Bringing Our Needs

In the fourth of his rules, Ignatius deals with spiritual desolation, exactly the opposite or contrary of spiritual consolation. A spiritual consolation is an uplifting movement of the heart. On the spiritual level, then obviously spiritual desolation will be a heavy, a downward or a heavy movement of the heart on the spiritual level. So, heavy movements of the heart—discouragement, hopelessness, sadness, and so forth. Okay.

So Ignatius is speaking about those times when, in our spiritual lives, we feel this kind of heaviness or discouragement or sadness on the level of faith, the level of our relationship with the Lord—let's say our life of prayer and living our vocation. I cannot say too often: there is no shame in experiencing spiritual desolation. I'll repeat it: there is no shame in experiencing spiritual desolation. Every saint who has ever loved the Lord has.

Read Thérèse's Story of a Soul. Read Ignatius's Spiritual Diary. This is simply what happens, as I've said, in living the spiritual life in a fallen but redeemed and loved world. What matters is to be aware of it when we're experiencing it, to be able to name it for the discouraging lie of the enemy that it is, and to apply the tools to reject it. If we can do that, wonderful things happen in our spiritual lives.

I've been teaching these rules now for about thirty-five years, and I've loved through all these years to see the difference that these make. It's my belief that for most dedicated people—and if you are listening to this, you are among them—for most dedicated people, for most of the way on the spiritual journey, it is precisely spiritual desolation that is the main obstacle. That is when we get discouraged and disheartened and can begin to pull back in various ways. So, the text of Rule Four.

When your heart is discouraged, you have little energy for spiritual things, and God feels far away, you are experiencing spiritual desolation. Resist and reject this tactic of the enemy. Let's go back to our man who hears the homily at the 8:00 AM Sunday morning Mass, has that wonderful sense of God's closeness, spiritual consolation, and the inspiration to speak with his wife and dedicate ten minutes to prayer with the daily readings every day. And let's say that he begins. Six months have gone by.

He’s been doing it pretty faithfully. He loves what’s happening in his own life and his relationship with his wife. He senses how his prayer is coming more alive. But this particular day at work, there’s a difficult interchange with a fellow worker, and it leaves him angry and discouraged. Normally, as he rides in the car home from work, he would listen to the Rosary app, but he’s so discouraged by this and burdened that he just doesn’t do it.

And let's say at supper, something happens in the conversation that is also difficult, and feeling the way he does, he doesn't respond well, and there's a tension that doesn't really resolve. And now it's 10:00. He's alone in his study. This is the time when he prays with the Scriptures and makes an examination of conscience. But tonight, he doesn't feel God's closeness at all.

He feels no energy for prayer. There's no sense of delight, energy, or drawing toward spiritual things. He is experiencing spiritual desolation. There is no shame in this. He is experiencing spiritual desolation.

No shame, but it matters that he recognized this. And here, just a few inches in front of one hand is the Bible. Nothing in him now wants to reach out for it. And here, just a few inches in front of the other hand on the desk is the phone. And everything in him now wants to reach out for it in a way that he knows can become, to use Ignatius' words, low and earthly.

And one touch becomes 50, becomes 200. You can see that this matters. If the man picks up the phone in that way, what's in his heart when the day ends, when he rises the next day? But if the man, with his eyes open spiritually and with some courage and God's grace, picks up the Bible as he always does and never touches the phone that evening, now it's in his heart as he resides, as he goes to sleep that evening, and as he rises the next day. So we will all experience times of spiritual desolation.

There's no shame in it, but it is so liberating to name it for the discouraging lie of the enemy that it is and firmly to reject it. With his next rule, Ignatius will begin to equip us to do that. Our text is Matthew 14:13–21, the Feeding of the 5,000. So again, as we begin, let's let our hearts be at peace. Let them slow down, as it were, in some way and become receptive.

When Jesus heard of it, that is, the martyrdom of John the Baptist, which really touched His heart so deeply, He withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by Himself. The crowds heard of this and followed Him on foot from their towns. They could see the boat from the shore. They saw where He was heading, and they hurried along the shore to precede Him. When He disembarked and saw the vast crowd, His heart was moved with pity for them, and He cured their sick.

