“I couldn’t stand another hour of daylight.”

 

So, get this.

I’m driving around yesterday in downtown Oakville.  Sting’s “Bring on the Night” (not The Police version, the Blue Turtles version dontcha know) pops on the iPhone.  I glanced upwards to witness one of the most beautiful tapestries I’ve ever seen etched into the dusk.

Whisps of yellow, swathed orange… fire-red… indigo… and then, black.

The cusp of darkness.

And then, I hit the two backwards arrows on the iPhone.

Rewind.  Park that puppy right back to the start.  Right back to the beginning of a song from a band I’ve been enjoying immensely since Christmas of 1980.

I’ll never forget the moment I opened up that album on the morning of December 25th some 32 years ago.   (Son-of-bitch, I’m old!)

Zenyatta Mondatta.  It may have been the Police’s third studio album, but it was the first album I ever called my own.  “Don’t Stand So Close To Me”‘s blaring on the radio that winter had this 12-year old savagely working at the useless decorative wrapping that was only providing to be a nuisance, hindering me from the musical gold that lay inside.   Those memories aren’t easily discarded.  It was that seminal moment under a Balsam Fir that vaulted me into a deep love affair with music, and particularly, 80’s super group The Police.

That next summer, I had used money I had saved up to purchase BOTH Outlandos D’Amour and Reggatta de Blanc – the first two in The Police Anthology.  (And no, I had NEVER received an “allowance”.   Thank God.)  On “Regatta”, much was made of “Walking on the Moon” and “Message in a Bottle”… and justifiably so!  But my favourite song on that album was, and is to this day, “Bring on the Night”.  Rock-reggae back beat…  Stewart Copeland’s impeccable work on the high-hat…  Andy Summers’ deliciously delicate fingerwork on the Strat…  Stings emotion-laden vocals…

Emotion-laden.  Brimming with emotion.

Gordon Sumner’s lyrics.  Ah, yes.

“The future is but a… question mark.”

Fast-forward to a late Thursday afternoon drive in downtown Oakville… in a freakin’ Smart car, no less.

Fast-forward.  And hit “play”.

And then… something, near mystical, happened.  I started listening to the words.  I was enraptured by the soon-to-be night sky, and aurally taken by the words that emanated from the iPhone.  And as senses-overload kicked in, one person almost literally jumped into my mind.  Or, maybe it was my soul?

St. John of the Cross.

And then, I was awash in tears.  I’m not kidding you.  It was like a faucet had been opened up, full-blast.

“The afternoon has gently passed me by
The evening spreads it’s sail against the sky
Waiting for tomorrow, just another day
God bid yesterday good-bye.”

Bring on the night.

The dark, dark night.

The dark night of the soul… which leads us to a blinding light, that does not blind.

I sometimes wonder how, physically, our irises will respond to the Beatific Vision… if we will even have “irises”, as we’ve known them.  Have you ever contemplated how unbelievable the human eye is?  I’m not going to even bother trying to use words, for we’re venturing into “God territory”.

We know what it’s like to suffer a blast of sunlight right into the face, and how we shield our eyes from it.  We also know how lost we are in utter darkness.  How golfball-big our pupils get, even though we don’t see it happen.

Well then, how do we even begin to submit to the experiences of one Juan de Yepes y Álvare?

A story of darkness… overcome by light.

And, I didn’t know Thursday that Friday would be his Feast Day.

Who would become  – by ONLY the grace of God – St. John of the Cross, Juan should have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.  But, thanks to his father, that didn’t happen because Gonzalo decided to forego making money hand over fist for silk merchants, for the hand of a woman who was not only an orphan but was of lower class.  Steeerike, three.  Thanks, dad.
Juan’s dad dies.  His older brother dies.  In financial shambles, Catalina moves herself, Juan (John) and Luis out of town so that she can find work as a seamstress.

There is nothing wrong with a boy following his mother, as John did with Catalina.

And there is nothing wrong with a man following a woman, as John of the Cross did with Teresa of Avila.  Yeah.  THAT Teresa of Avila.

Ah… the story of holiness.

For the sake of brevity, I would highly recommend you read the rest of the story… but allow me to get back to “eyes”, “darkness”, and “soul”.

John wasn’t a revolutionary, but was treated as such.  He was a counter-reformist who seeked deeper spirituality for the world he loved.  But wayward Spanish Carmelites would have none of John’s “holier-than-thou” nonsense.  Why didn’t God allow him to be a boon to the Carthusians?  Why go to Medina del Campo, in the first place?   Why the priesthood?

“God, sometimes you don’t know what the heck you’re doing”, said no holy person ever.

So, on December 2nd, 1577, these lax Carmelites apprehend John and lock him away in a prison.  Dank, filthy, cramped.  Ten feet, by six feet.  Yeah, John.  Good luck with that.  We’ll see ya when you’re broken down to the world.

But to quote The Grinch (not the Karloff Grinch version, the Carrey Grinch version dontcha know), “WRONG-OHHH.”

Within the confines of that tiny cell, John broke down alright.  Broke down to the Will of God.

Under those horrific circumstances, St. John of the Cross – by candlelight and unworthy writing materials – (and I bitch and moan about not keeping up with my blog…what a flippin’ embarrassment I am.) scrawled minute parts to his poem, Dark Night of the Soul.

Ah, the sheer grace.

For 9 months, he connected deeply with his Saviour – in a means few have ever known – before busting out.

For.  Nine.  Months.

St. John got sick during his stay.  He should have died.  But God had plans for him.

That God… always with that “saving souls”, thing.

John played a pivotal role in finding common ground amongst the Carmelite order.  And while Teresa of Jesus would die a few years later, John would forge ahead in his capacity to spiritually direct and help establish monasteries… and get on the nerves of the Vicar General of the Discalced Carmelites.  All in a life’s work, for John.

Shortly after being stripped of his post by the Vicar General, and out-posted to Andalusia, Juan de Yepes y Álvare died of a bacterial infection.

He died.  And went to Heaven.

St. Paul talks of how eye has not seen, nor ear heard, or heart fathomed what God has in store for us… if we love Him.

Listening to The Police on a Thursday evening in the season of Advent, a season in which we sing if Christ dispelling the night to show His face, my eyes, ears, and heart were flooded with the beauty of holy suffering… my soul stirred by the love that God has for His beloved.

It all reminded me of how we are living in dark times… special times, in which Saints are being forged.  As Juan de Yepes y Álvare fully understood, God always has His hammer and chisel at the ready… and while His blows hurt, they are TRUE.

We KNOW this.  His blows are true.

St. John of the Cross.  Pray for me.

I beg you.  Pray for me.
post-script
And no.  Sting is not Catholic.  But he should be.