One of the greatest obstacles to our spiritual development is the fear of suffering. It makes us recoil from unavoidable difficulties and struggles, clips our wings, and paralyzes our most generous impulses.
By Roberto Assagioli , Original Title: Il dolore e la substitution mistica. Translated by Jan Kuniholm and Francesco Viglienghi, derived from the Assagioli Archive in Florence.
One of the greatest obstacles to our spiritual development is the fear of suffering. It makes us recoil from unavoidable difficulties and struggles, clips our wings, and paralyzes our most generous impulses. Indeed it does worse: it not infrequently induces us to neglect our duties or to fail in our inner or outer commitments. It makes us fall into those sins of omission that are sometimes no less serious and evil than those we commit.
“Inaction in an act of mercy becomes an action in a deadly sin,” the Voice of the Silence sternly admonishes us.” [1]
It is necessary, therefore, for every soul who seriously aspires to walk the path of the spirit to set out to overcome this obstacle — to overcome or at least lessen within oneself the fear of suffering.
But to succeed in overcoming this fundamental fear, which is so deeply rooted in us, one must know the truth nature, meaning, and function of suffering. We need to learn what is the best attitude to take towards it; and above all, we need to learn how we can transform it and make it an inexhaustible source of spiritual good for ourselves, and all humanity.
In short, we must learn the art of suffering.
It is useless to dwell on demonstrating the spiritual value and practical importance of this art. Anyone who possesses it has conquered fear, conquered the world and life, is truly a liberated soul and becomes a powerful beneficial force. It is therefore advisable that we devote ourselves to learning this precious art well; let us try to study it a little today, together, but only in its broad outlines.
The first lesson we must learn about pain is a lesson in knowledge, in wisdom. For as long as we regard suffering as an evil, as something unjust and cruel, or even just as something incomprehensible, we will not be able to master the art of welcoming it, transforming it and turning it to the good.
In the past many people were satisfied with dogmatic explanations, or gave up trying to understand, submitting to God; and for some this is enough even now. But most modern souls cannot and will not stop at those limits.
One wants to know and understand, at least as far as human reason and spiritual intuition can go.
To this unquenchable need of the modern soul, to its inner hunger, the great conceptions of spirituality offer healthy and vital nourishment; they can give full satisfaction, as many of us who have found light, strength and peace in them can testify from lived experience. Such conceptions are well known to all of you and I shall therefore not stand here repeating them. I will only indicate how they shed a vivid and clear light on the problem of pain.
Humanity is now on the ascending arc of its evolution. After descending to the depths of matter, it is slowly and laboriously ascending back to spirit, to its eternal homeland. Man, after having reached the utmost point of separateness, self-limitation and self-centeredness, must now gradually enlarge the boundaries of his personal self and re-enter into harmonious communion with his fellow human beings, with the universe, and with the supreme.
When the soul begins to feel this intimate need, this duty, a bitter and intense struggle begins in it. The impulse, the momentum for enlargement and expansion, crashes against the rigid hard barriers formed by long cycles of focus on separateness and egoism. The soul then finds itself like a bird locked in a cage, like a prisoner in a cramped cell, and struggles and suffers.
This is the critical and painful stage that necessarily precedes liberation; or rather, a first liberation of the soul.
Many modern people find themselves precisely at this stage — in the present period of spiritual awakening. In the light of this synthetic conception, which shows us how suffering is necessary and inevitable in the great evolutionary process, we will be able to understand more deeply and accept more easily the various particular meanings and specific functions of pain.
First, we can see how suffering is an inevitable atonement. But not the atonement for someone else’s alleged original sin, not the punishment for a fault we did not commit — that would satisfy neither our reason nor our sense of justice. — but the atonement for our own faults and errors, for faults and errors committed during our long pilgrimage from form to form, from life to life in the previous days of the soul, and whose just and inevitable consequences affect us today in a thousand ways — with illnesses, misfortunes, limitations and losses of all kinds.
But such atonement does not in our view constitute the sole function of suffering, indeed it is not even the most important and essential one. Suffering directly and powerfully aids the ascent, the liberation of the soul. It purifies us, burning off so much earthly dross with its beneficial fire; it affects our soul by liberating from the formless block of matter the god who was ideally enclosed in it.[2] According to Giuseppe Autrain’s beautiful expression, “Gods are formed by hammer blows.”
