More Agony Than Ecstasy

By Amy Welborn


Mother Teresa, the tiny woman in the white-and-blue sari, was — and remains — well known to the world not for her looks or her wealth, but for simply tending to the poorest of the poor. She and her sisters lived and worked with the dying, the orphaned, and the rejected. Such a ministry could not be confined to one place, since suffering dwells everywhere, so today her order, the Missionaries of Charity, 4,500 strong, care for the marginalized throughout the world, from New York City to Manila.

No one could deny that work such as this requires fortitude, courage, and perseverance — grit. How could it not? It is painful to be in the presence of suffering, especially suffering that cannot be stopped or even alleviated a little bit. Of course.

But imagine how much more difficult it would be if what had originally inspired you to embark upon this journey was taken away from you: if your emotions, which had at one time filled you with a sense of purpose and a secure embrace, dried up, and this inner assurance and warmth disappeared.

This is exactly what happened to Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

Mother Teresa, born in Albania and trained in Ireland as a Sister of Loreto, was a religious woman in her thirties who had been ministering in India for several years, mostly in a school for wealthy girls. Her spiritual life was centered on the love of Jesus, deeply felt and warmly offered in return.

On September 10, 1946, Sister Teresa was riding a train from Calcutta to Darjeeling when she experienced a strong sense of the presence of Jesus, calling her go beyond the walls of the girls’ school and work with His poor. As she responded to this call and laid the groundwork for her ministry over the next few years, her deep, palpable unity with Christ continued to give her strength and an unwavering sense of being embraced by Him and enveloped in His greater purpose. As she was sorting out exactly what she was to do and beginning to seek advice and permissions, she experienced profound joy: deeply felt intimacy with Jesus. It kept her going, it energized her, it motivated her.

Then it stopped.

As soon as she truly embarked on the journey, stepped away from Loreto and entered the hovels of the poor, those feelings of intimacy and trust, the feeling of being awash in the love of Christ ... disappeared.

For most of the rest of her life, it seems.

A painful thing, we can imagine, a difficulty made particularly haunting by the memory of the previous intimacy. She was like the writer of Psalm 42 who remembers the festivals in God’s dwelling place but later thirsts for God as a deer yearns for running water: parched, but so very far away.

Lest we think this was just about having a bad day here or there or even about a quavering understanding, look at two excerpts from her letters to her spiritual director, both from 1959. First, July:

In the darkness ... Lord, my God, who am I that You should forsake me? The child of your love — and now become as the most hated one — the one You have thrown away as unwanted — unloved. I call, I cling, I want — and there is no One to answer — no One on Whom I can cling — no, No One. — Alone. The darkness is so dark — and I am alone. — Unwanted, forsaken. — The loneliness of the heart that wants love is unbearable. — Where is my faith? — even deep down, right in, there is nothing but emptiness & darkness. — My God — how painful is this unknown pain. It pains without ceasing. — I have no faith....If there be God, — please forgive me ... I am told God loves me — and yet the reality of darkness & coldness & emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul. (Come Be My Light, 186)

Then just two months later:

They say people in hell suffer eternal pain because of the loss of God ... In my soul I feel just that terrible pain of loss — of God not wanting me — of God not being God — of God not really existing (Jesus, please forgive my blasphemies — I have been told to write everything) ... words pass through my lips — and I long with a deep longing to believe in them. — What do I labour for? If there be no God ... then Jesus — You also are not true ... there is no hope. (Come Be My Light, 192–193)

Many have opined on the reasons and source for this extraordinary dryness. Atheists have taken it as proof that there is indeed no God. Christians hostile to Catholicism use Teresa’s experience as evidence that Catholicism doesn’t bring one into a real relationship with Christ. Some have even diagnosed, from a distance, clinical depression.

But to those familiar with mystic spirituality, Mother Teresa’s experience, while extraordinary, is not unheard of. “Dryness” is often, if not usually, an element of the spiritual journey, well documented by writers like St. John of the Cross, who wrote of the “dark night of the soul.”

In a way you could say that Mother Teresa was experiencing stigmata — the physical expression of one’s identification with Christ — of the soul. St. Paul tells us over and over, in many different ways, that being a disciple means that we take on Christ, that He lives in us — not in a vague way, but in His peace, His love, and His suffering.

Mother Teresa was called to meet Christ in the poor, to serve Him in the poor, to bring His light to them. Christ is crucified; the poor are crucified. Mother Teresa entered this reality and was crucified, crying with the poor, with Christ: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

She was beatified, one step away from canonization, by Pope John Paul II on October 19, 2003.

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Amy Welborn writes the Via Media blog on Beliefnet and is the author of numerous books, including Mary and the Christian Life: Scriptural Reflections on the First Disciple (Word Among Us). She lives in Birmingham, Alabama.