Journey Through the Wilderness
The journey through the wilderness is a path of deep unknowing, where the familiar landmarks of spiritual consolation fade into the vast expanse of seeming emptiness. It is here, in this barren terrain, that we are stripped of all illusions of control and forced to confront the truth that it is not a sign of failure but an invitation to trust in God beyond feelings or perceived progress [1]. When prayer feels dry, when the voice of God seems distant, when every effort to rekindle the warmth of devotion yields only silence, we are faced with a choice: will we trust that God remains present, even when our senses tell us otherwise (Isaiah 50:10)?
This wilderness is not a punishment but a purification. It is the place where the soul is weaned from its dependence on spiritual comfort and taught to rest solely in divine love. The soul must surrender all notions of control over spiritual growth and rest in God’s guidance [1]. We often think that if we pray harder, study more, or discipline ourselves more rigorously, we can hasten our progress toward holiness. But in the wilderness, all such striving proves futile. Growth is no longer something we manufacture but something we receive. We cannot force fruit to ripen before its time (John 15:4-5), nor can we dictate the pace at which grace unfolds within us.
Still, the temptation remains to measure ourselves against past spiritual highs, clinging to memories of clarity, peace, and fervor as proof of our faithfulness. But clinging to personal achievements in prayer and virtue can hinder deeper trust in divine providence [1]. When we define our spiritual worth by our past experiences, we make an idol of them, forgetting that God calls us to new depths beyond what we have known before (Isaiah 43:18-19). The wilderness strips away these attachments, inviting us into a deeper surrender, where we no longer seek to manufacture our own holiness but simply yield to the transforming work of grace (2 Corinthians 3:18).
The paradox is that this place of surrender, which at first feels like death, is the birthplace of true peace. True peace comes when one lets go of self-judgment and accepts the journey through spiritual desolation [1]. The more we resist, the more we suffer; the more we strive to control, the more we feel lost. But when we finally stop grasping—when we release the need to “fix” our spiritual state—we find ourselves held in a peace that surpasses all understanding (Philippians 4:7).
The wilderness is the gateway to contemplation. Here, the old ways of prayer begin to feel dry, not because they are wrong, but because they have served their purpose. Contemplation is not an extension of active meditation but a transition into passive receptivity [1]. The structured prayers that once brought us close to God may now seem empty, and the effort to meditate may feel increasingly forced. But this is not regression; it is invitation. God is leading us into a silence where He speaks beyond words, where we are no longer the initiators but the receivers (1 Kings 19:11-12).
This shift is unsettling, for the mind experiences contemplation as “inaction” because it surpasses rational thought [1]. We are conditioned to equate prayer with activity—reading, reciting, pondering, speaking. But contemplation moves beyond these faculties into a place of sheer presence. It feels like doing nothing, yet it is in this very stillness that we come closest to God.
Yet how easily we resist! We strive, we analyze, we attempt to grasp what cannot be grasped. But true contemplation is infused by God and cannot be achieved through effort alone [1]. No amount of technique can manufacture this grace. It is not something we take; it is something we are given. The most we can do is prepare ourselves—by letting go, by waiting, by allowing ourselves to be drawn into the stillness where God’s work is hidden but sure (Lamentations 3:25-26).
At first, this shift feels disorienting, even frustrating. To enter contemplation, one must let go of structured prayer methods and allow silence to take root [1]. The reliance on words, images, or emotions must give way to a prayer that is simply presence—being with God, without striving to reach Him (Romans 8:26). It is here that we learn what it means to trust, to surrender, to be still and know (Psalm 46:10).
But how do we know when this transition is happening? When structured meditation becomes dry and unfruitful, it may be time to transition to contemplation [1]. When the familiar paths of prayer no longer nourish in the same way, it is not necessarily a sign of failure, but of invitation. We must discern whether we are being called deeper—not to abandon prayer, but to allow it to take on a new form (Isaiah 30:15).
One of the clearest signs is restlessness. A restless imagination and diminished attraction to discursive prayer can signal a call to deeper surrender [1]. When the mind, once engaged by meditation, begins to rebel, when the heart longs for something beyond words, it is a sign that God is leading us further. But to follow requires trust—trust that in the seeming darkness, He is still at work (Job 23:8-10).
This new way of prayer does not come with the same vivid experiences we may have once known. The soul will experience an obscure awareness of God rather than vivid insights [1]. Instead of light, there is a gentle dimness; instead of certainty, a quiet knowing. This is where faith deepens, where we learn to love God not for what we feel, but for who He is (Hebrews 11:1).
To embrace this path, it is essential to let go of expectations and embrace the quiet, even when it feels uncertain [1]. We must be willing to walk forward without demanding signs, trusting that God leads even when we do not see the way (Isaiah 42:16).
At times, spiritual aids such as books, images, and nature can help settle the heart. Spiritual reading, religious images, and natural beauty can help initiate mental prayer [1]. These external aids are not the goal but the doorway, guiding the soul into interior stillness. Yet, external aids should not become crutches but serve as doorways into deeper interior awareness [1]. If we depend on them too much, we risk missing the deeper invitation to silence (Matthew 6:6).
God’s presence is not confined to sacred spaces. The presence of God can be found in various settings, including nature, if one remains open [1]. The wilderness itself becomes the place of divine encounter. If we learn to listen, we will find that every leaf, every gust of wind, every star in the sky speaks of the One who sustains all things (Colossians 1:17).
Above all, the wilderness teaches trust. Contemplative prayer is an active surrender rather than passivity or emptiness [1]. It is not about feeling close to God but allowing Him to hold us even when we feel lost. Trust in divine guidance is essential, even when the way forward feels unclear [1]. We may not always see the next step, but we are never abandoned (Deuteronomy 31:8).
Fear is the great enemy of surrender. Fear and self-doubt must be relinquished in favor of unwavering confidence in God’s work [1]. If He leads us into the wilderness, He will also sustain us there. If God calls a soul to contemplation, He provides the necessary grace to sustain it [1]. There is no need to strive—only to trust, to rest, to allow Him to lead us home (Psalm 23:1-4).
[1] Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation