The Direction of Desire: John of the Cross, Jacques Lacan and the Contemporary Understanding of Spiritual Direction 3031331079, 9783031331077

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THE PALGRAVE LACAN SERIES SERIES EDITORS: CALUM NEILL · DEREK HOOK

The Direction of Desire

John of the Cross, Jacques Lacan and the Contemporary Understanding of Spiritual Direction mark gerard murphy

The Palgrave Lacan Series

Series Editors Calum Neill Edinburgh Napier University Edinburgh, UK Derek Hook Duquesne University Pittsburgh, USA

Jacques Lacan is one of the most important and influential thinkers of the 20th century. The reach of this influence continues to grow as we settle into the 21st century, the resonance of Lacan’s thought arguably only beginning now to be properly felt, both in terms of its application to clinical matters and in its application to a range of human activities and interests. The Palgrave Lacan Series is a book series for the best new writing in the Lacanian field, giving voice to the leading writers of a new generation of Lacanian thought. The series will comprise original monographs and thematic, multi-authored collections. The books in the series will explore aspects of Lacan's theory from new perspectives and with original insights. There will be books focused on particular areas of or issues in clinical work. There will be books focused on applying Lacanian theory to areas and issues beyond the clinic, to matters of society, politics, the arts and culture. Each book, whatever its particular concern, will work to expand our understanding of Lacan's theory and its value in the 21st century.

Mark Gerard Murphy

The Direction of Desire John of the Cross, Jacques Lacan and the Contemporary Understanding of Spiritual Direction

Mark Gerard Murphy Gillis Centre St Mary’s University Edinburgh, UK

ISSN 2946-4196     ISSN 2946-420X (electronic) The Palgrave Lacan Series ISBN 978-3-031-33106-0    ISBN 978-3-031-33107-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7 © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Duncan Andison/Gettyimages This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

For Anthony Towey: A great teacher, a scholar who saw something inside me and helped bring it out, as he has done for many other students at St Mary’s University Twickenham.

Acknowledgements

I could not have done this work without the support of my family. They were there when I needed support, love, and encouragement. I thank Dr Wanyoung Kim for comforting and consoling me when I was losing hope and for her amazing editing skills, intellectual tenacity, and keen insight. I thank my tutor, Professor Peter Tyler, who has been more than a tutor to me; he has been my spiritual director and mentor. I thank Dr Barnabas Palfrey for taking the time to read my work and offering advice. I thank my friend Barney Carroll and Duane Rousselle for giving me strength and aiding me in developing my ideas. Not only this, but I thank Barney for helping me wade through the difficult texts of Lacan in their original French. Many others have helped and encouraged me, and words are insufficient to express my gratitude.

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Praise for The Direction of Desire “Two features elevate Murphy’s The Direction of Desire far above many studies on Lacan and mystical theology. His book is not just a comparative study but a deeply engaged inquiry into the possibility of mystical spiritual direction today—the true topic of the book is ourselves, our spiritual fate. Furthermore, Murphy ruthlessly analyses how mystical experience is caught in the global capitalist commodification—if you really want an authentic spiritual experience, you should begin with a critique of capitalism. These two features alone make The Direction of Desire obligatory reading for thousands well beyond the academic community.” —Prof. Slavoj Zizek, International director of the Birkbeck Institute for the Humanities, UK. Author of Surplus-enjoyment: A Guide for the Non-perplexed (Bloomsbury Academic, 2022). “Murphy offers an original and timely insight into John of the Cross’ deep concern that experience of God can be commodified to satisfy mere projections of what God is or should be. Through a powerfully illuminating reading of Jacques Lacan’s ‘anti-experientialist’ psychoanalytic practice, Murphy uncovers the cultural forces which reduce spirituality to superficial notions of wellbeing. He opens up the alternative offered by John of the Cross with new urgency, as a practice of spiritual direction which deliberately lets go of this quest for experience, in favour of the undifferentiated space into which the desire for God more deeply leads. He articulates anew this truly transformative dimension of the practice of spiritual direction for today.” —Dr Edward Howells, Associate Tutor in Christian Spirituality, Ripon College Cuddesdon and Associate Member of Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Oxford, UK. Author of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross: Mystical Knowing and Selfhood (Crossroad-Herder, 2002). “Mark G. Murphy’s The Direction of Desire is a masterful attempt to establish some preliminary groundwork for any Lacanian-inspired practice of Catholic spiritual direction. You are offered an antidote to spiritual practices that remain saturated in capitalist modes of enjoyment. Hence, its accomplishment—which should be celebrated—is to locate a point of opposition in the concept of kenosis from Saint John of the Cross. Perhaps this will help us to rediscover the letter

of God. Moreover, the book avoids the trap of historicizing the LacanianCatholicism connection by focusing explicitly on structure, thereby developing a worthwhile dialogue between psychoanalysis and spirituality.” —Prof. Duane Rousselle, Lacanian Psychoanalyst and Professor of Sociology at the Indian Institute of Technology, Guwahati. Author of Post- Anarchism and Psychoanalysis: Seminars on Politics and Society (Real Books, 2023).

Contents

Part I The Loss of Mystical Desire in Christian Spiritual Direction   1 1 F  oreword  3 Introduction   3 References  13 2 The  Shift in Spiritual Direction 15 The Question  15 Psychology, Spiritual Direction and Experientialism   17 The Change in Desire through Experientialism. Key Terminology and Concepts   21 The Reception of Lacan in Theology   25 The Absence of Lacan in Pastoral Theology and Spiritual Direction  28 Current literature on Juanist Spiritual Direction   32 Plan and Methodology of the Book   33 The Experiential Paradigm and Spiritual Direction   42 Spiritual Directors and the Current Misuse of Desire in Spiritual Direction  53 Summary  57 References  57 xi

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Part II Recovering Mystical Desire in Spiritual Direction: A Juanist-­Lacanian Approach  63 3 Desire  in Pre-modern Spiritual Direction 65 Spiritual Direction Before Experientialism   65 The Possibility of Moving Beyond the Experientialist Paradigm in the Modern Context of Spiritual Direction   75 John of the Cross, Spiritual Direction and Desire   80 The Texts  89 The Reception of John’s Texts   98 John’s Spiritual Direction: Sources and Foundations  105 John’s Specific Writings on Spiritual Direction  119 Reading John’s Spiritual Direction Through the Linguistic Turn 129 Summary 146 References 147 4 Lacan’s  Conception of Psychoanalysis151 Lacan’s Biography  151 Brief Overview of Lacan’s Work  157 The Performative Practice of Lacanian Psychoanalysis  173 Summary 191 References 192 5 Lacan  and Spiritual Direction195 Lacan and Spiritual Direction: Between Speech and Writing  195 Spiritual Direction and Truth  207 Spiritual Directors and the Other  210 Spiritual Direction and the Affections  215 Spiritual Direction and the Lorgnette 218 Summary 225 References 226

 Contents 

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6 The  Mystical Speech of Lacan231 Baruzi’s and Bataille’s Influence on Lacan’s Mystical Speech  231 Bataille’s Baruzian Experiential Interpretation of John of the Cross 239 The Development of Lacan’s Mystical Speech  241 Lacan’s Concept of Discourse  251 The Four Contemplative Discourses of Juanist-­Lacanian Spiritual Direction  260 Summary 269 References 271 7 Listening  and Speaking in Juanist-­Lacanian Spiritual Direction275 Psycho-Mystical Strategies of Breaking Through the Not-­ Knowing with the Unknowing  275 Techniques of Listening  277 Techniques of Speaking in Spiritual Direction  290 References 297 8 C  onclusion299 Non-Spiritual Direction  299 Summary 305 References 310 I ndex311

About the Author

Mark  Gerard  Murphy  is an editor for the political journal and blog Taiwan Insight and a lecturer at St Mary’s University, Scotland, Gillis Centre, convening courses on ethics, philosophy, and mystical theology/ spirituality. His research interests include the relationship between psychoanalysis and mystical theology. His works have been published in the Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory and the European Journal of Psychoanalysis.

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Abbreviations1

Lacan’s work Lacan’s work The Official J. A. Miller translation of Lacan’s seminars will be referenced as SE followed by Roman numerals to designate the seminar accompanied by page number, for example, (SE, V: 33). I will also use the same for ­‘unofficial’ translations given by Cormac Gallagher. However, when a quote is given in all cases, I will indicate who has done the translation. Furthermore, when a quote has been given in English from the official J. A. Miller edition, I have strived to also supply the original French unedited from the l’Association Freudienne Internationale manuscripts in footnotes. In some cases, I have given my own translation for certain quotes. I will indicate when I do this.

