painting by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato

And Mary said, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.” And the angel departed from her. Luke 1:38

A few weeks ago, I attended my annual silent retreat at the Cloisters on the Platte near Gretna, Nebraska. Seven years ago, I was fortunate enough to be moved quickly off the waiting list into a spot which I’ve held ever since. During my first retreat at the Cloisters, I was wholly unprepared for the beauty of the facility and grounds and for the power of three days of silence, prayer, and meditation. Since then, I’ve returned each November–blesssed.

During my last retreat, Fr. Paul Hoesig led us in a study of St. Ignatius’ Rules for the Discernment of Spirit. Ignatius contends that we all move between periods of spiritual consolation and spiritual desolation. He defines spiritual consolation as “when some interior movement in the soul is caused, through which  the soul comes to be inflamed with love of its Creator and Lord; and when it can, in consequence, love no created thing on the face of the earth in itself, but in the Creator of them all.” When we experience an increase in hope, faith, and charity as well as an “interior joy” from the Lord, this is spiritual consolation. And this, Ignatius explains, is much more than a feeling; it’s a state of being.

On the other hand, spiritual desolation is “the contrary of [spiritual consolation], such as darkness of soul, disturbance in it, movement to things low and earthly, the unquiet of different agitations and temptations, moving to want of confidence, without hope, without love, when one finds oneself all lazy, tepid, sad, and as if separated from his Creator and Lord.”

For most, the world at the time of Christ’s birth (between 6 and 4 B.C.) was oppressive. The Romans had ruled the world for half a century, and their republic had turned into a tyranny, with the emperor, Caesar Augustus, in charge of the empire. In most agrarian societies, 90% of the population worked the land as peasants, while 10% were born into nobility and, therefore, into power and wealth. It goes without saying that the world was a dark place for many who struggled to survive. And it doesn’t take much effort to imagine the spiritual desolation of the oppressed. Into this world, an angel of the Lord appeared to a teenage girl in a backwater town. We know the story well. Perhaps we know it too well, often joyfully skipping to the good part: the birth of a healthy, pink-cheeked baby boy destined to be the Savior of the world.

We may unthinkingly skip the almost certain fear, confusion, and inevitable shame that would accompany an apparently illegitmate pregnancy. And we shouldn’t. For into this desolate world, into these dark circumstances, Mary consented to bear God’s Son, opening her soul fully as she declared: Let it me unto me according to your word.

Although we know that spiritual consolation–our souls inflamed with love of our Creator and Lord–is grounded in this kind of open-hearted submission, sadly, we often turn to ourselves, resolved to create a kind of consolation of our own making and effort. We get about the business of doing–rather than being. We make plans and resolutions. We get to work on ourselves. I don’t know how many times in the past year I’ve heard, or read, about people “doing the work” on themselves. It’s not that we don’t bear some responsibility for our own wellbeing–or that we should ignore how God works through pastors, counselors, mentors, friends, and family members. It is, however, that too often we ignore the source of all consolation which Mary understood well.

Thirty-two years ago at this time, we were preparing to adopt our son, Quinn. I confess that there have only been a handful of times in my life when I was fully aware that I had no real control over my circumstances and stood, as Mary did, before God as a supplicant. On the day that we traveled to the Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis to meet our new son and take him home, we couldn’t have known that we’d be there for hours–first at the church and later in a congregant’s home–as we waited for confirmation from the State of Iowa that his official paperwork had arrived in Des Moines, granting us the legal right to bring him home. These were hours fraught with worry, frustration, and confusion as our caseworker repeatedly called to check whether the paperwork (on a FedEx truck during peak Christmas delivery hours) had arrived. At one point, perspiration running from her temples, she turned to us and asked–hopefully, desperately–if we knew anyone of political prominence in Iowa who might intervene on our behalf, so we could leave Minnesota and legally enter Iowa.

Of course, we didn’t, and the minutes that ticked by were fraught with tension. There was much hand wringing–for almost everyone but me. The Iowa official communicating with our caseworker had informed her that their offices would close promptly at 4:30 for Christmas that afternoon, and if they hadn’t received the official paperwork by then, she’d have to fly Quinn back to Georgia and try again after the holidays. Throughout all this, an uncharacteristic and miraculous sense of peace pervaded me. As I held my infant son, I sensed the concern and frenzied actions around me, but I felt warmed with the assurance that all would be well. And it was. With minutes to spare, we finally received word that we could take Quinn home.

Although I didn’t speak Mary’s words of submission, I can look back on this day and know, with certainty, that I felt them. Let it be unto me according to your word. I felt the peace that passes all understanding. I know the spiritual consolation that illuminates the darkness. And I know, with certainty, that this was not of my own making, not a result of my own effort nor any human effort.

A 16th century Carmelite monk, St. John of the Cross, understood the darkness of spiritual desolation. In his poem, Noche obscura del alma (translated “The Dark Night of the Soul” ), he writes of the worldly struggle to know and feel an “interior joy” from the Lord. Like St. Ignatius, he knew that we would move into and out of periods of spiritual consolation and desolation. One of the pillars of our Christian faith, Mother Teresa, experienced decades of this “dark night of the soul.” And yet, she continued to seek God, to do His will on earth, and to live with the hope that her soul would be once again ignited with this “interior joy.” Throughout her desolation, she kept her soul fixed on the consolation she’d once experienced and prayed to experience again.

Regardless of our circumstances and in spite of the desolation we often experience in this broken world, there is consolation. And this is the good news of Advent: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5) Mary understood this, both as a young mother and later as she knelt at the foot of her son’s cross. Before I celebrate the birth of Christ this year, I plan to spend some time with Mary. As I give thanks for my own son, I plan to remember how on that long, snowy day in Minneapolis, I, too, opened my soul before God in humble submission. And I plan to live fully and joyfully with this consolation, even as I prepare myself for the inevitable times when I struggle to feel God’s presence and peace.