Suffering then tempers us, strengthens us, develops in us that admirable and difficult power of inner endurance which is a prerequisite for spiritual development. Many people do not realize that the spirit is something of terrible power, and that at present we do not have the strength to welcome it into ourselves and sustain it. It causes a sense of terror in us, and a direct living contact with it would kill us — even disintegrate us. It takes great strength, great endurance to sustain it, and that endurance is developed mainly through pain.
Again, suffering develops and matures every aspect of our consciousness, especially the innermost subtle ones. Pain forces us to turn our attention away from the phantasmagoria of the external world, frees us from attachment, and brings us back into ourselves. It makes us more serious, more reflective, more aware, and induces us — with a disgust for external goods and pleasures, with the abandonment by men — to seek in ourselves, in the spirit within us, comfort, light, guidance. In short, it awakens us and reveals us to ourselves.
Finally, sorrow makes us understand and sympathize with the sorrows of others better; it makes us better — compassionate, wiser and more willing to lend aid to others, to heal bodies and to comfort souls. According to the beautiful verse by Virgil,
Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco.[3]
At this point, however, someone might object, “But then how is it that pain often produces the opposite effect? It so often irritates, exacerbates, and incites evil, hatred, and violence.”
That this happens, and all too often, is undeniable, but it should not be regarded as a necessary and decisive effect of pain. Closer psychological observation clearly shows us how such effects depend on the reaction we bring to the painful event.
That is, we will discover a most important fact, on which we must fix our attention: The quality and consequences of suffering depend above all on the attitude we bring to it, on our inner acceptance of it and our outward reaction to it.
As a noble soul, Mme Swetchine,[4] put it very well:
External events send us pain in its raw state, but we have to work at transforming it, as we do any raw material. A great physician said, ‘The soul makes my body.’ It is equally true to say that the soul makes its own pain. It changes a person, makes him suffer his own pains, or rather imprints on him the characteristics of the law that governs him… (Ronzie, p. 175)
And earlier St. Paul had succinctly expressed this truth in his beautiful words, concerning pain that elevates and pain that lowers:
Quod enim secundum deum tristitia est, poenitentiam in salutem stabilem operatur: saeculi autem tristitia mortem operatur.”[5] — 2 Cor. v. 7:10[6]
Let us then examine the various attitudes we can take in the face of pain or grief, and the consequences that result from each.
I. REBELLION
Natural, instinctive reaction. If we are powerless (as is very often the case) the result is an exacerbation of the pain: pain added to pain, the formation of a vicious cycle, mistakes, blaming, disheartenment, despair, violent acts.
II. ENDURANCE
One suffers less, avoids certain outward bad consequences, but has inner bad ones, slumping, depression, withering away, not learning good lessons except that of enduring and sustaining.
III. ACCEPTANCE
This presupposes either the knowledge we have been talking about (the human function), or an act of faith. Faith in God, in the goodness of life; but for it to be effective it must be living, active faith. By intelligently accepting, one learns the various lessons; one cooperates, and then has consolation and greatly shortens the suffering. Indeed not infrequently a surprising fact occurs: as soon as the lesson is learned well, the cause of suffering disappears. In any case then, acceptance gives wonderful serenity, great moral strength, and deep peace.
I will quote in this regard a very beautiful and meaningful recent testimony.
THE ACCEPTANCE OF A DYING MAN
[American President Woodrow] Wilson’s former Secretary of the Interior, Franklin Lane (1864-1921), died after a deliberate defiance of the Fates. Lane dictated a farewell message to all his friends:
I have seen death on various occasions and in various guises, some very tragic. I have seen hanging, I have seen shooting, and two or three times I too have run the risk of dying at the hands of others; but never before have I felt so imperiously called to enter the valley of the shadows. Say what you will. I have often told myself that when this time comes I would try to gather together in my mind a few words that would be the summary of my philosophy. Now I have come to the decision that the best statement of my faith is this: I accept it. For me this means that my spirit must return to the great ocean of spirits. My duty is to go there. You have understood and accepted it.[7]
In certain cases one can come to such a full understanding of the function and value of suffering, to such a willing acceptance, as to cause a sense of joy even during the suffering itself.
St. Teresa, who speaks of this from personal experience in her autobiography, calls this fact a mystery. It can be illuminated in the light of our conceptions. For we know that we are not simple [beings], but compound and complicated; [there are] various centers in us, so while an emotional center suffers, a higher center rejoices … Sometimes, then, the joy, the gladness given by spiritual acceptance can be so valuable that it overwhelms pain, so that it even disappears from consciousness.