Lacan’s Écrits will be designated by the letter E followed by page number, for example, (E: 33). All English translations of quotations will be supplied by Bruce Fink. I will

 Texts will be referenced with the letters above followed by book number in Roman numerals then the chapter number followed by the section number. So, Ascent of Mount Carmel book one, chapter two section three would be referenced as follows (AC I. 2. 3). 1

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xviii Abbreviations



also supply the original in French from the 1966 Seuil edition in the footnotes. Other Écrits (other writings by Lacan not included in his seminars or the Écrits collection) will be referenced by standard Harvard reference.

John of the Cross AC: Ascent of Mount Carmel CA/CB: Spiritual Canticle DN: Dark Night of the Soul LF: The Living Flame of Love SL: Sayings of Light and Love R: Romances

Part I The Loss of Mystical Desire in Christian Spiritual Direction

1 Foreword

Introduction When I was younger, I sought out a spiritual director in Liverpool. He was the definition of a traditional priest. He was already well in his nineties when I met him. At the time, I was reading spiritual guidance books—the book in question was called Anam Cara by John O Donohue. I remember telling him that I have never had an experience with God. At that specific point, I was involved in charismatic groups that emphasised having a direct experience of the divine, and the absence of experience was causing me anxiety. I remember him looking at me puzzled and then saying in his gruff voice, ‘why dya think spirituality is all about experience? Why d’ya think Christ called out on the Cross, Mark?!’ His answer puzzled me as nearly all the books I picked up on popular spirituality and spiritual direction were centred on the elusive concept of religous experience. Looking back, I think I understand what he meant. Spirituality is less about the extraordinary experience—moments of ineffable transient experiential encounter—and more about engaging in ordinary experience as such (see Lash, 1990). And part of that incarnational exploration of ordinary experience means encountering and taking account of our © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_1

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ordinary experiences ‘opacity.’ Our own experience has a certain ‘nothingness’ coiled at its centre. Part of the message of incarnational theology is about the divine emptying themselves into creation. So then, Christologically speaking, we see an emptying of hypostasis on the Crucifix—a strange logic concerning the emptying of experience itself in confrontation with the very limits of human experience. Even reading the great cataphatic English mystics of the Church like Julian of Norwich shows a certain morbidity in looking toward this ordinariness of experience (Julian of Norwich 2015). She prays that Christ lets her experience illness and suffering so that she can be more like him. And yes, certainly, it seems morbid from our modern perspective, but getting caught up in the melodramatic language of the anchorite belies the wider structural point. What is being highlighted here is that if we seek an experience of God, we seek first the emptying of the will to experience itself. The mystic surrenders their attachment to experience: they give up notions of heaven and God in favour of the love of God. And even as they move deeper into this love without telos, they relinquish the concept of love itself as a predicate of their old self. They give up everything for love, including love itself. In its place, from the position of the ‘no-one-anymore,’ the very love of God for God as defined by the trinity takes its place. In short, my lack of experience and absence as I delved deeper into my faith became a source of reflection. God was not there in the darkness; God was the darkness. God is not found in the desert; God is the desert. When I turn my eyes to heaven, I encounter first the cross. This all sounds extremely disturbing, but is it? At Christianity’s very root (radix) is an injunction to love our neighbour. Our neighbour is anything but an encounter with someone I know; the neighbour is the stranger, the marginalised, the subaltern, the ostracised and the broken. The stranger is an encounter with suffering and existence that forever remains a blinding darkness to me. And yet—still—I am implored to go out of myself toward the stranger in the opaque mundanity of their life, in all its finitude. This is the etymological root of the word ecstasy—it does not mean a will to experience, but rather, it means to stand outside oneself.

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My encounter with psychoanalysis—of the Lacanian variety—was similar. When I sought out analysis, I was going through a crisis and sought healing, an experience of relief; I wanted answers to help me fit my symptoms back into the weft and weave of my life. I expected my analyst to give me answers! Again, there was a reflection of my first encounter with my first spiritual director. What became clear to me was that although such a drive to have existential meaning brought to me on a therapeutic plate was an important catalyst to get me speaking, part of the analytic process was about coming to terms with what Freud called the ordinariness of human suffering. It was also about learning that in Lacanian psychoanalysis, any reference to experientialism bolsters the ego, which is the opposite of clinical practice. This book, then, is a reflection of my own spirituality and also its encounter with psychoanalysis. It is about countering the modern tendency in spirituality and spiritual direction to seek extraordinary experiences or even rely on a phenomenological framework that centres human experience as such. It is important to say that this is not a diatribe against experience but rather an argument against the turn to experientialism in spirituality and commodified therapeutic methods. Nor am I writing this as a spiritual director or a psychoanalyst. Instead, I am a theologian trained in spirituality, mystical theology, and philosophy. Many people— I am sure—will find my work problematic, but I offer it as part of a wider conversation, and I come at such a project with humility. Spirituality and psychoanalysis are both terms that cause anxiety due to the sheer level of indeterminacy associated with them. The term spirituality having a much narrower sense in the past, associated with the religious life of the clergy, and thus related to what we call spiritual theology, contemplation, and the mystical tradition, has become more diffuse in the twentieth century encompassing other elements, disciplines, and traditions. The same can be said regarding psychoanalysis; from its beginnings with Freud, we see many talking cures and therapeutic disciplines. The pure multiplicity and paucity of these two disciplines is a point of enrichment, but it also makes them vulnerable to co-option by market forces. From a modern perspective, spiritual direction accompanies someone on their spiritual journey, providing guidance, support, and

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encouragement as they deepen their relationship with a higher power. A trained spiritual director often conducts spiritual direction, helps individuals discern and interpret their experiences and responses to the divine, and provides insight into their spiritual growth. In recent years, some critics have argued that modern methods of spiritual direction have become overly psychological and have placed too much emphasis on experientialism. While psychological insights can help us understand how spiritual experiences impact our mental and emotional well-being, critics argue that focusing on therapy techniques and the need for immediate, tangible experiences can lead to a superficial understanding of spirituality. This psychologism can result in people seeking instant gratification or quick fixes. Our modern concept of the spiritual has long been defined by what we call the turn to experience. Schneiders argues that the turn to experience is synonymous with a widening of the term that takes it outside of the narrow definitional remit that is limited to the study of Christian Theology. And within this broad definition, we see that the concept of ‘experience’ is studied historically, anthropologically, and psychologically (Schneiders, 2005, pp.  1–12). The turn to psychology for the basis of spirituality is crucial, not just in heuristic value—in terms of what studying spirituality as a category can yield from an academic perspective—but how its goals become psychologically and therapeutically defined. Indeed, it was not until the nineteenth century that we saw that the spiritual concept was less defined by institutional practices and more focused on feelings with the work of William James. The latter was an American philosopher and psychologist and one of the most important thinkers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He was particularly interested in the study of human consciousness and religious experience. James believed that religious experience was a legitimate and important field of study and that it significantly impacted individuals and society. He argued that religious experiences could be studied scientifically and were not limited to any particular religion. In his book The Varieties of Religious Experience, James examined different types of religious experience, including mystical experiences, conversion experiences, and religious visions. He argued that a sense of unity, ineffability, and a heightened sense of importance and reality characterised these experiences. James

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also believed that religious experiences had practical implications for individuals and society and could lead to positive changes in behaviour and attitudes. He argued that religious experiences could help individuals to overcome personal difficulties and to find meaning and purpose in life. The problem is that many of his ideas have been co-opted by theological methods and fed back into pastoral practice. This problem also extends to what we call mystical theology. The tradition of mystical theology has its roots in early Christian mysticism. It can be traced back to the writings of Pseudo-Dionysius, a sixth-century theologian. Pseudo-Dionysius’s work is characterised by an apophatic approach to theology at the heart of the contemplative tradition. His ideas were deeply influential in the development of the Christian mystical tradition, and his writings were widely read and studied throughout the Middle Ages; as we can see with the Victorines, the Cloud of Unknowing, Meister Eckhart and - in later centuries - John of the Cross, they were instrumental in shaping the mystical tradition, exploring the themes of union with God, detachment from material things, and the importance of prayer and contemplation. However, the mystical theological tradition has faced challenges over the years due to the modernisation and secularisation of society. As people began to rely more on scientific reasoning and empirical evidence, the mystical approach to theology has been subject to misinterpretation and mistrust. Inwardness became synonymous with a focus on experientialism. Additionally, the psychologisation of spirituality and the emphasis on individualism has further influenced how the mystical tradition is perceived and practised more generally, especially concerning concepts such as ‘darkness.’ Thus, as Denys Turner has argued, we see the divine darkness—or nothingness—interpreted as an experience as such. Yet, in the past, such concepts were not about an experience of divine darkness but the darkness of experience itself (1995). We see this in the eminent John of the Cross scholar—and Lacan’s teacher—Jean Baruzi who says: “I bring us a logic of mysticism and even a critique of mystic experience. Negation of all that appears. Nothing that appears to me is God?”(in McGinn 2017, p323). Nothingness is presented in a phenomenological field. Indeed, there are many notes to this kind of experience of the nothing that appears in Baruzi’s work, but what is

