Earlier this autumn, I read a book called Spiritual Warfare and the Discernment of Spirits by Dan Burke. Sounds spooky, right? I promise it is far less The Exorcist-y, far more practical a study, and definitely more related to the theme of peace than it sounds. Bear with me.
It’s a small book, only 105 pages, and they’re small pages and it’s written in rather large point type: all this to say, it’s not a challenging work to get through on a practical level. What it does is summarize and expand upon St. Ignatius of Loyola’s rules for the “discernment of spirits” and how it all applies to a 21st century Catholic (discernment of spirits, here, meaning: identifying, understanding, and either accepting good or combating bad sources of spiritual inspiration). We live in a world that has seen The Exorcist (and may or may not be anxiously awaiting the release of The Conjuring 3) and has grown comfortable associating spiritual evil with Hollywood and not with small, day-to-day behaviors, attitudes, and actions. And that’s not true. Evil isn’t always dramatic, it doesn’t always ride into town on a black horse, doesn’t always levitate beds and children.
Burke explains that good sources of spiritual inspiration guide us to a state he calls Consolation (selflessness, charity, the Good Place) and bad sources guide us to Desolation (selfishness, the world, the Bad Place).
Three things in particular caught my attention about the work in its whole: one, the reasons for desolation; two, the roadmap out of desolation; and three, the promise from Christ in the Gospels that set Burke—and then myself, and now you—to exploring all these things: the promise of peace.
Desolation might be defined as “a state of complete emptiness or destruction”, and this definition works fittingly for our purposes. A state of complete emptiness or destruction: not a great prospect, but an inevitability for us fallen humans. First, let us take comfort in knowing desolation is not a permanent state throughout our lives, however long-lasting it might sometimes seem. Now second, let us look at the three reasons Ignatius, and Burke in his turn, gives for desolation.
The first reason for spiritual desolation is to help us see that we are in spiritual danger; Burke compares spiritual desolation to a car that flashes lights and beep-beeps at the driver when something is wrong and needs to be addressed. Once, I was driving down to San Clemente for dinner with a friend when nearly every single light on the dash began flashing, and the beeps scared the living daylights out of me. I tried ignoring them for a while, but something—not something, the beeping, specifically—urged me to pull over and stop. My friend I was visiting was able to recommend a nearby garage I could stop at, and there, they told me my car had a flat tire and no oil. Nice. They fixed it up and sent me on my way. Spiritual desolation can be this sort of alarm, screaming, “Something isn’t right, and we need to address it ASAP as possible!”—a call to courage. Let us not suppress and avoid desolation but acknowledge it and tackle it head-on.
The second reason is to understand the true state of our love of God. Burke explains that “because of concupiscence and the scars left from our sin, we have an infinite capacity for self-deception”. Desolation, then, is an opportunity for self-reflection upon the true state of our relationship with God and, in turn, with the world and people around us. Has selflessness fallen into selfishness? Patience into impatience? Gratitude into expectation? Burke, who converted to Catholicism from Judaism, recalls the Dayeinu song from his past Passover ceremonies. The purpose of the Dayeinu is to recall everything God did for the Jewish people, after each good deed, the phrase “It would have been enough” is repeated, again and again, reminding us that every good God does for us “would have been enough”, but God did more. Desolation can be a call to gratitude. Let us not expect goodness but give thanks for goodness.
The last reason is to help us know that God is the source of all the good within us. My favorite line in this part of the book is this: “In fact, the only thing any living soul has ever earned on their own is hell.” I laugh because this line feels so dramatic at first glance, but it is fairly grounded in the Church’s teaching that God predestines all for Heaven, and it is only by the abuse of free will that some go to the Bad Place. Martin Luther and other Protestant reformers criticized the Catholic Church for claiming to achieve grace by good works. While this is not the Catholic claim, it can be easy to fall into this false sense that we are deserving of grace by our good acts, that we deserve a paradise because we are captain of the ship. Desolation can be a call to humility. Let us not be so confident in ourselves but in God and according acts of love.
Desolation sounds like a spooky state, but I hope these reasons have shown there is some light at the end of the tunnel. Now, getting to the light. Burke gives great advice, and it takes up much of the book, regarding how to build up defenses in times of consolation and how to address and act in times of desolation: such as committing to spiritually enriching acts in times of consolation, staying committed no matter what in times of desolation, increasing this commitment in times of desolation, and never, ever giving up on the promise of consolation. I would like to focus on another piece of advice, something I have found most important in my own life and in my own times of desolation.
I’ve heard it said that as long as we are unable to share our burdens with others, Satan has hold. Heaven knows how hard it can be to do just this, to share our burdens with others. We don’t want to get others involved, we don’t want to waste people’s time, we don’t want to burden others. How shamelessly bold of us! How mortally decisive! What good is the world we live in if we cannot experience it in all its desolation and consolation with others? Not much, I’d say. But this is a great and horrifying tactic of these spirits of desolation: a sheep on its own is an easy target for a wolf. I think of an old Disney cartoon I watched with my siblings growing up: Lambert the Sheepish Lion, about a lion accidentally given to a mama sheep by a stork. Lambert grows up like a sheep until the day his mother is under attack by a wolf, and Lambert saves her with a great roar. Sharing our burdens with others is like bringing a lion to our rescue: the wolf doesn’t stand a chance. This is why family and friends matter so desperately much. They love us freely, and much of that involves sharing each other’s burdens, bearing each other’s crosses.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” —John 14:27
The notion that peace is something not recommended or offered but promised absolutely floors me. In this, the Year of Our Lord 2020, when peace seems very much not to even qualify as part of this year’s lineup, this promise remains. Even now, this promise remains. And how personal and intimate a promise! Peace. When has someone offered—sorry, promised—you peace? What is peace? Where can we find it?
I have rarely found it on my own; that much I can say, and I challenge you, reader, to identify where you find or have found peace in your life. It’s there, and that’s my promise to you, but it’s up to you to find it yourself.
My favorite moment of peace I have experienced in my life has recurred a few times, a few times for which I will be grateful for the rest of my life. Every Christmas Eve, my parents, siblings, and I go into Downtown LA with an aunt and uncle and our grandfather. We dress up and get dinner at the same place; after dinner, we go to the 9 o’clock evening Mass at the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels; then, we drive home. That drive home is an hour of peace, just a moment of Heaven in my own mortal life. Twelve people quietly together taking the 10 to the 605 to the 210; we play 103.5 FM radio’s Christmas music the whole way home; scattered conversation mumbles about the van; the little ones lean on the older ones in largely vain efforts to fall asleep. It’s neither the city nor the dinner, the Cathedral choir nor the drive, but the quiet, resounding love that offers peace. There’s some fabulous philosophical conversation out there, I’m sure, but for now, I am satisfied that peace might be found in love of, by, and for others.
“I have said this to you, so that in me you may have peace. In the world you face persecution. But take courage; I have conquered the world!” —John 18:33
Written By Our Revealer: Joseph Larson
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