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«LET ME CRY». THE DARK NIGHT IN WHICH GOD APPEARS FAR AWAY AND IS THEREFORE REALLY CLOSE

Those who have crossed this threshold do not become cynical. It becomes essential. He does not despise simple devotion, but he can no longer confuse consolation with God. He no longer tries to “feel” the presence; silence lives. And in the silence he discovers that God was not absent: it was simply beyond representation. The night, when it is authentic, it does not take away God: it takes away the illusion of possessing it. And in this dispossession a greater freedom than any religious enthusiasm is born; a freedom that is born from the tears of those who have accepted to be freed by the truth.

— Theologica —

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Many saints and mystics they went through that spiritual condition that tradition called "dark night".

Saint John of the Cross gave it its most radical formulation in Climbing Mount Carmel and above all in dark night, where he describes the active and passive purification of the senses and the spirit. Saint Teresa of Avila outlined the progressive purifications in Interior castle, particularly in the fourth and fifth tasks, where the soul experiences the suspension of consolations and entry into a purer mode of union. Saint Teresa of Calcutta experienced its almost absolute silence for years, as emerges from his spiritual letters published in Come Be My Light, in which he confesses that he does not "feel" the presence of God while continuing to believe and act with unshakable fidelity. In all these cases it was not a crisis of faith, but of its maturation. And this is where the most frequent reading error lies: confusing the "dark night" with the loss of faith. The night is not a denial of belief; it is purification of the lower ways in which one believes.

Dire: «I feel God far away, in fact I don't feel it at all", it does not mean affirming an ontological absence of God, but to describe what spiritual masters call sensitive deprivation of presence. God does not fail, what is missing is the usual way in which the soul was used to perceiving it. As long as God is “heard”, it still partly remains within the horizon of experience and often - it must be said clearly - within the horizon of emotional fideism. Faith supported predominantly by feeling is not yet false, but it is fragile: it depends on an internal vibration, from a consolation, by an affective resonance that can easily be mistaken for divine presence. At this stage the risk is subtle: confusing God with what we feel about Him. When instead God is no longer heard but believed in silence, then it becomes absolute. It is no longer an object of consolation, nor emotional support, nor rewarding experience; becomes the foundation of being. It's no longer what comforts, but what it is. And adherence to what is does not arise from enthusiasm, but from the truth.

With the maturation of faith the sense of our nothingness takes over before the mystery. Emotional fideism seeks emotional confirmation; theological faith, on the contrary, accept silence. Think about it, eg, to those who identify the presence of God with the internal warmth felt during a prayer, with the emotion aroused by a song, with the enthusiasm generated by an intense community experience. None of this is in itself negative: it can be an authentic gift. But if faith depends on such resonances, when these fail it seems that God also fails.

It is relatively easy to have "faith" inside the majestic basilicas, among the aromatic fumes of incense, the sounds of the organ, the solemn choirs, the vestments which are authentic works of art and the sacred vases worthy of a goldsmith museum. All of this can elevate, prepare, to help. But try to have it, faith, in a basement in the middle of the night, or in an isolated place in the countryside, where the Eucharist is celebrated in a climate of persecution, with one ear turned to prayers and the other alert for fear that someone might break in. Without devices, without solemnity, without sensible supports. It's there, between strength and fear, that faith is measured in its nakedness. The night intervenes right here: it removes the sensitive support to reveal whether the adhesion was aimed at God or his consolations.

However, the other side of the coin must also be analysed: when the soul enters stably into this more naked form of faith, a subtle risk may arise: a certain severity towards the simplest forms of religiosity, it is comprensible, but this does not necessarily happen out of snobbery or haughtiness, quite the opposite: when one has gone through the purification of the imagination, naive devotions can appear superficial. However, the difference is not between maturity and ridiculousness, but along different paths. Even a simple faith can be authentic, if it is oriented towards truth and not towards subjective suggestion.

Those who go through the night do not experience a nostalgic faith nor does it defend a refined image of God built on elevated categories; lives in the silence of God. And this silence is not a sign of crisis, but of depth. It's not empty; it is space not occupied by the imagination. It's like the silence that envelops a charterhouse: a silence that does not allow half measures. In that context the superficial man does not survive. Or you remain mediocre, incapable of inhabiting the essentials, or we become men who, even with his feet firmly planted in the earth and a fully human body, they already live oriented towards the eternal incorporeal. Silence does not destroy: select.