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important is that it takes place within an experientialist methodological framework due to his reliance on the lived experience intuitionism of Bergson along with the work of William James (See Brassier, 2011 for a critique of Bergson’s intuitionism). However, in the twentieth century, we see a shift where consumerism becomes associated with what we have hitherto called ‘the spiritual.’ Carrette and King state that: What we call ‘individualist or consumerist spirituality’ here relates to a late-­ twentieth-­century development within the broader historical phenomenon of ‘prosperity religions.’ It refers to those who embrace Capitalism, consumerism and individualism and interpret their religious or spiritual worldview in terms of these ideologies. Whereas the nineteenth-century prosperity religions were generally modernist in origin, the consumerist spiritualities emerged in the late 1960s and are generally ‘postmodern’ in orientation, emphasising eclecticism, individualist experimentation and a ‘pick and mix’ approach to religious traditions. (Carrette & King, 2004, p. 19)

Ronald Purser also argues that mindfulness has been appropriated by corporations, schools, governments, and the military as a tool for social control and self-pacification. He contends that if we harness mindfulness’s revolutionary potential, we must free it from its neoliberal shackles, releasing mindfulness for a collective awakening (Purser, 2019): He continues: [This]amounts to what Byung-Chul Han calls “psycho-politics,” in which contemporary Capitalism seeks to harness the psyche as a productive force. Mindfulness-based interventions fulfil this purpose by therapeutically optimising individuals to make them “mentally fit,” attentive and resilient so they may keep functioning within the system. Such capitulation seems like the farthest thing from a revolution and more like a quietist surrender. (Purser, 2019, p. 15)

However, these important critiques miss out on how these modern forms of spirituality have fused with the digital character of our age. What we call the attention economy has aided the growth of these

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modern forms of spirituality with its intense focus on experientialism, online digital content and social media platforms and the injunction to write endlessly (Pine & Gilmore, 2011; Seymour, 2019). As a modern form of secular spiritual direction, the self-help industry has greatly benefited from the growth of digital technology. Digitality has made self-help and spiritual resources more accessible, affordable, and convenient than ever. The internet has allowed self-help content creators to reach a broader audience, and people can access self-help resources anytime and anywhere. Social media platforms have become popular channels for sharing self-help content, and many self-help experts offer online courses and webinars on various topics. Digital publishing has made it easier and cheaper for authors to self-publish and distribute their work, and e-books and audiobooks are widely used formats for self-help content. Additionally, many self-help apps are available on app stores like Google Play and the App Store. These apps offer features like guided meditations, goal-setting tools, and habit trackers to help people improve their mental health, productivity, and personal growth. Overall, the growth of digital technology has made self-help resources more widely available and accessible, allowing the industry to reach more people and grow at an unprecedented pace. The digital self-help and spirituality industry has thus grown exponentially with the polarisation of politics resulting from the precarity of ubiquitous economic alienation. In addition, the pandemic has opened wellness gurus to peddle their immune-boosting tonics and proselytise to a newly receptive online audience saddled with anxiety (McBain, 2020). I argue that a radical form of spiritual direction would problematise these experientialist foundations. To do this, I rely on radically reimagining spiritual direction and its relation to the talking cures. I bring together two thinkers suspicious of experientialism in both fields: Lacan and John of the Cross. Although modern spiritual direction often incorporates experientialist forms of psychology, the use of Lacanian analysis as a relevant tool is largely ignored. Moreover, while a cultural studies variant of Lacan is sometimes considered in theological discourse, this approach tends to be limited to high systematic or political theology. The clinical Lacan is not typically integrated into pastoral theological practices. As a

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result, the value of Lacanianism for theology is not fully realised in many contemporary spiritual direction contexts.1 Jacques Lacan was a prominent psychoanalyst who developed a method of psychoanalysis that focused on language, culture, and social structures rather than on individual experience. He was critical of a focus on experientialism in forms of psychology and interpretations of Freud. According to Lacan, the unconscious is structured like a language, and our experiences and emotions are shaped and mediated by the linguistic and cultural structures in which we live. In this way, Lacan’s psychoanalytic method avoids the pitfalls of experientialism, which places too much emphasis on individual experiences and emotions. Lacan’s approach to psychoanalysis emphasises the importance of the symbolic realm, or the realm of language, as a mediator of our experiences and emotions. By understanding the linguistic and cultural structures that shape our unconscious, we can gain insight into the patterns and behaviours we may not be aware of on a conscious level. Lacan believed that psychoanalysis aimed to help individuals gain awareness of the symbolic, linguistic structures that shape their experience. This structure is what Lacan identified as desire, which is not reducible directly to the affective. Lacan’s psychoanalytic method is, therefore, less concerned with the experiential aspects of individual emotional experiences and more about understanding the larger cultural and linguistic structures that shape our unconscious. John of the Cross (1542–1591) was a Spanish mystic and poet and one of the most important figures of the Counter-Reformation. He was a member of the Catholic religious order of the Discalced Carmelites, which he co-founded with Saint Teresa of Ávila. For John, desire is related to the whole structure of a person, and the intensification of desire involves emptying out the heart’s caverns. This process exposes desire as a  For example, at a pastoral theology conference about spiritual direction and psychotherapy, I was asked what my research was about. I said,’ Well, it is about psychoanalysis and spiritual direction.’ They then asked, ‘Oh, what school of analysis?’ I said, ‘Lacanian.’ The person furrowed their brow and said, ‘oh, I am not a philosopher.’ Another time, during another conference, I told an academic who was working in the philosophical-theological tradition about my work, and they said, ‘I would be very wary of using Lacan as a clinician, as the concept of subjective destitution concerning the dark night of the soul is very dangerous.’ 1

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force that strips away the epistemological structures of the self rather than a yearning for nothingness or “an experience of nothing.” I argue that this focus on emptiness, or “kenosis,” plays a key role in John’s development of desire and its connection to the psychoanalytic concept of subjective destitution. This focus is also implicitly present in Lacan’s Mystical Seminar, which—I argue—implicitly critiques mystical phenomenology. The graph of sexual relation references John’s concept of todo-nada (all or nothing), which Lacan reinterprets as the all and the not-all. Implicitly, in Lacan’s mystical seminar, he shows how any conception of the mystical must have failure built into it. As Alois M.  Haas has reflected, “the hidden character of mystical experience is that it is also a non-experience” (in McGinn, 2017, p. 263). In other words, following Lacan’s famous formulation, the heart of John’s mystical theology, and, by implication, spiritual direction, there is no such thing as a spiritual experience, but there is such a thing as transformation. As Largier says in his book Figures of Possibility: the mystics argue not for a return to this lost sphere of a vision of essences, a prelapsarian state but for a transformation of the world in practices of devotion. (2022, p. 37)

This book attempts to reclaim a radical spiritual direction that rejects the commercialisation of spirituality and its overemphasis on experientialism. Rather than retreating to an imagined fundamentalist past, the book returns to the works of John of the Cross through Lacan. Both Lacan and John were masters of desire and viewed their respective disciplines as directing desire. However, they were also wary of locating desire solely at the level of emotion or “affect.” In the second chapter, I argue that emotional content has become a powerful tool for people in social life and has even become a spiritual currency in our contemporary society. Next, I discuss the implications of this shift in how we perceive and interact with our modern environment, and this sets the stage for the rest of the book. In the third chapter, I provide an alternative spiritual direction approach incorporating modern insights. This new approach understands

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desire as an ontological aspect of the person rather than merely a psychological faculty. I explore the ideas and theories of modern scholars and provide an analysis of their approach to spiritual direction and how it differs from the traditional, pre-modern paradigm. It also gives an account of John’s life and key texts. In the fourth chapter, I explore the work of Jacques Lacan as a potential partner for a linguistically focused form of Juanist spiritual direction. First, I give a brief biographical sketch of Lacan’s academic development and an overview of his main ideas before illustrating the practice of managing desire in a psychoanalytic setting. In the fifth chapter, I explore Lacan’s conception of psychoanalysis and its relation to spiritual direction by relating it to the concept of performative discourse. Finally, I closely read a crucial paragraph from Lacan’s seminal text “Psychoanalysis and its Teaching” to demonstrate that Lacan understood spiritual direction relating to desire as non-affective. This sets the groundwork for exploring Lacan and his relation to spiritual direction via John of the Cross, his mentor Jean Baruzi, and peer Georges Bataille. Chapter 6 explores how Lacan developed the structure of Juanist mystical speech for psychoanalysis, tracing the influence of Baruzi and Bataille. I map out the structure of mystical speech as a function of language and locate it within Lacan’s concept of the four discourses to draw out the implicit mystical theology within Lacan’s clinical concepts and practice. I argue that John and Lacan spoke of the not-all/todo-nada and that this linguistic excess of subjectivity should be considered a performative discourse and mode of speech rather than an experientialist one. I conclude by interpreting the four discourses as the four discourses of Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction. In the seventh and final chapter, I offer practical strategies for a Juanist-­ Lacanian approach to spiritual direction. These strategies draw from the mystical strategies of unknowing listed in Chap. 3 and Lacan’s psychoanalytic rhetoric of not-knowing listed in other chapters. They are split into listening and speaking techniques, with the director listening to the directee’s rhetoric of not-knowing and using strategies of oracular intervention to pierce the defences of not knowing through the mystical strategies of unknowing. This practical guide aims to aid in achieving what I

