The vine had long been a beloved symbol of Israel… in the Last Supper discourse, on the way to Gethsemane, it acquires a new dimension, the pain of pruning. However, the suffering of Jesus is not the principal point here: [rather, it is that all] disciples of Jesus must be prepared to bear the pain of pruning. The image is a powerful one. To an uninstructed onlooker, the wretched, seemingly lifeless twigs left on the vines appear totally unable to burgeon in a few months into the rich harvest of grapes. The most powerful of all the aspects of the symbol is the sap pulsing through those apparently dead branches. There is all the difference in the world between those docked shoots [still thriving within], and the dead twigs scattered on the ground, [their wild growth availing nothing.Humble] adherence to the vine, to Christ himself, alone gives life to the Church.
Trusting in God (in Hebrew, bittachon - בִּטָּחוֹן) does not mean that we are obligated to affirm that this is “the best of all possible worlds,” though it does mean we believe that eventually God will wipe away every tear and make all things right. Bittachon is a word for this world, which says, “Though He slay me, I will trust in Him…” Those who call upon the LORD can trust not only in concealed good behind ambiguous appearances (“all things work together for good”), but also in a future, real, substantive good that will one day be clearly manifest for us all. We fight the “good fight” of faith, which is a worthy struggle that eventually is realized for blessing. Meanwhile, may the LORD our God keep us from such depth of sorrow that leads to sickness, darkness and despair.
There are operations in the supernatural order in which we work with our Lord and cooperate with Him in them. But there are others of a very intimate nature in which the one thing He asks of us is that we do not hinder Him. And in order that we do not impede Him, He gives us a spiritual anesthetic — that is, desolation, since it is a kind of paralysis of the spirit which renders us helpless.
In time of spiritual dryness, souls often think as follows: “I go to prayer, and I do nothing, absolutely nothing.” The soul does nothing, but God does a great deal, although the soul may not be aware of His secret and mysterious operations. But when the period of trial passes, we find that we are different. Without our knowing how or when, a profound change was wrought in us: our love is more solid; our virtue has become stronger. According to the familiar expression, we have come out of the trial “as new.” What does it matter that those afflictions may endure for years on end, if finally the soul emerges as new, fit to be united with God and to realize fully the role it was destined to fill on earth?
Desolation, then, is the indispensable means whereby the soul attains its transformation in Jesus, the supreme goal and the perfection of holiness. We think, perhaps, that transformation in Jesus is something that we can achieve with God’s help. But no. Simply having God’s help is not sufficient. God alone can accomplish it, and the only help that we can give Him is to allow Him a free hand, not to impede Him.
We must make our choice: either we choose transformation, and then we also accept the desolation without which it cannot be arrived at; or we refuse desolation, and then we must also reject transformation and thus give ourselves over to dragging out our life in a common mediocrity.
Desolation is a cross, but one of the most precious, one of the most divine. It is not wrought by the hand of men, but by God Himself. It is a work of the Holy Spirit. The trial, therefore, is made in accordance with the measure of each soul, perfectly fitted to its circumstances, requirements, and mission, and to the degree of perfection to which God has destined it. Hence, trial possesses an eminently sanctifying power.
Let us open our arms to it, then, and salute it with the same cry as the Church uses: “Hail, O Cross, our only hope!” In this way, by reason of all that has been said concerning spiritual afflictions, this truth is once more established: God’s ways are not our ways.
Servant of God Archbishop Luiz Martinez
“Worshipping the Hidden God”
Spiritual desolation is terrifying; God feels utterly absent, distant, unreal; all memories of consolation become untranslatable or inaccessible. The heart becomes dry and hollow; prayer suffers, joy withers, peace disappears. How, then, can this profound numbing of the soul benefit us? How can such a chasm of emptiness possibly do us any good?
That’s what this quote clarifies. That’s the paradox. It doesn’t.
Desolation is the anaesthetic. That’s it’s true job. But God is the surgeon.
When we are desolate, we still know God is real; we still have faith burned into our being, even if we feel nothing, even if doubts and fears plague us nonstop. We hope against hope. We cling to what we cannot even sense anymore, and yet we cannot ever deny it outright. Even collapsed under the weight of our cross, we know Someone gave it to us for a Good Reason, and if that raw fact is ALL we have to go on as we hobble on to Calvary, then so be it; it is enough. It must be enough, if it is all we were given. God knows. We don’t. That’s the point.
We forget that we’re not the ones doing the work. When we are anesthetized, desolate, we cease striving after our own notions of success. We stop taking on more than our share, we abandon ambition, we no longer try to guess or even edit God’s plan for our life. We are like unruly yet beloved children, who genuinely want to help Him with the home repairs but keep losing the tools and touching all the wet paint… we don’t understand when He says “no,” even though He says it with love. We can’t quite grasp the truth of our “not knowing”– of our not even being able to know. We just want to help. Come on, Dad, let me plug in the wires. Let me hold the drill. It looks so easy! But pride is lurking, and ultimately the only way to humble our childish enthusiasm is to give us a time-out. Out of the room, away from Dad, unable to interfere. Out of love.
Soon enough, He will come and get us, and show us what beautiful work He has done… all for us! Allwithin us! So we must doggedly hold on to faith, and hope, and charity, even if just with our feeble will– no feelings, no fervor, just a weak but honest resolution to not give up on God. Wait one more day. One more. One more. Keep waiting. Keep trusting. He remembers you, of course! He is working on you, remember? You’re just under anaesthetic for a while. The numbness is not permanent. Be patient, beloved. Carry the cross with gratitude. It is, truly, our only hope, even in this.
Transformation requires desolation. Remember that. So it was with Christ; so it must be with us.
Re-read the Archbishop’s words and take them deeply to heart. You need this understanding, this acceptance. Sometimes, for the greatest good of our souls, all we can do is let ourselves be put aside so God can do His work. This takes immense trust, and love, and humility. Tell God you are willing. Pray fervently for the grace. Then… well, “count backwards from 100”, as they say. Let God decide when to work. Do not impede Him, even in good will. Surrender to that sanctified numbness. And wait on the Lord.
