Foley - God Doesn't Always Heal Wounds, Uses Them For Holiness; Example of St. Therese

Now it has to be understood that her sensitivity was not taken away. In fact Pauline says in the beatification process that in Carmel she was just as sensitive to hurt as anyone else. The grace that was given was [that] she was able to make choices in the midst of her over-sensitiveness and I think that says a lot to us, that we often are not healed of emotional wounds but God gives us the strength to do his will and that makes us holy. 

You don't have to become healed emotionally to grow in Holiness. People don't make that distinction. I think a lot of this these aspects of Therese's life, what she would consider her greatest conversion . . . [t]he trauma in her early childhood, a lot of this stuff gets gets sugar coated. . . . I think important or foundational or key to understanding . . . the power of Therese's message [is] that you don't become a saint overnight, you're not . . . given that emotional healing and grace, but rather you're given another grace that where God helps you to overcome in particular moments and so it becomes like an everyday recurrent bearing in strength from God's grace . . . 

[W]hen people come to me for Spiritual Direction I say to them--and this might sound strange-- whatever you do don't try to overcome something in yourself. . . . No, if you make your goal trying to overcome something in your life you're going to get discouraged because you might not be able to and maybe God doesn't want you to. But all I want you to do is do your best every time this temptation comes up because that's how you grow in holiness. These wounds are often the very context of our transformation--not just the context but the location exactly.

Fr. Marc Foley OCD, discussing his book The Context of Holiness on the CarmelCast podcast.

Benedict XVI - Ecce Homo: Jesus Embodies Human Suffering, God's Presence In It

“Ecce homo”—the expression spontaneously takes on a depth of meaning that reaches far beyond this moment in history. In Jesus, it is man himself that is manifested. In him is displayed the suffering of all who are subjected to violence, all the downtrodden. His suffering mirrors the inhumanity of worldly power, which so ruthlessly crushes the powerless. In him is reflected what we call “sin”: this is what happens when man turns his back upon God and takes control over the world into his own hands. 

There is another side to all this, though: Jesus’ innermost dignity cannot be taken from him. The hidden God remains present within him. Even the man subjected to violence and vilification remains the image of God. Ever since Jesus submitted to violence, it has been the wounded, the victims of violence, who have been the image of the God who chose to suffer for us. So Jesus in the throes of his Passion is an image of hope: God is on the side of those who suffer.

 Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth Part Two: Holy Week (2011), p.199 

Pope Saint Paul VI - Touching Jesus in Our Suffering

To all of you who are visited by suffering under a thousand forms, the Second Vatican Council has a very special message. It feels on itself your pleading eyes, burning with fever or hollow with fatigue, questioning eyes which search in vain for the why of human suffering and which ask anxiously when and whence will come relief. We feel echoing deeply within our hearts as fathers and pastors your laments and your complaints. Our suffering is increased at the thought that it is not within our power to bring you bodily help nor the lessening of your physical sufferings, which physicians, nurses and all those dedicated to the service of the sick are endeavoring to relieve as best they can. 

But we have something deeper and more valuable to give you, the only truth capable of answering the mystery of suffering and of bringing you relief without illusion, and that is faith and union with the Man of Sorrows, with Christ the Son of God, nailed to the cross for our sins and for our salvation. Christ did not do away with suffering. He did not even wish to unveil to us entirely the mystery of suffering. He took suffering upon himself and this is enough to make you understand all its value. All of you who feel heavily the weight of the cross, you who are poor and abandoned, you who weep, you who are persecuted for justice, you who are ignored, you the unknown victims of suffering, take courage. You are the preferred children of the kingdom of God, the kingdom of hope, happiness and life. You are the brothers and sisters of the suffering Christ, and with him, if you wish, you are saving the world. This is the Christian science of suffering, the only one which gives peace. Know that you are not alone, separated, abandoned, or useless. You have been called by Christ and are his living and transparent image. In his name, the Council salutes you lovingly, thanks you, assures you of the friendship and assistance of the Church, and blesses you. 

Pope St. Paul VI, Address of Pope Paul VI to the Poor, the Sick, and the Suffering at the closing of the Second Vatican Council, December 8, 1965. 

Balthasar - Christ not afraid of suffering because "from all eternity he is absolute dependency"

The courage of Christ: to take his stance in the most vulnerable location possible, to place himself between sin and God’s wrath—the very spot where the lightning bolt (and what lightning!) must strike him. But he lacks every trace not only of fear and insecurity but also of bravura. Rather, he is the very embodiment of simple, trusting shelteredness. What can happen to him? Fall out of the Father’s hand he cannot, since he has himself chosen absolute dependency, or, rather, since from all eternity he is absolute dependency.

Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Grain of Wheat: Aphorisms (1953), chapter titled Christ

Balthasar - Christ's sufferings both temporal and supra-temporal; He suffers until the end of time

Like everything in his temporal existence, the Lord’s sufferings were at the same time supra-temporal: every moment of his suffering has an “eternal” intensity, and, precisely because of this, it towers far above chronological time. Thus we can in truth say that he suffers until the end of time. The fact that at the same time he can abide in a glory from which all suffering is absent is a contradiction only for our temporal manner of thought. The most contrary currents converge “at the same time” in Christ’s supra-temporality as in an ocean.

Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Grain of Wheat: Aphorisms (1953), chapter titled Christ

Balthasar - All human life illumined by the Sacred Humanity of Christ

“There is no moment, there is no place, there is no circumstance that is not illumined either by the operation or by the suspension of some grace or admirable effect that the humanity of Jesus was intended to bear within itself.”    [quotation from Pierre de Bérulle] 

Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Grain of Wheat: Aphorisms (1953), chapter titled Christ

Danielou - Three ways that Jesus is the answer to Job

Jesus is the immediate answer to Job because he shares his suffering and is the only one to do so. Suffering encloses a man in solitude, puts him outside communion with his fellow men. Between Job and his friends an abyss was cleft. They regarded him with astonishment as a strange being, as the sudden appearance of the unprecedented in the midst of the very ordinary, as one marked with a sacred sign. But they could no longer get to him. Only Jesus could cross this abyss . . .  And it is only because he has first shared the suffering of everyone who suffers that in him and by him every man who suffers can find communion with other men.

Jesus is furthermore the answer to Job because he gives a meaning to suffering. Not that he explains it, for it does not come within the sphere of explanation. But he puts it into the world of the supernatural. Suffering is the means whereby the righteous man may be reunited with the sinner. It exists in a sinful universe. But the suffering of the righteous shatters the logic of suffering and sin. It allows suffering to exist where sin does not exist; and because it is bound up with sin, by this very fact it allows the righteous man to take the load of sin upon himself and so to destroy sin. It allows the righteous man to enter into communion with sinners. Thus Jesus unveils the hidden meaning of Job's suffering, a suffering which remained a mystery to Job himself. 

Finally, Jesus is the answer to Job because he does away with his suffering. Suffering cannot be accepted any more than it can be explained. If love can cause someone to take suffering upon himself, it is the love therein alone that is lovable and its final purpose is to do away with suffering. The book of Job is in the end a book of hope . . . Jesus took suffering upon himself in order to do away with suffering. More still, he descended into the lower region to reach the very root of evil, so that those who had been grafted thereon might be freed from evil. Thus the Resurrection of Christ is the supreme answer to the heart-rending cry of Job. 

Jean Danielou, from A Word in Season, Readings for the Liturgy of the Hours, VII Ordinary Time Year II (Weeks 1-17)

This is a great high-level view of the Christian understanding of suffering. The second point, that Jesus gives meaning to our suffering, is probably the least understood. We tend to think of this as helping us understand our suffering, in order to feel better about it. But the deeper truth here is that Jesus gives efficacy to our suffering. Danielou's argument is that since Jesus's suffering on the Cross was the actual means by which the sin of humanity was cleansed, and since we can unite our suffering to His, our suffering can actually be used by God in the work of redemption. Our suffering does not have "meaning" only in the sense of being able to be understood in some way, but also in the sense of having purpose—in fact, having the power to do good for our own soul, the souls of others, and the world.

O'Brien - Jesus suffers with us

The passage below is from Michael D. O'Brien's novel The Father's Tale. In it, the protagonist of the story has been subjected to torture in an unknown foreign prison, and is near death. (Note: Alyosha is a Russian diminutive for Alexander, which is Alex's full name.)

When consciousness returned, he was alone. The bag was gone from his head. There was no noise, no light, but his senses told him he was alive. His flesh was one single wound, with blood running from his nostrils and ears. A floor beneath his body. It was ice, and blood was crystallizing on it. He was naked. He was deathly cold. His body contracted into the fetal position, shaking violently. 

His groans slid into weeping, and the weeping slid back into groans until it was all the same. Time was the skewer on which he turned, burning, burning. 

Iisus! 

He felt that he was dying and that he had only a few moments left in which to pray. He tried to speak to God, but his mind was incapable of thoughts. His lungs breathed the name of Jesus over and over, though at the root of this utterance was no thought, no fervor. The name was in his breath, and his breath was becoming the name. As long as he did not move, the breathing remained. And the name. 

Iisus! 

Slowly, slowly his heart beat—a drum, a pause, and a drum. 

Then his mind rose still further, and he sensed a presence with him. The darkness was total, but it was broken by breathing that was not his own. He now realized that someone was lying close beside him. From time to time low groans came from the other’s throat. Using the dregs of his strength, Alex moved an arm. It screamed in protest. He moved it still farther, and his fingers brushed against something. It was a hand. A hand covered with blood. 

It cost everything to roll onto his side. He gasped, cried out, then put his own hand on the arm of the other prisoner. 

For a time he rested. It was strange comfort to know that another human being was with him in that place of absolute dark. A flicker of life stirred within him, a moment of pity for the suffering of the other. He felt that he might try to encourage him somehow, to offer solace—the fraternity of the absolutely dispossessed. 