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call the contemplative discourse. Overall, I hope this book offers a unique and insightful perspective on spiritual direction that combines ancient wisdom with modern insights from psychoanalysis. These questions revolve around exploring the connections between darkness mysticism and psychoanalysis, not simply as another therapeutic tool in a world that can be oppressive, but as a subversive ‘desirative’ practice of listening and speaking that can empower us to create radical change in the world by giving up the very hook of modern capitalism, the will to enjoyment; how ‘capitalist realism’ is always already an ersatz spiritualism that hinges on the ‘triumph of the experiential’ as the core of its spiritual doctrine (Rieff, 1987; Fisher, 2009; Lasch, 2018). It is about nurturing a transformation that is less about being aware of some kind of ineffable experience but understanding how we are incompletely written from the outset: how nothingness lies at the core of what we call the self as a condition of experience. It is about how our desire is always caught up with formation—and deformation—and how the analytic—and spiritual directors—of the practice of listening and speaking have less to do with trying to detect any depth-experience but with intervening in the fabric of the subjects writing—as we are written subjects—and showing them the poverty of the imaginary—the experiential—in covering up that nothingness. For Lacan, this was an encounter with the Real, while for John, it was an encounter with a transformative Grace.

References Brassier, R. (2011). Lived Experience and the Myth of the Given: Bergson and Sellars. Filozofski vestnik, 32(3). [online]. Retrieved February 13, 2023, from https://ojs.zrc-­sazu.si/filozofski-­vestnik/article/view/4173 Carrette, J., & King, R. (2004). Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion (1st ed.). Routledge. Fisher, M. (2009). Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? John Hunt Publishing. Julian of Norwich. (2015). Revelations of Divine Love. Oxford University Press Largier, N. (2022). Figures of Possibility: Aesthetic Experience, Mysticism, and the Play of the Senses. Stanford University Press.

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Lasch, C. (2018). The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in An Age of Diminishing Expectations. W. W. Norton & Company. Lash, N. (1990). Easter in Ordinary: Reflections on Human Experience and the Knowledge of God. University of Notre Dame Press. McBain, S. (2020). The Dark Side of the Wellness Industry. New Statesman. Retrieved October 13, 2021, from https://www.newstatesman.com/uncategorized/2020/06/dark-­side-­wellness-­industry McGinn, B. (2017). Mysticism in the Golden Age of Spain. The Crossroad Publishing Company. Pine, B.  J., & Gilmore, J.  H. (2011). The Experience Economy. Harvard Business Press. Purser, R. (2019). McMindfulness. Watkins Media Limited. Rieff, P. (1987). The Triumph of the Therapeutic: Uses of Faith After Freud. University of Chicago Press. Schneiders, S. (2005). Approaches to the Study of Christian Spirituality. In A.  Holder (Ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Christian Spirituality (pp. 15–33). Wiley. Seymour, R. (2019). The Twittering Machine. The Indigo Press. Turner, D. (1995). The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism. 1st ed. University Press, Cambridge.

2 The Shift in Spiritual Direction

The Question The question guiding this work can be stated as follows: How can a Lacanian and Juanist interpretation of ‘Mystical Desire’ highlight and demonstrate its ethical role in pragmatically countering the problem of ‘experientialism’ within the modern context and practice of spiritual direction?

I set out to demonstrate how there has recently been a shift in the methods of spiritual direction regarding how the practice conceives desire intellectually and pragmatically. Desire has always been a central concept in the practice of spiritual direction. However, I will argue that there has been a gradual shift from understanding desire as encompassing the whole self and its relation to God to a modern understanding of desire as being mostly affective and experientialist in scope. At the heart of my work is an expansion on the recent critique on the concept of mysticism in modern scholarship since this is a central aspect of spiritual direction (McGinn, 1991, pp. 1–10). Bernard McGinn argues

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_2

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that mysticism is the element in Christianity that is ‘part of its belief and practices that concerns the preparation for, the consciousness of, and the reaction to what can be described as the immediate or direct presence of God’ (McGinn, 1991, p. xvii). Today, however, when we speak of mysticism, we tend to think of it in experientialist terms (McIntosh, 1998, p. 23). Against this view, I argue that the mystical element of religion— following the ideas of De Certeau, Tyler, Lindbeck and Sells—is less of an affective supplement to religious life and more of a desirative, disruptive manner of speaking and writing that is used to destabilise its intellectual and affective elements (Sells, 1994; Tyler, 2011b; De Certeau, 1995; Lindbeck, 1984). Following McIntosh, I argue that we should not see this mystical element as separate from the more ancient definition of mystical theology. McIntosh states that mystical theology is a ‘knowledge disclosed to Christians as they themselves are known and transformed by the unknowable God’ (1998, p. 8). This is a pre-Cartesian vision of transformative knowledge indistinguishable from a wider Eros in which we participate. However, McIntosh mourns that in modern usage—as the mystical element separates from theology—the categories of ‘mystical’ and ‘mysticism’ result in nothing more than ‘technical term[s] for theoretical teaching about the soul’s process of sanctification’(McIntosh, 1998, p. 8).1 McIntosh further explains that over time, as the gulf widens between theology and the mystical element, these terms become indistinguishable from notions we associate with a psychological, affective interiority (1998, p. 10). I argue that there is a theoretical and practical proximity of spiritual direction to the problematic modern conception of the mystical. Therefore, defining it exclusively from these experientialist foundations is dangerous. I claim that although there has been much work on articulating the problem of experientialism in mystical theology to recover a more subversive and radical conception of its desirative mystical element, this has not been entirely passed down in pastoral practice to spiritual direction.  He argues that mystical theology is a term we should associate with the lineage stemming from the sixth century mystical thinker Pseudo Dionysius who I will expand on in later chapters (McIntosh, 1998, p. 8). 1

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I demonstrate that there has been a disjunction between how desire was handled and understood as an integral aspect of what was conceived as being the ‘mystical’ in pre-modern spiritual direction and how this is now understood and handled today. In its apophatic operation in spiritual direction, I maintain that pre-modern mystical desire throws into question many of the epistemological and psychological categories we now superimpose on the practice. I will further argue that the modern practice of Christian spiritual direction has difficulty in escaping this experientialist paradigm because of its close symbiotic relationship to certain strands of psychology that alter the coordinates of mystical desire. My argument thus hinges on a re-conception of desire in the modern practice of spiritual direction that takes it out of the prevalent experientialist paradigm. Thus, I interpret spiritual direction as a disruptive mode of speaking and listening that disturbs this experientialist tendency.2 I will do this by drawing on the spiritual direction of John of the Cross and the psychoanalysis of Jacques Lacan.

 sychology, Spiritual Direction P and Experientialism Barry and Connolly define Christian spiritual direction as ‘help given by one Christian to another which enables that person to pay attention to God’s personal communication to him or her, to respond to this personally communicating God, to grow in intimacy with this God, and to live out the consequences of the relationship’ (2009, p.  8). To elucidate and further understand this notion of intimacy, contemporary spiritual direction has drawn on the methodologies of therapeutic psychology. It has thus broadened its vernacular and diversified its approach by incorporating these techniques. Today, the very framework used to measure therapeutic effect on the psyche is also utilised to measure one’s relationship with God in the contemporary context of spiritual direction.  In this sense, the other narrative of this book is one concerned with the ‘de-mystification of mysticism’ concerning the practice of spiritual direction (see Keller, 2014). I mean this in the sense that mystical theology is different from what we call mysticism. The latter being about ineffable experientialism and noetic affective encounter with the divine.