When the mystery is no longer an object to be understood but a horizon before which to stop, the ego resizes. Thus a new freedom is born. Not the freedom of autonomy, but that of adaptation. We are no longer free because God is far away; we are freer because we have stopped wanting to make him close according to our own measure. The risk to the contrary is subtle and widespread: reduce God to the interlocutor of one's own internal resonances. The religious world is full of people who talk to themselves believing they have spoken to God, to then speak to men as if they were speaking in the name of God. It's not about mysticism, but of projection. When the imagination is not purified, can easily be mistaken for revelation. The night, instead, takes away this claim. It does not authorize one to speak on behalf of God; forces one to remain silent before Him. As long as God is heard, it remains partly within our horizon. When silence is believed, the horizon reverses: he is not God within our space, but we inside His. And there you are left speechless.

In this experience awareness of human limitations emerges. The limit is not frustration; it is truth. The mystery does not humiliate man, places it. And the man placed in the mystery is freer than the man who imagines himself central and builds a God in his own emotional image. The authentic night does not generate cynicism; generates internal precision. Many talk about "night" because they have lost consolations, few recognize it as a place of knowing one's limits. In the first case there is a lack, in the second, maturation. Only those who have gone through this purification can guard without dominating, transmit without imposing, respect the freedom of others, including religious freedom, much debated and misunderstood in certain circles, founded on human dignity and freedom of conscience (cf.. Human Dignity, 2) and its times. Those who have not come to terms with their limits tend to save in order to assert themselves, whoever did it saves because he has received.

God appears far away, but precisely in the subtraction it becomes more radically present. No longer as an object of experience, but as the silent foundation of existence. And in front of this foundation no exaltation is produced, but adoration. The claim to "feel" God as a criterion of his presence is a childish simplification of the relationship with the Eternal. Dire: “I have to hear from God” or: "In that place you truly feel the presence of God" often means confusing emotional intensity with ontological reality. The experience can be intense, but the intensity does not coincide with the truth. God cannot be contained in the resonances of our affective microcosm. He does not increase or decrease based on the vibration of our sensitivity. On the contrary, to the extent that the soul matures, the awareness of the infinite distance that separates the Creator from the creature grows. E, paradoxically, precisely this perception of distance is a sign of greater proximity. We get closer to God by not reducing Him to our own measure, but accepting that He exceeds every measure. When the soul stops demanding sensitive confirmation and accepts to believe without possessing, then enter into a truer relationship. No longer based on the need to perceive, but on the willingness to worship.

The night, so, it does not push God away; removes the illusion of having grasped it. The night is not just about taking away consolations; it is going through pain. There is no spiritual freedom without a form of pain that breaks the internal chains. As long as the soul finds support in its own representations, in their emotions, in one's own reassuring images of God, remains in only apparent freedom. It is the pain that breaks the bonds that hold her back.

Duolo is not a value in itself here, nor an ascetic complacency. It is the inevitable consequence of losing what one had learned to love as support. When God escapes sensitive perception, the soul experiences real deprivation. But this deprivation does not destroy faith; purify it. It doesn't weaken it; it makes it more naked and therefore more real. No one acquires freedom without going through loss. Authentic freedom always arises from detachment, and detachment involves pain. Not because God wants to hurt, but because man must be freed from that which confuses consolation with truth.

The night is therefore an act of severe mercy. Break what binds, not what it constitutes. Destroys images, not reality. He is silent to educate about pure membership. And when the soul stops clinging to what it feels, finally begins to adhere to what is. This night is therefore not an ascetic concept for exceptional souls. It's a real threshold that many cross in silence. There are priests who celebrate every day without feeling anything anymore, who preach without interior consolations, who accompany others while they themselves walk in the dark. They have not lost faith; they have lost the sensitive support of faith. And it is precisely in this nakedness that the quality of adhesion occurs. When all that remains is the pure act of believing, without emotional echo, without spiritual gratification, without emotional return. Then faith is no longer experience: it's loyalty (See. my work I think to understand).

Those who have crossed this threshold do not become cynical. It becomes essential. He does not despise simple devotion, but he can no longer confuse consolation with God. He no longer tries to “feel” the presence; silence lives. And in the silence he discovers that God was not absent: it was simply beyond representation. The night, when it is authentic, it does not take away God: it takes away the illusion of possessing it. And in this dispossession a greater freedom than any religious enthusiasm is born; a freedom that is born from the tears of those who have accepted to be freed by the truth.

.