When it was evening, the disciples approached Him and said, “This is a deserted place, and it is already late. Dismiss the crowds so that they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “There is no need for them to go away. Give them some food yourselves.” But they said to Him, “Five loaves and two fish are all we have.”

Then he said, “Bring them here to me.” And he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to Heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over, twelve wicker baskets full. Those who ate were about five thousand men, not counting women and children.

So let's walk into the scene and be there. And I'm there by the lake. I see the boats, the water, the crowds, Jesus and the disciples. And news reaches us now of the death of the Baptist, who is Jesus' own relation and is so intimately linked with His own mission. Jesus feels this deeply.

He feels our human need to be alone at such times. He gets into the boat, the disciples with Him, I join them. And I live with Him and the disciples on this journey across the lake. I look at Him. I hear their conversation.

Maybe I take part in it. What does my heart want to say to Jesus in these circumstances? The crowd sees the boat, and thousands hasten along the shore to the place where the boat will land. And they come with their need for healing, seeking a new teaching, hoping. And I see them, and I perceive their great need.

And I too join them, moved by my own great need. The boat now draws near to the shore, and I see this moment when Jesus lifts up His eyes and sees this enormous crowd. They're awaiting Him. And I see His face as He looks upon them, which expresses the compassion that stirs in His heart. This visceral stirring so deeply touches Him that He is already involved in their need. I feel His response to my own need.

And I am there, close to Him among the people, as He moves through this enormous crowd—healing here a paralytic, restoring sight to a blind person, helping another to walk again, healing wounds, healing broken bodies, restoring—and I see the scenes of astounding joy that surround Him. Maybe I ask for healing as I need it in my own life. The hours pass as Jesus moves through the crowd, the sun begins to set, and we are thousands of people out in the desert with no food. The disciples make the human response: send the people away. But that's not enough for the Lord.

You give them something to eat. They express their sense of inadequacy, as we so often share it with them. We only have five loaves and two fish. How can we possibly feed this crowd? How can I meet my children's needs?

How can I assist my spouse in the way he or she needs? How can I help respond to the huge needs in the culture and in the Church? My resources are so few, feel so weak. The task is just too great. And yet the Lord asks, you feed the crowd.

And He takes the little that they have, blesses it, and gives them power to feed the whole crowd. I share and I sense their amazement, their awareness of the miracle as they pass through the crowd, giving food. They marvel at what they are able to accomplish with His power. And the hunger of the crowd is satisfied. The disciples gather twelve baskets of food that remain.

And now, I just speak to the Lord, sharing with the Lord what has stirred in my heart as I have prayed with this feeding of the 5,000, bringing my own needs, my own fears, my own desires to the Lord. We'll conclude by reading just a short excerpt from these lovely catechisms that Saint John Vianney would give when the crowd of pilgrims pressed upon his parish, such that people were waiting even three days in line to get to confession to him. Literally, over 100,000 people a year were coming to this small parish. Toward the end of the morning, after his Mass and already many hours of hearing confessions, he would go up into the pulpit and simply from his heart, because he no longer had time to prepare, give these catechetical talks that people grew to love. And in one of them, he said this: My little children, reflect on these words.

The Christian's treasure is not on earth, but in Heaven. Our thoughts, then, ought to be directed to where our treasure is. This is our glorious duty: to pray and to love. If you pray and love, that is where our happiness lies—those two things.

What if they were the two pillars of our lives: to pray and to love? Prayer is nothing else but union with God. When one has a heart that is pure and united with God, he is given a kind of serenity and sweetness that makes him ecstatic, a light that surrounds him with marvelous brightness. And then a beautiful image here: in this intimate union, God and the soul are fused together like two bits of wax that no one can ever pull apart.

Take two bits of wax, melt them, unite them—you can never pull them apart. This union of God with a tiny creature is a lovely thing. It is a happiness beyond understanding. And then here's His call. I often go back to this text.

My little children, your hearts are small. My little children, your hearts are small. And it's true. None of us has the patience that he or she needs, or the love that he or she needs, or the courage. My little children, your hearts are small, but prayer stretches them and makes them capable of loving God.

My little children, your hearts are small, but prayer stretches them and makes them capable of loving God. And that's what will happen in our lives if we continue to pray faithfully in the way that God is calling us to do. May God grant us that blessing. Amen.