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This perspective suggests that as an individual deepens their relationship with God, signs of ‘happiness,’ ‘satisfaction,’ ‘wholeness,’ ‘spiritual health,’ and ‘well-being‘ emerge (Galindo, 1997, pp. 395–402). However, equating spiritual direction solely with cultivating positive emotions and mindsets would be an oversimplification; as I will demonstrate later, pre-­ modern spiritual direction challenges such presumptions. We see that John of the Cross warns us clearly that the want for satisfaction is something that hinders spiritual direction: the want of satisfaction in earthly or heavenly things could be the product of some indisposition or melancholic humor. (DN I. 9. 2)

In the preface of Margaret Guenther‘s work, Alan Jones brings attention to the issue of experientialism. He recounts an instance where a monk, frustrated after a lecture he delivered, retorted, ‘What I want is some non-spiritual- non-direction!’(1992, p. ix). Jones suggests that modern Christian spiritual direction has excessively emphasised a constrained, psychologistic, and experientialist concept of well-being. He contends that spiritual direction has turned excessively introspective, thereby forsaking elements once preserved in ancient mystical practices (1992, p. ix). This loss is particularly conspicuous in our contemporary era. In the twenty-first century, ‘experientialism’ has emerged as a key perspective through which we decipher the significance of meaning-­making in our daily lives (Pine & Gilmore, 2011, pp. 1–41).3 Like numerous other ideologies that we integrate into the narrative of our daily lives, the ubiquitous language of experientialism, predominantly from the marketplace, has become an integral part. It now serves as one of the key frameworks within which we interpret and create meaning in our everyday routines. The outcome is a market where many commodities are presented with the guarantee of a ‘spiritual experience‘ that can profoundly influence  The term ‘Experience Economy’ was first articulated by Joseph Pine and James H Gilmore. It focuses on the next development of the economy which succeeds the agrarian and industrial revolutions. Pine and Gilmore argue that businesses today have to create memorable enjoyable experiences and the memory of such events becomes the finished product of companies. The value added these products give is the possibility of existential transformation. Joseph Pine and James Gilmore are business coaches and authors. who give international talks and focus on the concept of authenticity (see Pine & Gilmore, 2011). 3

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one’s life. This promise of positive experiences is offered through resources such as mental health mobile applications, which vow to provide instant satisfaction and psychological relief at a simple tap (Carrette & King, 2004, pp. 1–29; Bernstein, 2017, pp. 1–10). One can see that there is even artificial intelligence-powered spiritual direction: Eckhart is a Spiritual Artificial Intelligence chat program. It helps you find answers to spiritual, emotional and philosophical questions. (2023)

It is not uncommon to see these constructed transcendental products operate as a substitute for more ancient mystical theological practices.4 With this increasing tendency to imbue products and services with spirituality, the discourse surrounding mysticism has been extracted from its historical context. It has been secularised through the lenses of medicine, capitalism, and psychology and ultimately reincorporated into religious and pastoral scenarios (Carrette & King, 2004, pp. 1–29). As McIntosh succinctly states, ‘spirituality without theology becomes rootless, easily hijacked by individualistic consumerism’ (McIntosh, 1998, p. 10). Thus, spiritual directors commonly speak of John of the Cross’ Dark Night of the Soul in psychotherapeutic terms (Pietsch, 2011, pp. 1–15). By misconstruing the Dark Night as merely an experience of darkness, or an experiential indicator of psychological wholeness, we risk diminishing its complexity. This misconception threatens to position the discipline of spiritual direction merely as an alternative technology promoting psychological well-being within a marketplace dominated by experientially focused methodologies and products. The risk is reducing the  Phone apps and web services offer spirituality in terms of relieving stress and meditation. One site promises the following ‘I’ve turned my phone into a spiritual tool by loading it up with some beautiful apps that help strengthen my spiritual practice, boost my mood and make me feel good!’ (Bernstein, 2017, pp. 1–10). There are many other examples like this. Mystical theology is a practice of theology which focuses on what is known as contemplation and contemplative prayer; in the past these practices were not separate from theology and encompassed both the intellect and the affect and its relation to exoteric practices such as liturgy. It was concerned with our integration into the life of Christ in the form of the ecclesia. The concept of the mystical was associated with these personal practices by which one facilitated a process. Over time the concept of mystical theology gave way to the concept of the mystical which became more focused on internal states. (see Turner, 1995). 4

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deeply nuanced nature of the Dark Night to the confines of contemporary experientialist ideologies. In short, the centrality of experientialism in spiritual direction reflects and resonates with many forms of psychotherapeutic practices to the extent that the dividing line between psychotherapy and spiritual direction is sometimes difficult to distinguish (Harborne, 2012, pp. 1–10). I argue that pre-modern apophatic practices are increasingly interpreted through an experientialist lens and conveyed via experiential techniques in certain facets of contemporary Catholic spiritual direction. These techniques then vie for attention in a marketplace centred on mass-­distributing ‘meaning’ to bolster a diminished notion of self. These offerings cater to a fragmented form of subjectivity, resulting from alienation rooted in a society that leans increasingly on the language of well-being, psychology, and experientialist spirituality. This approach is intended to alleviate the anxiety and feelings of disempowerment fostered by the prevalent paradigms of our twenty-first-century modernity (Carrette & King, 2004, pp. 1–29).5 The lexicon of experientialism aligns with a discourse of individualism that informs a modern understanding of spiritual direction. However, this often sidelines other facets of expression. My research aims to address this imbalance. Rather than proposing an enhanced, more holistic experiential objective—as if the field of practice can be mended— it seeks to interrogate experientialism’s very function and influence within the realm of spiritual direction. It attempts to articulate a non-­ experientialist form of spirituality and spiritual direction. I aim to trace the outlines of a radical conception of the practice that can help throw into question the perceived prevalence of the experientialist paradigm. To facilitate this recovery, we need dialogue and shared practice. This process should involve a form of psychoanalysis that critically examines the emphasis on experientialism at a practical, pastoral level.

 Carrette and King in their work Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion, suggest that this is a discourse which arose in the beginnings of the sixteenth century and found its clearest articulation in the psychological discourses in the nineteenth and twentieth century. These discourses thereby blended with aspects of the market and religion to create our current predicament. 5

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 he Change in Desire through Experientialism. T Key Terminology and Concepts The problem of experientialism in spiritual direction is only part of the challenge I am outlining here. What is at stake are the effects it has wrought on its central element: desire. A core idea of historic Christian spiritual direction is to direct one’s desire toward God (Ruffing & Ruffing, 2000, pp.  9–23). However, because of this focus on experientialism, a silent change over time has transformed what we mean by desire and its transition to psychologistic expressions.6 Today it is primarily understood as related to expressions of emotional gratification and wholeness (O’Murchu, 2007, pp. 1–10). I will designate this paradigm, which has its basis in the psychological turn instigated by William James,’ ‘positive affective experientialism,’ or what I will call the modality of D1b.7 The latter is a discipline of desire focusing on experientialism, positivity, wholeness, healing, happiness, and the primacy of feeling. This results from a split in how we understood spirituality in the past. The spiritual becomes conceived as that which is not rational. Consequently, the spiritual becomes located in the realm of feeling. The other side of this split will be termed the logic of D1a. This discipline of desire reduces spirituality to practices of duty, repression and rationality, along with an overt focus on doctrine. It is an austere liturgical, ethical and sacramental spiritual direction espoused by figures such as Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange (1877–1964). The latter was a seminal figure in early twentieth-century theology and was part of the neo-Thomist movement that worked to systematise Thomas Aquinas’s theology. Unfortunately, Garrigou-Lagrange also gave a Thomist interpretation of John of the Cross as a spiritual director. The result was a form of spiritual direction that was arguably harsh and dogmatic. His thought on John of the Cross was directly opposed to the work of modern theologians such  Psychologism is a philosophical position which tends to reduce all subjective positions to psychological process. 7  William James (1842–1910) was a seminal psychologist. He was also the first psychologist to offer the discipline as a course to be studied in the United States. He is famous for his work on the psychology of religion. He is a major figure in my work (see James, 1902). 6

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as Jean Baruzi (1881–1953). The latter argued against this rule-driven approach to interpreting John’s work. Instead, he focused on the centrality of religious experience (Garrigou-Lagrange, 1989, pp. 1–100; Aaron, 2005, p.  9). Modern figures of spiritual direction, such as Barry and Connolly, follow in the footsteps of Baruzi in their opposition to such a rule-driven doctrinal approach. For them, experience is the central core of the practice of spiritual direction. They believe this to the extent that they dedicate an entire chapter to evaluating the authenticity of religious experience (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp. 107–123). Barry and Connolly argue that there has been a shift in theological methods insofar as traditional scholastic and propositional models have been rejected in favour of Bernard Lonergan’s ‘transcendental method.’ This method treats theological and biblical knowledge as augmental aspects of religious life that are periphery to its experientialist core (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp.  20–21). However, their interpretation of Lonergan’s method is highly reductive, focusing only on interiority and subjectivity as being the only authentic way by which we can reach out to the divine. They thereby frame desire for God in overtly affective and emotional terms: Because spiritual growth is interior, then the criteria for judging it are necessarily interior. (Barry & Connolly, 2009, p. 121)

