In 1577, John could hardly believe where he was. John of the Cross, a thirty-five year old Carmelite priest, had been abducted by a group of his own Carmelite brothers, put through a travesty of a trial, and now they were imprisoning him in a tiny, fetid cell, barely larger than his body, which was a former latrine.
Why? John had been working with (St.) Teresa of Avila to reform the Carmelite Order of priests, friars, and sisters because their lifestyle had become more social than spiritual, and too comfortable. John and Teresa wanted to return the Order to its roots of prayer, contemplation, silence, study, simpler clothing, and poverty. The Carmelites had broken into two warring groups, one for the reforms and one bitterly against the changes. Now John's own spiritual brothers in the Order, angered by the changes, had violently captured him to forcibly keep him from continuing his work.
John's imprisonment continued for nine months. His one robe rotted off his unwashed body. Several times a week he was flogged in front of his brothers while they enjoyed their midday meal. He lived on a diet of bread, water, and a little fish. Day and night he sat isolated in his dark cell, illumined only by a single, small window set high in the wall above his head.
His faith in God, always so strong, so sure, was disintegrating along with his robe. Doubt infiltrated his psyche. He cried out in prayer to God, his great Beloved. God was absent, silent. Starved, isolated, John found his mind shutting down, unable to travel beyond the small four walls shutting him in. He couldn't imagine a future for himself. His youthful idealism and innocence were dead. John slowly drifted into the unrelieved darkness of abandonment and despair.
For a long while, John, the brilliant scholar, fought his doubts and despair, mentally and spiritually. Finally he realized that he could not, did not know how this would end, how he could break free of both his physical and spiritual captivity. He surrendered to this radical unknowing. He surrendered to humbly not needing to know.
Slowly, gradually, he was inundated with light, infused with Divine Love. Filled by the One Who "wounded his soul and set it on fire," he began to write his sublime poetry on scraps of paper smuggled in to him by his jailer. Finally, miraculously, he escaped his prison. He could write from the depths of his soul "In the dark night of the soul, bright flows the river of God." And, - "If a man wishes to be sure of the road he treads on, he must close his eyes and walk in the dark." He had discovered for himself that faith is "luminous darkness."
Fr. Richard Rohr says "God has to work in the soul in secret and in darkness, because if we fully knew what was happening, and what Mystery/transformation/God/grace will eventually ask of us, we would either try to take charge or stop the whole process....God has to undo our illusions secretly...when we are not watching and not in perfect control....We move forward in ways that we do not even understand and through the quiet workings of time and grace...."
John of the Cross discovered that even though he sat in the darkness of doubt and despair, a faithful God came to him to be his Light and his Love. So he could write in his lovely poem "The Living Flame of Love":
"How gently and lovingly
You wake in my heart
Where in secret You dwell alone;
And in Your sweet breathing,
Filled with good and glory,
How tenderly You swell my heart with love."