The dark night of the soul is a deeply personal experience that also has far-reaching implications for how we interact with others. James Finley considers how a dark night can transform our humanity:
[The dark night] has a quality of heightened empathy, heightened compassion, heightened presence…. John of the Cross was really known for a sensitivity to the poor and the sick. He was also known for his compassion. One of the friars writes in their journal, “When we go off in our little Sunday groups and small groups for our walk, we always hope John of the Cross will join us because he always makes us laugh…”. It’s beyond the darkness of this world in a way that paradoxically radicalizes our presence in it to the holiness of life on life’s terms….
Sometimes I say to myself a little prayer in my advancing years, “God, help me to be the kind of old person young people want old people to be. Help me not just to talk like this but help me to walk around like this and answer the phone like this and talk to my grandchildren like this.” We’re all trying to do our best here to walk the walk. [1]
Spiritual director Therese DesCamp has witnessed within herself an ongoing desire to serve others, even in the midst of a dark night:
I think it’s safe to say that dark nights do involve a loss of meaning, loss of joy, and loss of certainty. Doubt and self-doubt are regular visitors, as is deep sorrow.
But if I’m experiencing a dark night, I will still be able to see the humorous side of life. I will be capable of laughter. I may feel deeply the sadness, confusion, and horror of these times—and I may not expect things to get much better. But I can laugh, and most often at myself. I take myself lightly.
Even more clearly, I will be capable of compassion. The dark night does not reduce our capacity to care for others. Rather, it increases that capacity. In fact, some days, caring for others may be the only thing that relieves the suffering of having lost my bearings.
Dark nights don’t involve a diminution of self, but rather a shift in focus away from the ego and onto others. I may no longer have the consolation of feeling like I’m a good person or experiencing the closeness to the “God” that I used to know so intimately. But daily life will be filled with the awareness of the preciousness of all life…. The dark night heightens our connections to all living beings. In a dark night, I feel deeply the sorrow—as well as the joy—of the other. It may be dark in here, but it’s full of love. [2]
References:
[1] Adapted from James Finley with Kirsten Oates, cohosts, Turning to the Mystics, podcast, season 3, ep. 3 “Dialogue 1: The Ascent of Mount Carmel,” March 22, 2021. Available in MP3 audio download and PDF transcript.
[2] Therese DesCamp, Hands Like Roots: Notes on an Entangled Contemplative Life (Santos Books, 2025), 108.
Image credit and inspiration: Laura Barbato, untitled (detail), 2020, photo, Italy, Unsplash. Click here to enlarge image. Wiping the fog from the window becomes our small gesture of being in the Dark Night—an embodied “I’m here” that reaches for clarity amid unknowing, while the small, steady candle reminds us that the spirit still burns softly even when the season feels bright and our inner world does not.
Story from Our Community:
My husband died unexpectedly at 34 and I found myself struggling to put back together the shattered pieces of my family’s life. A few weeks after his funeral, I realized I was humming and thinking happily about the day to come. I stopped abruptly and thought “What are you doing? Things are looking bad!” But God’s grace broke in and I realized that my happy mood was a gift, an interlude of grace. The tough days would still come, but the moments of joy would also come. I learned to take each day, each moment as it came, and to embrace it as the gift that it is. Thanks be to God!
—Mary S.