In this prime example of the logic of D1b, the danger here is that it entails a specific methodology where the content of mystical desire is judged solely in terms of interior, experiential affectivity. Moreover, it reduces desirative language to a purely descriptive status that precludes its formative value (Tyler, 2011b, pp. 27–62; Lindbeck, 1984, pp. 30–46). So far, I have outlined two forms of desire. One is repressive and austere, while the second is hyper-affective and experientialist. I will call the first negative affective experientialism, and the second I will term positive affective experientialism. In light of these formulations, the last can be called non-affective mystical negativism. This third, more ancient understanding of desire is predicated on lack, fragmentation, kenosis, and the darkening of experience itself. This spiritual impetus is not to be confused with the logic of attaining experiential bliss or well-being, nor is it about

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experiencing a mystically charged void. Instead, negation—in this form of desire—is located at the fragmentation of epistemological and affective structures that make up the self. I will argue that this third conception of mystical desire is central to the recovery for a more radical conception of spiritual direction. Non-affective mystical negativism will be termed D2. This differentiates itself from D1b and D1a because it encompasses, but is not reducible to, both the intellectual and the affective elements of our existence rather than arbitrarily splitting them. I will argue that there has been a shift from D2 to D1. More precisely, and in historical terms, this split of D2 into the modalities of D1a and D1b entailed in modern periods the elaboration of spiritual direction that was focused on reducing the discipline to the generation of dogmatic rules along purely intellectualised lines. Although beginning in the sixteenth century, this approach became prevalent in Roman Catholic spiritual direction in much of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp. 13–16; Moon & Benner, 2004, pp. 61–64). In the twentieth century, however, the dam burst, and so despite the papal condemnation of modernist valuations of ‘experience’ in Christian life and thought, the focus eventually switched to a diametrically opposite focus on manifestations of emotionalised experience (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp. 19–28; Kerr, 2007, p. 2). To help readers, I will outline the logic of D1 and D2 briefly (see Fig. 2.1): So, from the sixteenth century, there was a gradual split between mystical theology and theology (McIntosh, 1998, pp. 3–37). This resulted in a split theological subject that placed a firm boundary between rational formulations (D1a) concerning God and what today we call spirituality. The latter was reduced to affectivity and feelings (D1b).8 I will show that from the late nineteenth century, with the work of William James, there was a strong focus on the affective aspect of this split. From the twentieth century, we see this affective element becomes increasingly interpreted in

 My argument is that although the logics of D1a and Db are, on the surface, very different, they both aim at the same object. To this end, they point at the same object either through the intellect or the affect. I call this similarity in operation ‘the affectological.’ That being said, the main focus of my argument is tackling the prevalence of the discourse of D1b, since this is manifest in much of the practice of modern spiritual direction. I give a fuller exposition of this later. 8

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D1a The logic of D1 is a desire which aims at formulations of satisfaction and wholeness. It splits God into the God of duty (D1a) and the God of religious affectivism (D1b). On the side of D1a, it concerns itself with hyperrationalism, doctrinal formalism, and ruledriven spiritual guidance. D1a abhors the realm of capricious affect and thus focuses on experiencing the absence of emotion as proof of the divine at work. It consequently functions by ‘negative affective experientialism,’ focusing on experiencing lack as a signifier for coming spiritual plenitude. It believes that through rational self-governance of the appetites, it will eventually achieve a moment of ecstatic oneness.

D1b The logic of D1b is the polar opposite of this discursive practice as it sees the process of the intellect as futile compared to the depths of the heart. It focuses on honing emotional intelligence and feeling as the place where the divine reveals itself. Like the logic of the D1a, it too awaits the coming experientialist whole, but now the fluctuations of the heart represent the coming wholeness. This discursive method functions by the logic of ‘positive affective experientialism.’

D2. The logic of D2 is a desire that empties itself of emotional and intellectual content and starts with both but ultimately problematises their boundary before transcending them. A practice of disruptive apophaticism defines such logic. So, where the logics of D1 aim at the fantasmatic object of experiential wholeness either through D1a’s rule-driven negative affective experientialism or through D1b's positive affective experientialism, the logic of D2 starts from non-affectological premises which overturn these methodologies. What is at stake is a desire that disrupts and subverts the epistemological frameworks that create experience. It does this by focusing on the medium via which experience itself operates; language. The logic of D2 becomes less a linguistic theory of correspondence and one of linguistic deformation and experiential disruption. What we have, is a desire which results not in an experience of fullness or the experience of darkness but one that celebrates the darkness of experience as spiritual direction.

Since both of these discourses aim at the same imaginary object either through the intellect or the affect, these processes can be said to be ‘affectological’ in their aims

Fig. 2.1  The difference between the logic of D1 and D2

terms of positive affective experientialism. This results in a logic that reduces the experience of God to the purely positive aspect of feeling. On the other hand, D2 represents the pre-modern Christian approach that did not place a firm boundary between the rational and the emotional-­ experiential. Because of this, it resists totalising formulations. I will also argue that the concept of desire, which the pre-modern mystics and spiritual directors spoke about, greatly differed from how we tend to understand the term today. I will demonstrate that desire, as a concept of the

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self, has changed both within psychology and in modern forms of spiritual direction. This has happened due to theoretical changes in theology and psychology that have directly influenced their practice. Hence, I intend to utilise the conceptual framework of Jacques Lacan and John of the Cross to give a Juanist-Lacanian intervention in the modern practice of spiritual direction to recover a more radical concept of desire which escapes ‘experientialist’ formulations. I have chosen John of the Cross and Lacan due to their unique perspectives, which boldly challenged the conventional paradigms of self-perception and desire. They introduced groundbreaking approaches that critically examined and challenged widely accepted theories and practices. In the sixteenth century, John of the Cross stood at the crossroads of pre-modern and modern thought, while Lacan navigated the junction between the modern and postmodern eras. This work brings them together to tackle issues of spirituality in a world that has moved beyond the postmodern condition. It does this to seek new forms of spirituality, spiritual direction and desiring beyond the positive affective paradigm. It will thus be an intervention that questions many of the axioms upon which current spiritual direction and psychology rest. Similarly, this investigation will demonstrate that Lacan’s interpretation of desire, woven throughout his collective work, is partly rooted in Christian mystical theology and spiritual direction. This research is situated on the intersection of Christian mystical theology and psychology, examining how these two disciplines can inform the practice of spiritual direction. There is a promising opportunity here to investigate how theological and psychological perspectives can be employed in such a way to manifest transformation in a person’s life through spiritual direction. One can see how theology and the use of psychology are not purely academic subjects in this field but are instead living discourses utilised to make sense of people’s lives.

The Reception of Lacan in Theology My argument differs from other theological explorations of Lacan insofar as it focuses on his clinical application in direct relation to the practice of Juanist spiritual direction. There is much work on the theological use of

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Lacan. Marcus Pound discusses the importance of Lacan’s concept of trauma in relation to Kierkegaard (Pound, 2007, pp. 1–28). Tina Beattie discusses the Feminist theological implications of Lacan’s work in relation to Thomist philosophy in a way that frees Aquinas from essentialist platonic ideals hindering interpretations of his work (Beattie, 2013, pp. 2–12). On the other hand, Amy Hollywood discusses Lacan’s engagement in mystical theology through exploring Seminar XX (Hollywood, 2002, pp. 146–170). Žižek engages with theology in numerous works, but his most sustained engagement is in a work entitled The Monstrosity of Christ, which dialogues with John Milbank over the value of Christology for political philosophy (Žižek & Milbank, 2009, pp. 24–110). At the heart of these books is a debate surrounding Hegelian dialectic and the Christian concept of paradox. These discussions centre on Lacan’s concept of the real. With these applications of Lacan, however, one can see that they usually focus on the philosophical use of Lacan that has taken root in many European and Anglophone philosophy and theology departments (Eyers, 2012, pp. 6–10; Fink, 2013, p. 158). Unfortunately, the comprehensive clinical study of Lacan’s theories has primarily been undertaken by non-English-speaking Lacanians. This group, however, needs more appeal within the English-speaking clinical psychoanalytic community, which generally offers less opportunity for the practical application of Lacan’s theories. Clinical Lacanian and scholar Michael J Miller states this clearly in his work Lacanian Psychotherapy: Theory and Practical Applications (2011): A student of psychodynamic therapy in this country [America] is hard-­ pressed to find a legitimate clinical education that involves any academic or practical work based on Jacques Lacan’s contributions to psychoanalysis. Her exposure to Lacan is much more likely to come in the form of what she overhears in departments of literature and philosophy than it is to come from her psychological training. If the clinician in training wishes to take up Lacan clinically, she is largely on her own, even in psychoanalytic training institutes, faced with a shortage of mentorship, clinical literature, and camaraderie of like-minded professionals. (Miller, 2011, p. xvi)

