Lying Awake (the novel)

I've begun this book today, having given myself a slight rest from my studies. I had heard much of it, but I suppose the title, which brings to mind the horrible years when I had dreadful insomnia, made me shudder. So far, I am finding it quite intriguing.

The Carmelite nun on whom the action focusses had gone through a period, in her early religious life, of emptiness - perhaps a taste of what comes to the fore in the genuine Dark Night of which her namesake, John of the Cross, wrote so beautifully. (With warmth I shall add - desolation in the life of prayer is round each corner, but all young religious who are centred on contemplation believe they are in the "Dark Night" - by my age, when that sort of thing becomes a possibility, one hopes not to face it.) Sister John of the Cross then began to experiences ecstasies, during which she felt a great awareness of God's presence and heightened understanding. She concurrently begins to suffer from migraines, but uses even this experience to unite herself to the Suffering Servant.

The problem arises when she learns that her ecstasies (and headaches) are the result of temporal lobe epilepsy - then struggles to decide over whether to have the operation to remove the lesion causing this.

Thank heavens, since I by nature am not the most emotionally stable of people, I have never had any visions or other unusual mystic experiences. I began my reading of Teresa of Avila early on, and know she thought these consolations were quite a nuisance. :) My pragmatic side, which comes forward now and then, makes me think that, were I suffering from blinding headaches, and had a condition which could lead to more serious illness (a strain on the community as well as myself), I would probably think I should have the operation. Yet, as I see it, the message in this novel is far deeper. It is not about whether ecstasies are genuine, or about caring for one's health - but about the agony of doubting one's own integrity.

I would imagine that it would be crushing to discover that experiences which seemed a special grace had a physical cause. Still, as a Carmelite would know better than anyone, charisms, even miracles, are always ambiguous, and mean nothing in themselves. (The consolations of Teresa and the apophatic dark night of John of the Cross mean no greater or lesser holiness.) Still, modern psychology (which this Sister seems mercifully spared) often can have us believing there is no good in us. Especially when one is unusually devout, the love is taken for an obsession - the good works, perhaps, as a desire to be loved - the poverty as a sign of bad self-esteem - struggles for humility as self-hatred - charity a personal need we have rationalised into a Christian commitment - whatever. One can easily believe one's commitment is a sham or a symptom!

Under it all, I believe that God works with whatever material we present. The gulf between intellectual and emotional worlds, nonetheless, often makes me wonder just what is real. By their fruits you shall know them, indeed, but some members of the medical community can try to convince one that both the fruit and the dedication are illusions.

I remember once hearing that, in the later years of his short life, one of Francis' favourite prayers was, "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" (I wonder if this prayer was the more intense as he looked down at his own stigmata.) Another was "My Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is yours."