This admirable transformation was expressed and celebrated by a young poet, Tina Rontani, in a beautiful poem, titled “Acceptance,”[8] which I believe many of those present are familiar with, but which they may like to hear again.
But if it is well intended, the human soul has the power to assume an attitude in the face of pain even higher than acceptance itself. It can add offering to acceptance.
He who has full faith in the action of spiritual laws and unseen forces, feels and knows that he can offer his suffering to God for a good purpose. He knows that if it is made with a pure heart and with full decision, such an offering is accepted and put to use. Not infrequently the beneficial effects of the offering are obvious and almost tangible; at other times they remain hidden. But they are undeniable, indeed necessary, because they are based on the great law of conservation of energy, a law no less true in the psychic world and the spiritual world than it is in the physical world.
This is a truly admirable law that reveals to the human soul its glorious and unlimited possibilities for good. For what is more comforting and more encouraging than to know that every thought, every feeling, every inner force cannot be lost, but infallibly goes to its purpose, goes to increase the sum of good destined for the beings dear to us and for all humanity.
The clearest and most persuasive examples of the power of offering one’s pain are to be found in the cases of those who have requested and obtained the moral regeneration or spiritual awakening of other people through such offerings. One of the most striking examples of such transforming power is the recent example of Mr. and Mrs. Reading clock. The ardent soul of Elisabeth Leseur,[9] after long years of sufferings which were endured with heroic fortitude and serenity, and offered tirelessly for the enlightenment of her beloved’s soul, performed the prodigy of transforming her husband from a Parisian businessman who was attached to external life and skeptical, indeed hostile to the things of the spirit, into not only a believer, but into an apostle who, although no longer young, abandoned the world to put on the robe of the Dominican. Thus she was rightly able to celebrate, in a beautiful page of her Diary, the spiritual power of suffering. “Suffering,” she says, “is the higher form of action, the highest expression of the admirable communion of the Saints; by suffering one is sure not to err (as is sometimes the case); one is sure to be useful to others and to the great causes one aspires to serve.” (Journal et pensées pour chaque jour, p. 25).
Those who have understood that many enormous forces are unleashed by the spiritual transformation of pain will not be surprised that there are souls who, in order to accomplish that high alchemy, voluntarily invoke and endure severe suffering. In such cases, however, one steps out of the realm of common humanity and into an entirely special sphere. These exceptional souls voluntarily and consciously practice the art of “reparation” and “mystical substitution” — a sublime art that is generally ignored or denied by those who do not know the mysteries of invisible action.
Yet “mystical substitution” is but the logical extension and application in the inner spheres of what is customarily practiced continuously in the visible world. Is not every act of self-sacrifice, every gift and act of material assistance, every work and suffering endured for the practical benefit of one of our fellow human beings, a true and profound act of “substitution” — although partial and temporary — in which the rich person takes the place of the poor, the strong person takes the place of the weak, the wise person takes the place of the ignorant?
Why could this not take place directly in the inner worlds, where barriers and distances between beings are fewer; where as one ascends, contacts as well as communions and fusions increase, until one reaches the supreme Oneness, the Root in which all beings are unified?
This is a very difficult art, fraught with suffering, which exposes one to grave dangers and which can be practiced only by strong, secure and well-tempered souls — which, in short,requires a special vocation.
But it is good that this art be known and appreciated even by those who do not feel the strength or disposition to practice it. And all spiritually-minded people have a duty not to ignore it, but to spread knowledge of it more widely. Then it will be possible to understand and admire the silent heroes or obscure martyrs who practice it, as they deserve; whether in the cells of monasteries or even in the homes of cities: souls too few for the enormous needs of poor blind and suffering humanity, yet more numerous than is generally believed, for they love to wrap themselves in silence and hide their self-sacrifice from the eyes of others. Their motto is that of the great silent ones: secretum meum mihi.[10]
Thus one no longer commits the error and injustice of considering monks and hermits as useless and parasites, nor monasteries as outdated institutions without any vital function.
If there are — and unfortunately there are — monks and monasteries that do not truly fulfill the very high mystical function that constitutes their reason for being, it is bad. Bad for themselves and bad for all mankind. But it certainly cannot therefore be inferred that this function does not exist, that it is not possible, or that it would not be a great benefit to mankind if many souls had the strength and value to devote themselves to it.