The arm of the other man moved. The man’s hand reached for his. The grip that held Alex was mangled flesh, horrible to touch. With his other hand, Alex touched the face of the prisoner. It too was covered with blood. The man’s chin and cheeks were bearded, his nose large, his eyes deep-set, pools of blood collecting in the sockets. His face was lacerated with many small cuts, and his lips were split, dry, parted. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth. 

“Who are you?” Alex breathed. 

“Alyosha”, the lips whispered in reply. 

“We are suffering, Alyosha”, Alex sobbed, placing the palm of his hand on the man’s forehead. “But we are not alone.” 

The flesh of the forehead was riddled with holes. “You”, said the prisoner, “are Alyosha.” 

“I?” Alex breathed. 

The prisoner reached up and took Alex’s right hand in both of his. He drew Alex’s hand downward across his face, over the collarbone, over the chest that was sliced in every direction, the flesh slippery with blood. He pulled Alex’s hand around the side of his chest and pressed the tips of his fingers to a large gash between two ribs. 

Alex flinched and tried to draw back, but the other’s hands gently held him. 

“My son”, said the prisoner, and drew the fingers deep into the wound beneath his heart. 

Then Alex saw a flash of light and fell into oblivion.

Later he has a similar encounter in another cell, with the one he now calls the Muchenik, or martyr. (Note: kingfisher is a name Alex uses figuratively for himself. It refers to the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem As Kingfishers Catch Fire.) 

The Muchenik took the kingfisher’s hand and drew it gently to the wound in his side, beneath his heart. And the kingfisher’s heart hammered with horror and worship, and the dissolving of every language save the language of love.

The Muchenik put his fingers into the wounds of the kingfisher—the heart wounds and the mind wounds—though he asked permission before doing so and did not use force. And the kingfisher replied yes, yes, yes . For both acts cleansed the degradation. And the nyet, nyet, nyet that had seized him during the torture withdrew for a time.

A third and final meeting is described here:

As before, he was stretched out on the ice, seeking the tormented one, reaching across the void.

“We are suffering, Muchenik,” he groaned, “but we are not alone.”

He touched the holes in the hands and feet of the prisoner. He lightly touched the face that a rifle butt had shattered. The hands of the prisoner drew his fingers to the wound in his heart, and his heart was a fountain.

I consider these to be some of the finest passages in all of literature, Christian or otherwise. They express the reality that the worse our sufferings are, the more real is the presence of Jesus with us. Alex, at the very limit of human suffering, is even privileged to experience a physical manifestation of that Presence. 

Thomas à Kempis has said, "When you suffer tribulation and your heart is filled with sorrow, you are with Jesus on the Cross." This is true literally (not usually physically, of course) because the Crucifixion, like all of Jesus's life on earth, happened both in time and outside of time. Because He is eternally crucified, and because His crucifixion contains all human suffering, Jesus literally suffers with us. This is the beginning of the answer God provides to the mystery of our suffering: He is with us in it.

Barron - The Divinization of One’s Passivities (God works through suffering)

As I lay on my back in [the hospital], a phrase kept coming unbidden into my mind: “the divinization of one’s passivities.” This is a line from one of the great spiritual works of the twentieth century, The Divine Milieu by the French Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. In that seminal text, Teilhard famously distinguished between the divinization of one’s activities and the divinization of one’s passivities. The former is a noble spiritual move, consisting in the handing over of one’s achievements and accomplishments to the purposes of God. A convinced Jesuit, Teilhard desired to devote all that he did (and he did a lot) ad majorem Dei gloriam (to the greater glory of God).  But this attitude, Teilhard felt, came nowhere near the spiritual power of divinizing one’s passivities. By this he meant the handing over of one’s suffering to God, the surrendering to the Lord of those things that are done to us, those things over which we have no control. We become sick; a loved one dies suddenly; we lose a job; a much-desired position goes to someone else; we are unfairly criticized; we find ourselves, unexpectedly, in the valley of the shadow of death. These experiences lead some people to despair, but the spiritually alert person should see them as a particularly powerful way to come to union with God. A Christian would readily speak here of participating in the cross of Christ. Indeed how strange that the central icon of the Christian faith is not of some great achievement or activity, but rather of something rather horrible being done to a person. The point is that suffering, offered to God, allows the Lord to work his purpose out with unsurpassed power. 

In some ways, Teilhard’s distinction is an echo of St. John of the Cross’s distinction between the “active” and “passive” nights of the soul. For the great Spanish master, the dark night has nothing to do with psychological depression, but rather with a pruning away of attachments that keep one from complete union with God. This pruning can take a conscious and intentional form (the active night) or it can be something endured. In a word, we can rid ourselves of attachments—or God can do it for us. The latter, St. John thinks, is far more powerful and cleansing than the former. 

Bishop Robert Barron, Hospitalland and the Divinization of One's Passivities (blog post May 26, 2015)

The word "passive" is one we try to avoid these days, at least with reference to ourselves. To admit that situations arise where we can simply be acted upon, as opposed to being active (or even better, proactive) is to admit our own limitations in a way that is decidedly anti-modern. But Bishop Barron, citing Teilhard, makes the point here that it is often those very moments of passivity forced upon us by our human condition that God uses to purge us of dross and prepare us to enter the Kingdom.