the Cross, Dark Night of the Soul.

The major theme of both these works is known as Positive Disintegration, a theory of personality development that sees anxiety, tension, despair, and other severe negative experiences as vital to human growth. It can be compared to the snake shedding its skin (which in many ancient cultures, was seen as a symbol of immortality), though very obviously in a violent and agonizing way. But like the snake, it is a key part to their growth and shaping; though for man, it is a spiritual progression as opposed to a natural phenomenon. With this in mind, I’d like to proceed to parallel the shared themes of Silent Hill and Dark Night of the Soul in accord with this idea of positive disintegration.

Very simply, the Dark Night is any experience of spiritual desolation. Sorrow is the norm, all sensations feel caustic, and worse than any natural night, all light fades away. Doubt, despair, and fear prevail. This is precisely what the Everyman characters experience in Silent Hill, a physical representation of the Dark Night: mists envelop everything, the sun never shines, life is either absent or distorted - indeed, the entire world is distorted. Reality seems to crumble before your eyes, materiel apparently burning and evaporating, some sights randomly vanishing into thin air. I find the key mark of comparison is the incredible distortion, a sense of wrongness to everything.

What variously occurs in Silent Hill is a loved one of the Everyman is somehow trapped in this other-world that the titular town, Silent Hill, has some horrid connection to (revealed to be the effect of a Satanic cult later on), and the protagonist must endure terrible experiences to find the beloved. Were it merely the living dead and other monstrosities encountered, the story would not be so disturbing and despondent.

John of the Cross seems to say that the material reality, the universe, is itself more in kind with Silent Hill’s grotesquery and dissonance, pervaded by anger, lust, despair, fear, and arrogance. I do not mean to say that St. John proposes that the world is inherently evil, but here we must be very aware of its encroachment. The Divine has no threat of desire for savagery, lust, or domination.

Like the Everymen of Silent Hill, our love must surpass our fear and aversion to pain in order to recover our beloved; and like St. John of the Cross, St. Thérèse of Lisieux, Saint Paul of the Cross, and Mother Teresa of Calcutta, our love for God must surpass our desires for aught else.