Moreover, knowledge of the art of mystical substitution is useful, because even someone who does not make it their profound main mission can — in special cases, in a critical situation, on an exceptional occasion — make use of it and perhaps contribute to the rescue of another being. Or he can, by small and cautious attempts, gauge his moral capacities and powers of control and psychic endurance, and gradually train himself to more important and effective inner acts.
Let us now see how mystical substitution is practically implemented. It is accomplished in two stages: one active, and the other apparently passive, but actually requiring more spiritual strength than the former. The active phase consists of an intense, fervent and persistent invocation that the evil afflicting others come instead to be discharged upon us, or at least that we be allowed to participate in it, to take a part of it. The second stage, on the other hand, is to accept completely, without reservation, and to bear strongly, without swaying or being overwhelmed, the repercussions and consequences of the invocation.
If the invocation has been made seriously and sincerely, the response never fails. It may consist in a physical evil of some kind, but always of a painful character; or it may consist in a group of particular psychic and spiritual sufferings, in the sense of darkness, depression, inner barrenness, acute anguish, suggestions of doubt and despair; in short, all the features that characterize the mysterious “dark night of the soul.”
A first kind of repercussion occurs, most often when one has attempted to alleviate a physical ailment; the second kind when one has wanted to help those who are suffering or morally ill. That is, there is generally a correspondence between the kind of evil fought and the kind of backlash suffered; sometimes indeed the correspondence is so precise that it almost seems as if the evil forces have simply shifted from one individual to another. But this is not always the case; here, too, complex conditions and laws come into play, that we partly overlook.
Numerous examples could be cited of such mystical substitutions.
I shall only mention the case of St. Lidvina of Schiedham,[11] whose extraordinary and horrific life atoning for the evils of others was described with truly impressive effectiveness by the French writer Huysmans.[12] Important considerations and examples of “mystical substitution” can also be found in this writer’s other books, namely in the autobiographical novels in which he recounts his own conversion, especially in Là-bas.[13]
The great St. Teresa, although she did not make this work her main task, was able to exercise it in certain cases with great success. For example, she relates that she once succeeded in freeing a priest from very strong temptations that had led him to despair, drawing them upon herself and overcoming them with spiritual strength.
I will mention again among those who most excelled in this art Mme de la Mothe-Guyon,[14] around whom the famous controversy between Fénelon and Bossuet broke out, which aroused learned minds all over Europe for many years around 1700.[15] Finally I will name Blessed Maria Bartolomea Bagnesi, [16] a 16th-century Florentine Dominican who used to continually draw upon herself the evils of others.
Turning to the East, I will mention that “mystical substitution” was well known and practiced there, indeed in its purest, impersonal and universal form. In fact, rather than setting themselves objectives of alleviating this or that suffering of particular persons, the Orientals devoted themselves to alleviating all suffering in general, to expiating the accumulation of guilt of the whole of humanity, as indeed certain Western reparatory orders also do.
This is clear from the most noble Bodhisattva vow; that is, of the disciple who makes a solemn commitment to become a Buddha, a savior of humanity.
Here are a few excerpts from that vow as expressed in Bodicaryavatara, or Introduction to the Practice of Future Buddhas, Shantideva’s famous religious poem:
By the merit of all (my) good works I aspire to relieve every pain of every creature, to be the remedy, the physician, the servant of the sick as long as there are diseases … during famine, to be myself drink and nourishment. I aspire to be an inexhaustible treasure for the poor, a servant providing all that they lack. Without any regard for myself, I abandon my life in all its rebirths, all my possessions, all the merit acquired by me in the present and in the future to obtain the deliverance of every creature … I want to be a protector for those who have none, a guide for travelers; I want to be a vessel or a wellspring for those who want to reach the other shore, a lamp for those who are in darkness, a bed for those who want to rest, a slave for those who need it. As all the elements — earth, water, fire and air — are without selfishness in every way, at the service of the innumerable creatures that inhabit the immensity of the world, so may I, in every way and in the immensity of the world, contribute to the life of all that exists, until every creature is liberated. (p. 20).