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

The duolo breaks

These twists

Of my martyrs

Just out of pity

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

(Let me cry, G. F. Handel).

.

From the island of Patmos, 12 March 2026

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“LASCIA CH’IO PIANGA.” THE DARK NIGHT IN WHICH GOD APPEARS DISTANT AND FOR THAT VERY REASON IS TRULY NEAR

Those who have crossed this threshold do not become cynical. They become essential. They do not despise simple devotion, yet they can no longer confuse consolation with God. They no longer seek to “feel” presence; they inhabit silence. And in silence they discover that God was not absent; He was simply beyond every representation. The night, when authentic, does not remove God: it removes the illusion of possessing Him. And in this stripping there is born a freedom greater than any religious enthusiasm — a freedom born of the tears of one who has consented to be liberated by truth.

— Theologica —

.

.

Many saints and mystics have passed through that spiritual condition which the tradition has called the “dark night.” Saint John of the Cross offered its most radical formulation in the Climbing Mount Carmel and above all in the dark night, where he describes the active and passive purification of the senses and of the spirit. Saint Teresa of Ávila outlined its progressive purifications in The Interior Castle, particularly in the fourth and fifth mansions, where the soul experiences the suspension of consolations and enters a more purified mode of union. Saint Teresa of Calcutta lived for years in a near-absolute interior silence, as emerges from her spiritual letters published in Come Be My Light, in which she confesses that she did not “feel” the presence of God while continuing to believe and to act with unshaken fidelity. In none of these cases was this a crisis of faith, but rather its maturation. Here lies the most common misreading: to confuse the “dark night” with the loss of faith. The night is not the negation of belief; it is the purification of the lower modalities by which one believes.

To say, “I feel God distant — indeed, I do not feel Him at all,” does not affirm an ontological absence of God; it describes what the spiritual masters call the sensible deprivation of presence. God does not withdraw; what withdraws is the habitual mode by which the soul had grown accustomed to perceiving Him. As long as God is “felt,” He still remains, in part, within the horizon of experience — and often, it must be said clearly, within the horizon of emotional fideism. A faith sustained primarily by feeling is not yet false, but it is fragile: it depends upon an interior vibration, a consolation, an affective resonance that can easily be mistaken for divine presence. At this stage the risk is subtle: to confuse God with what one feels of Him. When, however, God is no longer felt but believed in silence, He becomes absolute. He is no longer the object of consolation, nor emotional support, nor gratifying experience; He becomes the ground of being. No longer what comforts, but what is. And adhesion to what is does not arise from enthusiasm, but from truth.

With the maturation of faith there emerges a sense of our own nothingness before the mystery. Emotional fideism seeks affective confirmations; theological faith, by contrast, accepts silence. Consider those who identify God’s presence with the interior warmth experienced during prayer, with the emotion stirred by a hymn, with the enthusiasm generated by an intense communal experience. None of this is negative in itself; it may well be an authentic gift. Yet if faith depends upon such resonances, when they fade it seems as though God Himself has faded.

It is relatively easy to have “faith” within majestic basilicas, amid the fragrant clouds of incense, the sound of the organ, solemn choirs, vestments that are works of art and sacred vessels worthy of a goldsmith’s museum. All this can elevate, dispose, assist. But try to have faith in a basement at midnight, or in an isolated countryside setting where the Eucharist is celebrated under threat of persecution, with one ear attentive to the prayers and the other alert in case someone should break in. Without apparatus, without solemnity, without sensible supports. It is there, between strength and fear, that faith is measured in its nakedness. The night intervenes precisely here: it removes sensible support in order to reveal whether adhesion was directed toward God or toward His consolations.

Yet the reverse must also be considered: when the soul enters steadily into this more stripped form of faith, a subtle risk may arise — a certain severity toward simpler forms of religiosity. This is understandable, though it need not stem from snobbery or hauteur. When one has passed through the purification of the imagination, ingenuous devotions may appear superficial. Nevertheless, the distinction is not between maturity and ridicule, but between different paths. A simple faith can also be authentic, if it is oriented toward truth rather than suggestion.

One who traverses the night does not live a nostalgic faith, nor defend a refined image of God constructed upon elevated categories; he inhabits the silence of God. And this silence is not a sign of crisis, but of depth. It is not emptiness; it is space no longer occupied by imagination. It resembles the silence that envelops a Carthusian monastery — a silence that admits no mediocrity. Within such a space the superficial man does not endure. Either one remains mediocre, incapable of inhabiting the essential, or one becomes a man who, though firmly planted on earth and fully embodied, already lives oriented toward the incorporeal eternal. Silence does not destroy; it selects.