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Miller expresses regret in his work, noting that when Lacanian theory is employed, it is mainly used to extract philosophical insights rather than for clinical applications (Miller, 2011, p. XVI). This skewed usage has resulted in a split in how Lacanian theory is applied in systematic theology versus pastoral theology. Therefore, while systematic theologians are familiar with Lacan‘s work, his theories have largely been disseminated through the lens of philosophy departments. This has led to the initial theological examinations of Lacan being primarily contextualised within postmodernism and cultural and literature studies (Miller, 2011, p. xiv). We find the first extended Anglophone theological engagement with Lacan in a 1989 collection of essays entitled Lacan and Theological Discourse (Wyschogrod et  al., 1989, p.  11). In these early theological explorations, nearly all have been framed by a focus on the linguistic aspect of Lacan’s work. In this sense, he was usually seen as an extension of Derrida (1930–2004) (Pound, 2007, pp. 10–11). This interpretation of Lacan was focused on his conception of the signifier and its relation to the signified. It broadly tallied with what can be called a relativist reading of theology. This focused on the inability of theology to fully communicate its meaning because meaning is, from the outset, always deferred. Pound suggests this in his 2007 work Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma when he writes: For these [early theological readers of ] Lacan [he] was primarily to be taken as a psychoanalytic supplement to Derrida, an ‘an ally of theology’ because like Derrida ‘he forces theology to seriously assess the problematic of its own textuality.’ Providing a philosophical reminder that theological discourse is a form of speech and it therefore speaks a lack […]. By ceding mastery, theology could become less concerned with defending existing doctrine, and joins the chorus of postmodern critques against Enlightenment totalitarianism. (Pound, 2007, p. 11)

In the mid-2000s, new translations of Lacan’s seminars eventually made their way into the Anglophone world, and the focus on Lacan’s work became more centred on concepts that went beyond the post-­structuralist emphasis. Namely, scholars focused on the later Lacan’s theories that went beyond a focus on the signifier. This methodology became

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associated with what is now known as the Ljubljana school of Lacanian psychoanalysis (Eyers, 2012, pp. 6–10). Being related to the school himself, Žižek began to make waves in his early excursions into theology with explorations of Lacan’s concept of the real and how this related to Christology. His first major exposition on Christianity was entitled The Fragile Absolute: Or, Why is the Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For? (2000), which aimed to give a Lacanian historical materialist reading of the Christian tradition to ‘rescue Christianity from the fundamentalists.’ He does this by focusing on the principle of Christian Charity and later the soteriological and staurological implications of Christ’s death as interpreted through Lacan’s later work (Žižek, 2000, pp. 113–122).

 he Absence of Lacan in Pastoral Theology T and Spiritual Direction However, there is a noticeable lack of utilisation of Lacan‘s philosophical and clinical perspectives within the field of pastoral theology. Upon examining the resources of pastoral theology alongside those of systematic theology, it becomes apparent that Lacan’s significance as a clinician is largely disregarded. As I will elaborate later, the prevailing interpretation tends to lean towards experientialism when engaging with Lacan at a pastoral level. Consequently, I address this imbalance by earnestly considering Lacan as a clinician, recognising his direct relevance to pastoral theology. Furthermore, I aim to employ Lacan’s work within the realm where theology places the utmost importance on psychology: spiritual direction. In doing so, my contribution will be both original and valuable to the ongoing discourse. I argue that spiritual direction is a praxis of desire. It is a practical discourse that operates as a method by which we can detect our most personal desires and bring them before God. It entails an exploration of our desires in the fabric of our lives (Ruffing & Ruffing, 2000, pp. 9–27). This discursive practice has always been interested in secular methods of directing desire to aid its cause. It is surprising that Lacan has been left out of this discursive practice, given his absolute focus on desire. Not

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only this, but he even references spiritual directors in clarifying his understanding of desire at a clinical level. He states this in his first seminar entitled Freud’s Papers on Techniques (1988). He argues that one of the critical moments in analysis, which the exploration of desire leads to, is comparable to the Dark Night of the Soul: [This moment in analysis] is one of the most significant moments [ and is akin to the] Dark Night of St John of the Cross, which everyone reads, and no one understands.9 (SE1: 234)

Furthermore, in a paper entitled Psychoanalysis and Its Teaching (1957), Lacan states that spiritual direction is of practical value for psychoanalysis, precisely for its pedagogical value. Moreover, he further claims that psychoanalysis needs to stop approaching spiritual direction as an ‘object’ of pure scientific scrutiny: The perplexities of spiritual direction […] suffice to force the psychoanalyst to evolve in a region that academic psychology has never considered except through a spy-glass.10 (E: 381)

Consequently, a clear opportunity arises to explore the intricate connection between desire, John of the Cross, mystical theology, and the practice of spiritual direction. However, for many individuals, Lacan‘s importance seems to rest predominantly in his ability to shed further light on the mystical theology of John of the Cross rather than his pragmatic application within the sphere of spiritual direction. We can see this in the work of Amy Hollywood and Ted Kepes in that they explore the value of Lacan solely for mystical theology (Kepes, 2012, pp.  45–49; Hollywood, 2002, pp. 146–172). However, this separation of mystical theology from the spiritual direction is the problem. It is almost as if the  This expression depicts a profound existential transitional moment in the soul’s movement toward God. It is usually depicted in terms of spiritual aridity although it also paradoxically demonstrates a progressive moment in one’s spiritual journey. It is defined in the Ascent of Mount Carmel (Subida del Monte Carmelo) and The Dark Night (Noche Oscura) by John of the Cross (1542–1591) and has been used by other writers and saints throughout the ages (Cugno, 1982, pp. 1–50). My argument will return to examine this concept later. 10  This quote is of utmost importance; I will return to explicating it later on. 9

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more negative aspects of spirituality fall into the hands of professional theologians. Contrasting this, the modern practice of spiritual direction leverages the more uplifting aspects of the practice. This has resulted in the theoretical positioning of John of the Cross, where the positive facets of his work are chiefly portrayed as references to God. Meanwhile, the negative dimensions of his work are interpreted through a psychologised lens, akin to a depiction of pre-modern experiences of depression (Pietsch, 2011, pp. 1–15). As I aim to show, this represents an instance of managing D2 style desire within the framework of positive affective experientialism as D1b, a technique often employed by contemporary spiritual directors. For this reason, Lacan‘s ideas are not often integrated into spiritual direction, as his methodological focus correlates little with the concept of ‘well-being.’ Lacan notably contested this premise (E: 649) and advocated that psychoanalysis should primarily concern a patient’s broader Eros (SE, VII: 300). To talk about a lack of experience as being an expression of desire sounds like a paradox, yet this is what spiritual directors like John of the Cross were at pains to express. This desirative form of ‘non-­ experience’ is also found in the work of Lacan, who expressed it in very different terms.11 By constraining the purview of spiritual direction solely within the bounds of conscious experientialism, we risk overlooking the paradoxical totality and inherent incompleteness of our human existence. Acknowledging this, I will later present an argument in favour of restoring the logic of D2 through an active engagement with Lacanian psychoanalysis. I will also contend that Lacan resisted the shift towards D1b, given his view that Gestalt psychology was overly centred around ‘experience.’ Furthermore, he took issue with the stringent guidelines and methodologies of Anna Freud‘s tradition, here interpreted as aligning with the modality of D1a. Lacan maintained the centrality of desire (D2) through  I use this term to describe the paradoxical nature of what I describe of as D2 It results in a non-­ experiential form of experience. And since experience (as end and object of desire) is deferred, desire intensifies and continues infinitely. It stems back to Gregory of Nyssa and how he believed that since human desire is a manifestation of our deep-seated yearning for God, it will never be entirely satiated in this life or the next. Instead, in his view, as we deepen our understanding and love of God, our longing for Him continues throughout this life and into the next. (Williams, 2014, pp. 57–58). 11

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his subtle engagement with pre-modern spiritual directors. Lacan states that his interest in the mystics is to be understood in these terms (SE, XIV: 195). In other words, D2 should not be conceived as a drive toward ‘experiential unity’ or ‘rigorous dogmatic methods’ (SE, XIV: 195). The paradoxical and perplexing nature of desire underscores the significance of the Dark Night in relation to the logic of D2. Paradoxically, D2 targets an object that compels the subject to confront the inherent contradictions and challenges of their existence. As we shall see, D2 in older forms of spiritual direction was not merely understood as being an affection aimed directly at a sense of wholeness or emotional satisfaction. Instead, it was primarily recognised as being ontological and caught up with the inherent incompleteness of our being. Such ideas were later expounded by the great Catholic philosopher Erich Przywara who spoke about such ontological excess as an in-and-beyond and necessary creative tension of the analogia entis. For Przywara, the Catholic trajectory of thought aims toward confronting the ‘abyss of man’ in relation to the ‘abyss of God’: [this excess is ] the “night” proclaimed by Dionysius the Areopagite as the “abyss of a stormy night,” which is nevertheless a superabundant outpouring of light. It is “night” in the sense enunciated by John of the Cross, in keeping with the tradition of Augustine and the Areopagite, when he speaks in his hymns of “God’s nuptials” as a dark night. But then, implicit within this correlation between an “abyssal night” of man and an “abyssal night” of God, there is a corresponding gnoseology of night.” It is based upon the realization that the same “consciousness” that produced Augustine’s idealist gnoseology is, in its profoundest aspect, precisely an “abyss”: “You wish [to search out] the depths of the sea, but what is more unfathomable than human consciousness?”(Przywara, 2014, p. 519).12

Not only this, but D2 itself had value apart from its capacity to be fulfilled. In other words, D2  in pre-modern forms of spiritual direction went beyond psychologism and experientialism, and this is why Przywara spoke of it in terms of gnoseology, as it concerns a kind of knowledge not located purely at the level of experience. 12

 I have edited this to take out Greek terms for ease of reading.

