"What if I should do what Saint Francis or Saint Dominic did?"

Besides being the Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, it is also the Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola. He was born in 1491. While young he was at court and a soldier. Later he converted to God while convalescing from a battle injury. Instead of the books of fiction he requested, his sister-in-law gave him a life of Christ and lives of saints written in Spanish. While he read, he'd pause to consider what he was reading. He asked himself: "What if I should do what Saint Francis or Saint Dominic did?"

Soon he noticed that when his mind dwelled on worldly thoughts, he'd feel intense pleasure but out of weariness, when giving up those thoughts, he felt dry and depressed. However, when he thought about living the rigorous type of life the saints had lived, he experienced pleasure. But after dismissing these thoughts, he still experienced great joy!

One day Ignatius realized this difference in experiencing the two kinds of thoughts, and that thinking of holiness and saintliness brought fullness and joy, not sadness. He determined to change his life and strive to live as the saints. Eventually this led him to formulate his "spiritual exercises" which were utilized by those who followed his example. Ignatius had since become a priest, and his followers became the first members of the Society of Jesus, or Jesuits. He died in Rome in 1556. St. Teresa of Avila had not yet come to her turning point spiritual experiences at this date but would begin the reform of the Carmelites in 1562. The Spiritual Exercise of St. Ignatius are still used with much benefit among the faithful to this day. They are, also, a basis of formation for the lay secular religious institute, Las Cruzadas de Santa Maria.

Each day is a once-in-a-lifetime experience! I am reminded of this fact on a sunny, summer afternoon in Indiana. Still reading The Ascent of Mount Carmel by St. John of the Cross, he explains the reasons why it is preferred by God that once we come to a certain stage of spiritual growth that we be weaned from sensory images and locutions by which He brings some souls, and to enter into darkness and blindness. God uses the images as aids for us since we are so dependent upon the sensory perceptions; but once we are well enough along, He expects us to not need such assistance but to grow into more mature, deeper faith. St. John of the Cross backs up his writing with Scripture which we all would recognize and find greater meaning.

Yes, I had prayed while in Avila to be brought to deeper faith, even if it meant darkness and blindness. Truly, I had been blessed with many graces of images and visions and locutions, but now I understand why it is past due that I be weaned. There are mistakes that can be made when one relies on these "lights"--which can become crutches, can be imitated by the devil, which can become sources of pride and even a kind of spiritual laziness. I trust St. John of the Cross, and therefore I am ignoring the images and dreams and locutions. It isn't easy, though, to be blind and in darkness. Intellectually I am grateful and comprehend; otherwise it is painful, lonely, and uncertain. However, St. John explains that this is far more pleasing to Our Lord and will bring us closer to Him for the desired eventual union. So, I am going along with trust.

People are praying for me. Perhaps I concerned some with my darkness and upset. Perhaps this stumbling along as one newly blinded or one in a strange house at night with no light--not even the moonlight--gives black ink-drawings of what it is like. I consider the blind man I observed in Iglesia San Pedro in Avila just two Sunday's ago. He calmly and joyfully walked to Communion and also out of the church, his hand lightly on the shoulder of his little boy. He didn't tap his cane but let it hover above the granite stone floor, an inch or two.

Not me! I am new to this darkness. I have been angry (even though I prayed for this). I have been exhausted with seeking and groping. My white cane (when I can locate it to grasp) taps constantly and pokes this way and that as I fearfully take little steps, barely raising my feet off the floor, barely taking my hands off walls and reaching out to what might be in front of me. I can't see! I can't see! One day I considered writing a simple note with two words, "Help me!", but I couldn't manage to feel and stumble my way to the rectory next door. Besides, I didn't think the priest could possibly understand.

I'd already alarmed some people who don't understand this process. It could mimic clinical depression or childish pouting, either one! St. John of the Cross uses the image of a child needing to be weaned from its mother's breast. (St. Paul alludes to it also, in mentioning how one must learn to eat solid food and no longer exist on milk. Grow up! Seek the spiritual and leave the temporal, the sensory! Jesus speaks of this to His disciples in several contexts.)
So I am blind, and like the child being weaned, I suffered some with trying to grasp for the breast for comfort and nourishment; but it was taken away. I am blind, and I cannot see food, but Jesus sees me and feeds me with His food.

Today's Gospel, in fact, is the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand. Yes, Jesus feeds us with the food we need, when we need it, and there is plenty enough left over. It is the food of the Last Supper and the food of the Eucharist of which He has fed us since the beginning of the Church and of which He continues to feed us at Mass daily.

