Teresa of Avila, the sixteenth century mystic, was known for her unwavering patience in the face of fierce adversity. But this was not a naïve attitude. It was grounded in an active, passionate relationship with the Mystery. Sustained by this, she was able to engage in what Paul describes as hope for that which is invisible – the only kind of hope that really counts.

Teresa was not only a great mystic, famous for her visions and ecstasies. She was also a tireless reformer who dedicated her life to returning the attention of the Church to the original contemplative values of simplicity and stillness. She was known for being not only madly in love with God, but also sanely and refreshingly practical.

Teresa traveled all over the rugged countryside of Spain by donkey cart, in all kinds of weather, founding monastic communities. Chronic ill health hardly slowed her down. Once, in the midst of a particularly harrowing journey, the cart tipped over while they were fording a raging river and all their supplies were swept away. Exasperated, Teresa removed herself from her small group and sat under a tree to do the only thing she knew to do in the face of catastrophe: pray.

Sitting very still, she reached out for God and heard him assuring her that these challenges were signs of his intimate friendship with her. Teresa’s response: “Well, if this is how you treat your friends, no wonder your Majesty has so few!” And then the saint picked herself up, wrung out the hem of her habit, and moved on.

That’s all any of us can do. Confronted by suffering – our own, the suffering of someone we love, or the suffering of a group of strangers far away – we are called by the mystics to first be still and listen. We may not hear words, as Teresa did, but, with practice, we will find the still small voice of the One who loves us. Held in that gentle embrace, our hearts made tender by pain and love, we can shake off the dirt of the road and keep walking.

John of the Cross, Teresa’s spiritual companion, coined the term “dark night of the soul.” He knew what he was talking about. Persecuted for his participation in Teresa’s reform, John spent nine months in a tiny prison cell, enduring penetrating cold and sweltering heat, flogging and starvation. He maintained his sanity by composing the ecstatic love poems to God for which he is so famous and committing them to memory.

Love poems to the God who allows us to suffer such excruciating conditions? Love poems to the God who, in the abject darkness of our broken hearts, remains utterly invisible? The God whose presence we can no longer feel and of whose existence we cannot conceive? Yes, that God. Stripped of all perceptions and concepts, John modeled what it is to yield to the original and abiding reality of love.

Brought to our knees, there is nowhere to go but into surrender. All the great teachings of all the world’s wisdom traditions insist that ultimate reality is absolutely loving. The scriptures we heard today emphasize that our God is a merciful and compassionate God. They urge us to follow in his ways and sing his praises day and night. Day and NIGHT. Not only when the sun of good fortune shines upon us and the ones we love, but also in the depths of darkness when the last thing on our minds and hearts is gratitude. Especially then.

Cultivating a practice of contemplative prayer – of abiding in silence with the Divine Mystery – helps to do this impossible thing. Intentional stillness allows us the spaciousness to respond to life’s trials in a peaceful, conscious way, a way that is connected to the mercy and compassion of a loving God, rather than reacting out of fear and either fleeing or fighting.

When the pain comes roaring like a wildfire through our lives, it is difficult to soften and yield, to access God’s forgiveness, to hope in the invisible divine justice. In the groanings of our spirit, we may not be able to imagine that the One who loves us will weed the negativity from our hearts once we are ripened and ready and that only God knows the timing.

Thankfully, we are not on our own. I’m not just speaking of the arms of God, which I believe with all my heart hold us always in his loving embrace. I mean that great lights have come before us to show us the way through the wilderness of grief and loss into the garden of spiritual growth. The saints and masters, the mystics and poets, the artists and geniuses who have walked through the depths of darkness and emerged loving life, God and one another even more. We would do well to study their teachings and to practice them so that when the storm comes, we can bend and dance in that holy wind.