Just so you don’t miss it, today is the Feast of St Teresa of Avila (aka St Teresa of Jesus, 1515-1582), according to my 1946 Breviarium Romanum. I first encountered St Teresa due to her connection with St John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz — way cooler in Spanish).
How should you honour this Carmelite mystic?
Seek the Presence of God, Who dwells at the centre of your soul, in the Interior Castle. Ignore the lizards. Get within, and the God Who indwells everything will be found to be waiting.
I’ve written about her and St John of the Cross; she was saint of the week here, while he was saint of the week here. I’ve also written a post about the lizards of the Interior Castle.
To close, here’s a prayer from my breviary, translated by me:
Give ear to us, O God, our Salvation, so that, just as we rejoice in the feast of your Blessed Virgin Teresa, so also we may be nourished by the food of her heavenly teaching, and be instructed by the desire of pious devotion. Through the Lord …
I mentioned in my post on St. Teresa as weekly saint that she talks about the lizards that are in the area surrounding the Interior Castle. Shortly after I wrote that post, Mark Armitage at Enlarging the Heart posted a quotation from that section of the Interior Castle! You can read it here:
St. Teresa’s lizards are our spiritual battles that lead to inner peace. They are the sufferings we all must go through if we wish to attain the heights of (to be Methodist) Christian perfection. We want the easy path, but it is not the path to wholeness, fullness, union with God, or perfection. Instead, we must encounter the lizards. Read the above post, it is good!
So I meant to do a post on St. Teresa of Avila last week. And then I didn’t.
St. Teresa of Avila (1515-1582) rocks. Hard. She was a Discalced (“Shoeless”) Carmelite nun involved in the Catholic Reform movement of the sixteenth century, along with our friend St. John of the Cross (saint of the week here). Sts. John and Teresa took their part in the healing of Christ’s church in sixteenth-century Spain particularly through the reform of the Discalced Carmelite monastic order.
This is a reminder that Catholic Reform wasn’t simply sending out the Inquisition to burn a few Prots. For the record.
St. Teresa, like St. John, was a contemplative and a mystic. She was blessed by God both with visions as well as with genuine spiritual insight. Thus she was able to help lead her monastic community of nuns well and help work through reforms. Even if some of her confessors doubted her visions.
But men are like that.
St. Teresa of Avila is most famous for her book Interior Castle. I read the translation by E. Allison Peers, whose interest in Spanish literature and mysticism has blessed us with translations of St. Teresa’s works as well as St. John’s and a fine biography of my old friend Ramon Llull. Anyway, Interior Castle is amazing.
St. Teresa had this vision, see, and it was of the mansions of the spirit. As in, your own spirit. And first you get past the outer world which is full of distracting lizards and stuff like that. Then you get further and further into the castle/through the mansions. Each mansion is about the cleansing of your soul at some level and what each stage looks like.
At the centre, when God has purified your heart through prayers and effort and trials and, ultimately, His good grace, there is the light of His Spirit. And it is there for anyone who is able to enter into the stillness and take the effort to stop being distracted by the lizards.
But most of us, unlike people like St. Teresa, St. John, St. Gregory Palamas, Evelyn Underhill and Thomas Merton, spend much of our lives gazing at those damned lizards.
And that’s not the blessing that calls us to. He calls us to a union of love with him.
So spend time in quiet. In silence. In prayer. With Jesus. Enter the mansions of the spirit. Find Him in the light at the centre of your soul, calling out to you gently while you’re busy staring at lizards and honey badgers.
My first encounter with St. John of the Cross (1542-1591) was musical, in Thunder Bay at a Steve Bell concert where Steve performed ‘Dark Night of the Soul,’ based on St. John’s poem of the same name. Later, I was to encounter this mystic saint through the similarly folksy music of John Michael Talbot. I found the image of the dark night and the discovery of the beloved quite irresistible.
I next encountered him in the written translation of his poetry in a slim volume of his poems given me by my friend Emily. Although I was to lose this book and The Way of a Pilgrim in a misguided use of cargo pockets on my trousers to carry books, its brief time in my life was a blessing. His vivid and almost (dare one say it?) erotic imagery of the relationship between the soul and God was powerful for me.
I think this Spanish mystic would have approved of my initial encounters with him — as well as the association of his poems with The Way of a Pilgrim. You see, St. John was a mystic and a monk, indeed, but he was also a singer. I remember hunting down information on him on the web after these early meetings, and I learned that his spiritual friend, St. Teresa of Avila, described John of the Cross as spending time walking in the hills and singing songs to God.
And why not? Why not sing songs to one’s lover?
St. John of the Cross demonstrated his great love for the Almighty through the commitment of his life to monasticism. This was the sixteenth century, and anyone who has looked at, say, the Fifth Lateran Council or the events that started in Germany in 1517, knows that the Church in many ways was in need of reform. St. John and St. Teresa were both Carmelites, and both were involved in the reforming of their religious order.
St. John’s commitment to reform of the Carmelites was so great that he was considered with suspicion by other Carmelites monks and once found himself imprisoned in a rival monastery. But have no fear — he made a daring escape! Let no one tell you that the life of a mystic is boring and full naught but long nights sitting around in silence seeking the divine embrace!
Besides the poem ‘Dark Night of the Soul’, St. John of the Cross also wrote a commentary on it, appropriately titled The Dark Night of the Soul. I read E. Allison Peers’ translation of this well-nigh central text to post-mediaeval western mysticism whilst in Cyprus (where I was informed by a friend that all you needed from St. John was a quotation and then you’d be cool). I never moved to its sequel, The Dark Night of the Spirit, for that was for contemplatives who had moved appropriately through the lessons of the Dark Night.
The concept of the Dark Night is something any spiritually healthy person needs to know. We may have effulgent love for God that pours itself out in poetry and beauty and paintings and dance and essays and ecstasies and social action* and who knows what else. But we will at times find ourselves unsatisfied. We will be dark, dry, barren. Those things we once found sweet — prayer, the Scriptures, the Eucharist — are bitter and empty.
This is there for us to grow. God doesn’t want us to be good, strong Christians. He wants us to be better, stronger Christians, pursuing the way of perfection through worship and imitatio Christi all of our days. As a mother weans a child of her milk so the child can move to solid food, so God removes some of the pleasantness of the spiritual life for a spell so that we can grow into even greater and clearer manifestations of his unending love for us.
I have by no means done anything resembling justice to this mystic, poet, spiritual reformer. If I have somehow whetted your appetite, find his poems, find Peers’ translation of the Dark Night, and read the relevant chapter of Edith M. Humphrey’s Ecstasy and Intimacy. You won’t be disappointed through an acquaintance with St. John.
Also — pray for a while today. St. John would recommend it, for how can we say we love God when we spend no time with him?
*St. John of the Cross was cited by Thomas Merton as saying that contemplation was more important than action, and that one action that has been preceded by much contemplation is worth more than ten with none. Or something like that — see The Inner Experience.