This blindness and darkness is a plunging which will result in deeper, more pure faith. St. John says so, and he supports his reasoning with Scripture, through and through, and with experience, too. So, I believe him and will continue to learn how to exist in this world, blind. A friend used to tell me that I am so fortunate that I see things so "clearly" and get "answers" from God. Yes, this was a blessing, it seemed. As it turns out, I was just more needy than most, more a baby needing to be nursed longer than others. Now I am being weaned (as I realized in Avila this was necessary), and I don't see things clearly nor get answers through images, visions, dreams and locutions.

Yesterday the white cane tapped and swept back and forth the sidewalk as I wearily made it to Mass next door. It was the Feast of St. Peter Chrysologus (golden-words, as his preaching converted many souls and stung those who refused to convert). When it was time to proclaim the Gospel, the priest read of the beheading of St. John the Baptist. My mind, in a blind desperation, thought, "Oh, no! It is August 29--the Feast of the Beheading of St. John the Baptist! I have missed the opening day at St. Meinrad!" Then, I realized that it was still July, and this Gospel was today's reading, and would be read again from a different Gospel book in a month. Being blind can affect all kinds of aspects of the body, passions, and intellect.

Darkness continues with regard to what God wants next. I have avoided my parish; it is too much to attempt; it is too far away. Is it in the past? I think so. It is enough to tap my way to the parish next door. After Mass, I feel my way to the Confessional door. In my heart I repeat that I know the priest is in persona Christi (another Christ, a stand-in for Jesus), and he will understand everything I will try to express. It is true; he does. I feared being misunderstood, but rather, I had to say very little about my vocation, my mission, my assignments. Jesus through the priest helps me more than I anticipated. That is how this Sacrament works. It is a Sacrament for the blind, and now that I am really blind, it is more effective and grace-filled.

This morning I tell Jesus as I swing my body out of bed and up into the darkness of day, "O.K. I agree to go to St. Meinrad--even willingly and joyfully--but I need a place to live there. I accept whatever assignment you have for me there, even though I realize it will mean suffering." Well, yes, His yoke is easy and burden is light. Jesus will arrange housing if He wants me to go; He knows I need it to be arranged soon, as class sign-up ends in a little over two weeks, earth-time. If He has me go, He will also provide many goods to off-set any hardships of the assignment. He may not arrange for me to go, either. Maybe He wants me to say I will, to agree with all my heart. This is fair enough. It is all Jesus' game, this journey; it is His game-plan, and I am a blind player, fumbling my small token.

In time, blind people become like the man at San Pedro Church in Avila. There are people around, even little children, who help the blind who become adept at trust. Already, in my blindness, the priest next door has guided me wisely and kindly. He removed obstacles in moving. He made it possible to not have to move possessions but to simply try St. Meinrad to see if it is what God wants of me, and to keep the house I'm renting so as to have a place "to come back to". It is always good to not be a frog on a lily pad, alone, out in the middle of a pond, particularly if one is a blind frog. Better to have a lily pad right next to the church in case the new lily pad isn't meant for a long stay, or at all.

A lily pad at St. Meinrad Archabbey would be closer to a lily pad at New Hope, Kentucky where the Lay Dominicans live just a couple of miles or so from the Abbey of Gethsemani. The Prioress there made contact and is sending information. There are a couple of families yet in the community, and three or so single people, and a priest chaplain of the chapel there, with daily Mass. The publishing concern continues its pro-life work and publishing of books and magazines. It is a small publishing house, but it does much good for souls in the church. The community is called the St. Martin de Porres Lay Dominican Community.

Well, it is another lily pad, close enough to St. Meinrad for a blind frog to jump and take the chance of landing. God only knows. There are lily pads all over. I suppose eventually the soul becomes like the blind man in Avila whose cane doesn't tap the floor and simply hovers above. The frog leaps without seeing. It is only water if it misses the lily pad. The first reading at Mass today was that invitation of "Come, come to the waters. Be refreshed by the living waters...."

What if I should do what Saint Francis or Saint Dominic did? They learned in darkness, in blind faith. They left the images and the temporal senses; they were weaned from these. What did they "do"? They lived the life of the cross. In this life, they found joy. What if I should do what St. Ignatius did? He lived the life of the cross. He and all the other saints followed Jesus--followed Him blindly one stumbling step at a time but with all the help they needed. So must I. It will become easier, spiritually, but not physically. We all know about the cross. But another saint, Padre Pio, wrote that after Golgotha there is Tabor. After the Crucifixion there is the transfiguring Resurrection.