When the mystery is no longer an object to be grasped but a horizon before which one must halt, the self is reduced to its true measure. A new freedom is born. Not the freedom of autonomy, but that of conformity. One is not freer because God is distant; one is freer because one has ceased trying to render Him near according to one’s own measure. The opposite risk is subtle and widespread: reducing God to an interlocutor of one’s interior resonances. The religious world is full of people who converse with themselves, convinced that they have spoken with God, and who then speak to others as though in His name. This is not mysticism; it is projection. When imagination is not purified, it can easily be mistaken for revelation. The night, by contrast, removes this presumption. It does not authorise one to speak in God’s name; it compels one to fall silent before Him. As long as God is felt, He remains partly within our horizon. When He is believed in silence, the horizon is reversed: it is no longer God within our space, but we within His. And there, words fall away.

In this experience there emerges an awareness of human limitation. Limitation is not frustration; it is truth. The mystery does not humiliate man; it situates him. And the man situated within the mystery is freer than the one who imagines himself central and fashions a God in his own emotional image. The authentic night does not generate cynicism; it generates interior precision. Many speak of “night” because they have lost consolations; few recognise it as the place where one learns one’s own limit. In the first case there is lack; in the second, maturation. Only one who has undergone this purification can guard without dominating, transmit without imposing, respect the freedom of the other and his time. Those who have not reckoned with their own limit tend to save in order to affirm themselves; those who have, save because they have received.

God appears distant, yet precisely in this withdrawal He becomes more radically present. No longer as an object of experience, but as the silent foundation of existence. And before such a foundation there is no exhilaration, but adoration. The insistence on “feeling” God as the criterion of His presence is an infantile simplification of the relation to the Eternal. To say, “I must feel God,” or “In that place one truly feels God’s presence,” often confuses emotional intensity with ontological reality. Experience may be intense; intensity is not truth. God is not contained within the resonances of our affective microcosm. He does not increase or diminish according to the vibration of our sensibility. On the contrary, as the soul matures, there grows the awareness of the infinite distance separating the Creator from the creature. Paradoxically, this perception of distance is itself a sign of greater proximity. One approaches God not by reducing Him to one’s measure, but by consenting that He exceeds every measure. When the soul ceases to demand sensible confirmations and consents to believe without possessing, it enters a truer relation — one grounded not in perception, but in adoration.

The night, therefore, does not distance God; it distances the illusion of having grasped Him. The night is not only the removal of consolations; it is the passage through sorrow. There is no spiritual freedom without a form of grief that breaks interior chains. As long as the soul leans upon its own representations, emotions, and reassuring images of God, it remains in a merely apparent freedom. It is sorrow that shatters the cords that bind it.

Sorrow here is not a value in itself, nor an ascetical complacency. It is the inevitable consequence of losing what one had learned to love as support. When God withdraws from sensible perception, the soul experiences a real deprivation. Yet this deprivation does not destroy faith; it purifies it. It does not weaken it; it renders it more naked, and therefore more true. No one acquires freedom without passing through a loss. Authentic freedom is always born of detachment, and detachment entails pain. Not because God desires to wound, but because man must be freed from what confuses consolation with truth. The night is thus an act of severe mercy. It breaks what binds, not what constitutes. It destroys images, not reality. It falls silent in order to educate pure adhesion. And when the soul ceases clinging to what it feels, it finally begins to adhere to what is. This night is not an ascetical concept reserved for exceptional souls. It is a real threshold crossed in silence by many. There are priests who celebrate each day without feeling anything, who preach without interior consolation, who accompany others while themselves walking in darkness. They have not lost faith; they have lost the sensible support of faith. And it is precisely in this nakedness that the quality of adhesion is revealed. When nothing remains but the pure act of believing — without emotional echo, without spiritual gratification, without affective return — then faith is no longer experience: it is fidelity.

Those who have crossed this threshold do not become cynical. They become essential. They do not despise simple devotion, yet they can no longer confuse consolation with God. They no longer seek to “feel” presence; they inhabit silence. And in silence they discover that God was not absent; He was simply beyond every representation. The night, when authentic, does not remove God: it removes the illusion of possessing Him. And in this stripping there is born a freedom greater than any religious enthusiasm — a freedom born of the tears of one who has consented to be liberated by truth.

.

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

The duolo breaks

These twists

Of my martyrs

Just out of pity

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

Let me cry (G. F. Handel).

