Parting the Curtains

Mental Prayer and the Slow Unveiling of God

“…nothing is covered that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.”

Matthew 10:26

Last night my dad was telling me about a new Mandevilla plant he’s tending in memory of his mom, whom we lost last year. She loved them, and we miss her. My dad was explaining how the tendrils are all intertwined and reach toward the sun as it moves through the sky. The tendrils lean in the sun’s direction, following its glow and warmth.

It made me think of my soul, which longs for God, always reaching out to Him to bask in the warmth of His love. And I thought of all human hearts—created to search for the Light—and yet due to the mystery of God and the way He is hidden from our senses, we often seek alternative light when His presence is veiled behind clouds of mystery. One day, all that is covered will be revealed—particularly the glory of God and the Truth that has been hidden.

Perhaps the great mission of the human heart is to acknowledge the mystery of God’s hiddenness, and to keep seeking Him there. While the final veil will not be lifted until we leave this life, there are layers among the veils, and there is much we can see and experience as we find glimpses of Him here.

I’ve often considered the metaphor of a large wall of windows with several layers of curtains. First, exterior layers of heavy, folded fabric. When closed, they shut out all light from the window and leave the room in utter darkness. Then, middle layers of drapes that allow some light into the room as they part, but they are numerous and deep. And finally, a sheer layer of gauze that allows light freely into the room, but the objects outside the window are partially obscured.

I have viewed mental prayer as the slow parting of these many layers of curtains, with the knowledge that God is on the other side, His Light already reaching through the curtains. As my soul began to spend regular time with God in prayer, I was able to pull back the heavy outer curtains and catch glimpses of Him. And moving through mental prayer, getting to know the Heart of Jesus has been as if I were gradually moving through the next layers of curtains, experiencing moments of His brilliance as I peel them back. I won’t be against the glass until I take my final breath, but the last veil between my heart and His Light may be only a thin gauze, allowing His warmth and light to penetrate my heart, even here on earth.

The problem I encountered for some time was that I never bothered to enter that room with a wall of windows and drapes. There are plenty of other rooms with artificial light, appealing to the immediate gratification of my senses without all of the work of that fabric wrestling.

I spent much time lost in rooms of flashing neon lights. These were the lights of my passions and pleasures, offering stimulation and gratification to my wounded heart. Such turbulent light cannot grow the garden of the soul, nor satisfy its deepest longings for peace, beauty, and love. The tendrils of our hearts will never be drawn to neon lights—in fact, they will lie dormant within a soul so externally preoccupied.

Once the neon lost its appeal and failed to satisfy my longings, I found many rooms illuminated with fluorescents. Distractions, diversions, busyness. Living in these rooms was far less destructive than a life lit by neon, but it became spiritually exhausting, nonetheless. The light here allowed me to see, but I still couldn’t see the object of my heart’s desire. Perhaps the garden of my soul could survive in artificial light, but it would forget the Sun. How much of our life is spent under such conditions—living apart from the Sun, but without noticing His absence because we’ve found lesser lights?

The greatest gift God gave me when I was busying myself under fluorescence was a sudden darkness. I was recently asked about the spiritual desolation I often write about. This person wondered if I had been not been doing well all of those years I have now revealed to be wrestling with this spiritual darkness. And the truth is, I needed the darkness in order to recognize the Light I longed for. God used spiritual unrest to wake up my distracted heart. In darkness I could either grope for the light switches, or I could seek the real Light by which my soul was created to grow and bloom in abundance.

Each morning I now draw near to the Light and peer through the remaining layers of fabric that separate us. In His Light the tendrils of my heart stretch toward Him with great joy and anticipation of that final unveiling.

At the end of time, all will be revealed as the curtains fall. There will be no more searching for light, no more shadows. Artificial light will cease. What is hidden will be known, and what has only been glimpsed will be seen in full. The One who has been drawing the tendrils of my heart with quiet steadfastness will no longer feel distant or veiled. Like the Mandevilla, turning itself toward the sun it cannot fully grasp, I find myself perpetually moving toward the Light that will soon illuminate all things. Upon that final revelation, may we find that through the grace of the gradual unveiling we pursued, we already know Him and that He knows us.

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For Those Interested in Mental Prayer

If you’re looking to begin mental prayer but aren’t sure where to start, I highly recommend Prayer Primer by Thomas Dubay, Into the Deep by Dan Burke, and/or Personal Prayer by Fr. Boniface Hicks.