The same sublime note of absolute dedication survives in the instructions contained in the Book of Golden Precepts, fragments of which have been translated and published by HPB [Helena P. Blavatsky] under the title The Voice of Silence (p. 66). This way, which in the Book of Golden Precepts is called “the way of the heart,” is certainly very arduous and may appear to some to be too difficult for their strength. It is indeed not for everyone, at least for now. And the Book of Golden Precepts has wise words and comforting advice even for those who cannot follow it.
However meager our strength and imperfect our knowledge, there are always those who can do and know less than we can, and no one is denied the divine joy of giving that compensates for every sacrifice. This we can all do, and so we must.
I hope that these remarks, although too brief and incomplete given the vastness of the subject and its complexity, have served to help people understand and feel at least a little the profound justification of the pain of human life, its necessary evolutionary function, and the precious and holy offices to which we can offer and consecrate it.
Indeed, thinking about all this, the paradoxical statement of St. Francis de Sales, which contains a profound occult truth, does not seem strange to us any longer:
“The angels envy us for our suffering.”
[1] The Voice of Silence by HP Blavatsky was published in 1889. It was one of the earliest modern theosophical writings. More recent editions are available from the Theosophical Society.—Tr.
[2] The Italian reads “il Dio che vi era idealmente racchiuso.” The words “ideally enclosed” are a literal translation, but this seems paradoxical. But it is well to recall that “conception” in both the sense of the creation of a thought and the procreation of a living being can be thought of as an enclosure or containment. So that if one views the incarnation of a soul into a body as beginning from an ideal state to a worldly state, this phrase then makes sense. — Tr.
[3] “Not ignorant of evil, I learn to succor the unfortunate.” translated by RA
[4] Anne Sophie Swetchine (née Sofia Petrovna Soymonova; 1782 – 1857), known as Madame Swetchine, was a Russian mystic, born in Moscow, and famous for her salon in Paris.—Tr.
[5] “For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret, but worldly grief produces death.”— 2 Corinthians v.7:10, Revised Standard Edition. — Tr.
[6] This has been corrected, as the original Italian cited 2 Cor. 11:10 which is not the language quoted. —Ed.
[7] Translated from Assagioli’s Italian. Original English not available. — Tr.
[8] This poem appeared in Ultra, the theosophical magazine of Rome, in 1921. Text of the poem has not been found. — Tr.
[9] Elisabeth Leseur (1866-1914) died of cancer after years of attacks of hepatitis. She underwent a religious conversion at the age of 32. She prayed for her anti-religious husband and engaged in charitable work for years before her death. After her death her husband found her letter to him in which she prophesied his conversion. During a visit to the shrine at Lourdes that he made to expose the “fake” healings, he experienced a conversion at the age of 53 and became a priest. He later published her journal as Journal et pensées pour chaque jour. — Tr.
[10] Literally “My secret is mine” or “My secret I keep to myself.” According to the Douay-Rheims translation of the Latin Vulgate Bible, this is from Isiah 24:15-18, but more recent other translations do not read it this way at all. Nevertheless the phrase has been used often by people who preferred not to explain themselves to others. — Tr.
[11] Lidwina (Lydwine, Lydwid, Lidwid, Liduina of Schiedam) (1380-1433) was a Dutch mystic who is honored as a saint by the Catholic Church. She is the patron saint of the town of Schiedam and of chronic pain. Lidwina is alsothought to be one of the first documented cases of multiple sclerosis.—Tr.
[12] Charles-Marie-Georges Huysmans (1848–1907) was a French novelist and art critic who published his works as Joris-Karl Huysmans.—Tr.
[13] Published in 1891, the first book in an autobiographical trilogy about a character on a spiritual journey.—Tr.
[14] (1648-1717) French mystic and writer, commonly known as Madame Guyon. — Tr.
[15] The so-called “Quietist Controversy” was marked by a religious or theological struggle between French Archbishop François Fénelon (1651-1715) and Bishop Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627 1704). Quietism in the broadest sense is the doctrine which declares that man’s highest perfection consists in a sort of psychical self-annihilation and a consequent absorption of the soul into the Divine Essence even during the present life. In the state of “quietness” the mind is wholly inactive; it no longer thinks or wills on its own account, but remains passive while God acts within it. Madame Guyon practiced a variety of Quietism which insists with more or less emphasis on interior passivity as the essential condition of perfection, and this was condemned by the Catholic church.—Tr.
[16] (1514-1577). Beatified by the Catholic church in 1804. —Tr.