.

Patmos Island, 12 March 2026

.

«LET ME CRY». THE DARK NIGHT IN WHICH GOD APPEARS FAR AWAY AND WHY HE IS REALLY CLOSE

Whoever has crossed this threshold does not become cynical. It becomes essential. Does not despise simple devotion, but he can no longer confuse consolation with God. He no longer seeks to "feel" the presence; dwells the silence. And in the silence he discovers that God was not absent: It was simply beyond all representation. the night, when it's authentic, does not take away God: removes the illusion of owning it. And in this dispossession a freedom greater than any religious enthusiasm is born.; a freedom that is born from the cry of those who have accepted to be liberated by the truth.

— Theologica —

.

.

Many saints and mystics They have gone through that spiritual condition that tradition has called "dark night.". Saint John of the Cross offered his most radical formulation in the Climbing the Mounte Carmelo and especially in the dark night, where it describes the active and passive purification of the senses and spirit. Saint Teresa of Ávila outlined her progressive purifications in The Inner Castle, particularly in the fourth and fifth mansions, where the soul experiences the suspension of consolations and entry into a purer mode of union. Saint Teresa of Calcutta lived in almost absolute silence for years, as can be seen from his spiritual letters published in Ven, be my light (Come Be My Light), in which he confesses not "feeling" the presence of God and, however, continue believing and acting with unwavering fidelity. In none of these cases was it a crisis of faith, but of its maturation. Here is the most frequent error of interpretation: confuse the "dark night" with the loss of faith. The night is not a denial of belief; It is purification of the lower modalities with which one believes.

Say: «I feel God far away, I don't even feel it at all.", does not mean affirming an ontological absence of God, but to describe what spiritual teachers call sensible deprivation of the presence. God does not disappear; the habitual modality with which the soul was accustomed to perceive it disappears. While God is "felt", still remains, in part, within the horizon of experience and often – it must be said clearly – within the horizon of emotive fideism. A faith sustained primarily by feeling is not yet false, but it is fragile: depends on an internal vibration, of a consolation, of an affective resonance that can easily be confused with divine presence. In this phase the risk is subtle: confuse God with what is experienced of Him. When, instead, God is no longer felt but believed in silence, then it becomes absolute. No longer an object of consolation, no emotional support, no rewarding experience; becomes the foundation of being. It is no longer what consoles, but what is. And adherence to what is is not born of enthusiasm, but of the truth.

With the maturation of faith, the sense of our nothingness in the face of mystery arises.. Emotional fideism seeks emotional confirmations; theological faith, on the contrary, accept the silence. think, For example, in whom he identifies the presence of God with the inner warmth experienced during a prayer, with the emotion aroused by a song, with the enthusiasm generated by an intense community experience. None of this is negative in itself.: can be a real gift. But if faith depends on such resonances, When these disappear it seems that God also disappears.

It is relatively easy to have "faith" inside majestic basilicas, among the aromas of incense, the sounds of the organ, the solemn choirs, the ornaments that are true works of art and the sacred vessels worthy of a goldsmith's museum. All this can raise, predispose, help. But try to have faith in a basement in the middle of the night, or in an isolated place in the countryside, where the Eucharist is celebrated in a climate of persecution, with one ear attentive to the prayers and the other attentive in case someone breaks in. Without devices, without solemnity, without sensitive supports. It's there, between strength and fear, where faith is measured in its nakedness. The night intervenes precisely here: withdraws sensitive support to reveal whether the adhesion was directed to God or his consolations.

The reverse must also be analyzed: when the soul enters stably into this most naked form of faith, a subtle risk may arise: certain severity towards the simplest forms of religiosity. It's understandable, although not necessarily the result of snobbery or haughtiness. When you have gone through the purification of the imagination, naïve devotions can seem superficial. However, The difference is not between maturity and ridiculousness., but between different paths. A simple faith can also be authentic, if it is oriented towards truth and not suggestion.

Who goes through the night he does not live a nostalgic faith nor defend a refined image of God built on elevated categories; dwell in the silence of God. And that silence is not a sign of crisis, but deep. It is not empty; It is space not occupied by the imagination. It's like the silence that surrounds a monastery: a silence that does not admit half measures. In this context, the superficial man does not survive.. If it remains mediocre, unable to inhabit the essential, or you become a man who, with feet firmly planted on the ground and a fully human body, lives already oriented towards the eternal incorporeal. Silence does not destroy: select.

When the mystery stops being an object to understand and becomes a horizon before which to stop, the self is resized. Then a new freedom is born. Not the freedom of autonomy, but that of adequacy. You are not freer because God is far away; one is freer because one has stopped trying to make it close according to one's own measure. The opposite risk is subtle and widespread: reduce God to the interlocutor of one's own interior resonances. The religious world is full of people who dialogue with themselves, convinced that they have spoken with God., and who then speak to men as if they were speaking in their name. It's not about mystique, but projection. When the imagination is not purified, can be easily confused with revelation. the night, instead, eliminate this claim. Does not authorize speaking on behalf of God; forces to be silent before Him. While God is felt, remains partly within our horizon. When it is believed in silence, the horizon is reversed: It is no longer God within our space, but us within yours. And there the words fade away.

In this experience awareness of the human limit emerges. The limit is not frustration; It's true. Mystery does not humiliate man; places it. And the man located in the mystery is freer than the one who imagines himself central and builds a God in his emotional image.. The authentic night does not generate cynicism; generates internal precision. Many speak of "night" because they have lost consolations; few recognize it as a place of knowledge of one's own limit. In the first case there is a lack; in the second, maturation. Only those who have gone through this purification can guard without dominating, transmit without imposing, respect the freedom of others and their times. He who has not faced his own limit tends to save to assert himself; whoever has done it saves because he has received.

God seems far away, but precisely in its withdrawal it becomes more radically present. No longer as an object of experience, but as the silent foundation of existence. And before that foundation no exaltation arises, but worship. The claim to "feel" God as a criterion of his presence is a childish simplification of the relationship with the Eternal.. Say: "I must feel God" or "In that place the presence of God is truly felt" usually confuses emotional intensity with ontological reality.. The experience can be intense; intensity is not the truth. God is not locked in the resonances of our affective microcosm. It does not grow or decrease according to the vibration of our sensitivity. On the contrary, as the soul matures, awareness grows of the infinite distance that separates the Creator from the creature. And paradoxically, This perception of distance is a sign of greater proximity. One approaches God by not reducing Him to one's own measure., but accepting that He exceeds all measure. When the soul stops demanding sensitive confirmations and accepts believing without possessing, enter a truer relationship: not based on the need to perceive, but in the availability to worship.

the night, therefore, does not distance God; removes the illusion of having held on to it. The night is not just a withdrawal of consolations; is going through the pain. There is no spiritual freedom without a form of mourning that breaks the inner chains. As long as the soul relies on its own representations, calming emotions and images of God, remains in a freedom only apparent. It is the pain that breaks the ties that held her.

Mourning here is neither a value in itself nor an ascetic indulgence.. It is the inevitable consequence of losing what we had learned to love as support.. When God escapes sensitive perception, the soul experiences real deprivation. But this deprivation does not destroy faith; purify it. It doesn't weaken it; makes it more naked and therefore more true. No one acquires freedom without going through loss.. Authentic freedom is always born from detachment, and detachment brings pain. Not because God wants to hurt, but because man must be freed from that which confuses consolation with truth. the night is, therefore, an act of severe mercy. Break what binds, not what constitutes. Destroy images, not reality. Keep quiet to educate in pure adhesion. And when the soul stops clinging to what it feels, finally begins to adhere to what is. This night is not an ascetic concept reserved for exceptional souls. It is a real threshold that many cross in silence. There are priests who celebrate every day without feeling anything, who preach without interior consolations, who accompany others while they themselves walk in the darkness. They have not lost faith; they have lost the sensitive support of faith. And it is precisely in this nakedness where the quality of the adhesion is verified.. When there is nothing left but the pure act of believing — without emotional echo, without spiritual gratification, without emotional return — then faith is no longer experience: it's fidelity.

Whoever has crossed this threshold does not become cynical. It becomes essential. Does not despise simple devotion, but he can no longer confuse consolation with God. He no longer seeks to "feel" the presence; dwells the silence. And in the silence he discovers that God was not absent: It was simply beyond all representation. the night, when it's authentic, does not take away God: removes the illusion of owning it. And in this dispossession a freedom greater than any religious enthusiasm is born.; a freedom that is born from the cry of those who have accepted to be liberated by the truth.

.

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

The duolo breaks

These twists

Of my martyrs

Just out of pity

Let me cry

My cruel fate

And what sighs

Freedom

Let me cry (G. F. Handel).

.

From the Island of Patmos, 12 March 2026

.

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