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Current literature on Juanist Spiritual Direction I will further cover the Juanist literature on spiritual direction in later sections.13 However, it suffices to say that the reception of John’s mystical theology and spiritual direction in some contemporary fields are received in the highly attenuated logic of D1b. We see this in figures like James Nelson and Ellen-Clark King, who understand the value of John’s Dark Night of the Soul in purely experientialist terms (Clark-King, 2011, pp. 89–90; Nelson, 2009, p. 378). It is also seen in the work of Gerald May (Quoted in Pickering, 2008, p. 183). My argument will refute their positions and extrapolate the importance of utilising non-experientialist interpretations of John’s work in the practice of spiritual direction. Non-experientialist perspectives can be found in Denys Turner’s The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism (1995), which focuses on a reinterpretation of the work of John of the Cross that complicates and problematises the experientialist assumptions that pervade many contemporary readings. On the other hand, Mark A McIntosh’s Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (1998) focuses on reuniting theology and mystical theology to stop the latter from being reduced to psychologistic interpretations. Peter Tyler’s work on St. John of the Cross (2011a) places John in the tradition of the theologia mystica, which is interpreted as linguistic strategies of disruption rather than purely experiential realities. Finally, Edward Howells’ work John of the Cross and Teresa of Avila: Mystical Knowing and Selfhood (2002) explores the epistemology of John of the Cross and its relationship to subjectivity. Howells argues that what emerges is a picture of John, who is more interested in changing the structures of subjectivity (Turner, 1995, pp. 226–251; McIntosh, 1998, pp. 40–90; Tyler, 2011, pp. 61–70; Howells, 2002, pp. 15–40). However, because of its proximity to therapeutic methods, the practical application of such nuanced non-experientialist foundations in spiritual direction remains unexplored  These sections focus on the modern reception of John and how spiritual direction has come to focus on an experientialism as a specific mode of enjoyment we are commanded to engage in. They also focus on how emotional warmth is a prerequisite quality that must be found in spiritual directors. To summarise here, the literature on the significance of John’s contribution to spiritual direction is interpreted in terms of D1b as opposed to D2. 13

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and stays locked in this positive affective experientialist paradigm. This work will thus attempt to utilise these theological findings in the practice of spiritual direction without moving into the register of D1b.

Plan and Methodology of the Book Visual Representation of the Argument In Fig. 2.2, the top half of the square represents the current state of spiritual direction and psychotherapy as firmly located within the positive affective experientialist paradigm. It understands desire mostly as regarding feelings of wholeness and happiness. However, in the bottom half of the box, we can see that pre-modern Juanist spiritual direction and Lacanian psychoanalysis function in a way that subverts this desire for understanding. So, by unearthing and expanding Lacan’s

Fig. 2.2  Representation of the argument

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mystical-­ theological foundations (foundations based on pre-modern Juanist spiritual direction), a ‘desirative intervention’ can be made into modern spiritual direction and dialogue with current therapeutic methods. Moreover, I will demonstrate that desire can be thought of differently by questioning current uses of the term ‘desire’ within spiritual direction. This intervention will thus critique many of the axioms of positive affective experientialism (D1b) upon which modern forms of spiritual direction are now based. This intervention will go by way of the more general philosophical paradigm, which questions the value of experientialism in relation to modern theology: the linguistic turn.14 Nonetheless, by incorporating Lacan‘s theories, my methodology manages to sidestep certain complexities intrinsic to the methods of the linguistic turn. The issue at hand concerns the exchange of one philosophical paradigm for another. By eschewing experientialism in favour of an exclusive emphasis on the linguistic, the linguistic turn inadvertently suggests a total reduction to language, thus leading to a form of idealism. Consequently, I suggest Lacan’s understanding of language successfully circumvents the issues linked to experientialism and the idealism that emerges from a purely linguistic approach. Therefore, a recurrent theme of scrutinising the worth of experience and its nexus with desire and language will be threaded through my work. This central theme will continually circle back to the core inquiry that forms the crux of this study: How can we reclaim the practice of untangling our desire within spiritual direction in such a way that it challenges contemporary interpretations?

Methodological Considerations An integral aspect of my methodology will involve a comprehensive exploration, analysis, and interpretation of texts that shape the contemporary application of spiritual direction and its pivot towards experience.  The linguistic turn is a movement in philosophy that unified a general tendency between continental and analytic traditions. It starts from the premise that the limits of our thought are synonymous with what it is possible to say. The starting point of philosophy, therefore, starts with examining our position as speaking creatures (see Critchley, 2001, pp. 20–21). 14

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Therefore, my approach will chiefly adopt a philosophical, meta-critical, historical, and textual perspective. I will also offer detailed interpretations of mystical theological texts and studies in Christian spirituality to shape my critique. The concluding chapters, however, will consider spiritual direction and psychoanalysis from a practical viewpoint, treating them as disciplines centred around speech and listening. It is crucial to emphasise that I will abstain from employing any quantitative methodologies or other means of assessing the ‘efficacy’ of spiritual direction, as these techniques form part of the paradigm under scrutiny. The proposition here is that the inherent urge to quantify spirituality invariably encapsulates it within the logic of D1a and D1b rather than D2. My interest lies in mapping out the ‘traumatic’ quality inherent in Lacan and John’s work, premised on the idea that this ‘excessive element’ directly correlates with the nurturing of desire within the logic and practice of D2. This necessitates delving into both of these disciplines and the philosophical ideologies influencing them, detached from a framework of ‘adaptation and measurement,’ or what Alain Badiou terms ‘the tyranny of number’ and what Lacan refers to as the ‘service of goods’ (Pluth, 2013, p. 161; SE, VI: 303).15 In other words, I will argue that we can only begin to think about spiritual direction differently when we can deliver it from methods that aim to tame its excessive dark element.

 utline of The Argument The Loss and Recovery O of Mystical Desire in Spiritual Direction The book is structured in two distinct parts. The opening section is named The Loss of Mystical Desire in Christian Spiritual Direction,  In 1985 political philosopher Alain Badiou (1937) a student of Lacan, argued that politics will only become thinkable when delivered from the tyranny of number. He is critiquing the tendency to reduce the political into pure measurable units. This can be applied to the modern tendency to try and measure ‘happiness.’ One is reminded of the introduction of the world happiness report in 2012 which uses the concept of well-being as an alternative heuristic device to measure the growth of a nation as opposed to traditional ideas of economic growth. Moreover, the idea of the service of goods as depicted by Lacan was critical of how psychoanalysis was being forced into a specific idea of the good which was synonymous with adaptation of the subject to societal norms that are measurable (see Pluth, 2013). 15

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followed by the second part, Recovering Desire in Christian Spiritual Direction. The first part will undertake the task of outlining the identified problem, while the latter part will suggest a plausible solution. The opening segment is primarily historical and philosophical in nature, aimed at tracing the underpinning ideologies that have shaped the modern practices of spiritual direction. Subsequently, attention will be given to the writings of John of the Cross, with the objective of probing the mystical theological ideas that govern his practice and writings. Finally, the first half will culminate in an analysis of the linguistic turn as a prospective methodology, ideally suited not only to systematic theology but also to the Juanist spiritual direction and pastoral theology. In the second section, I will move towards a brief outline of the historical context of Lacan’s work and give an overview of the key ideas which lie at the heart of his concept of psychoanalysis. A reading of vital Lacanian texts follows to unearth the Catholic mystical influences within his teachings. Moreover, I will closely read a passage in his Écrits where he mentions the practice of spiritual direction. I will then argue that through the work of Jean Baruzi (1881–1953) and Georges Bataille (1897–1962), Lacan was re-introduced to critical elements of Juanist mystical theology and spiritual direction which allowed him to articulate his theory of the Real and the not-all. This concept helped Lacan to reconceive the concept of mystical desire and enjoyment in a non-experientialist linguistic framework. This will open the space for exploring a Lacanian cultural-­ linguistic methodology in Juanist spiritual direction through Lacan’s concept of the four discourses that have these aforementioned Juanist spiritual concepts at their heart. Finally, my work will discuss Grace in relation to John and Lacan’s concept of psychoanalysis and spiritual direction as a practice of speaking and listening. As briefly stated, a significant idea which informs the overall thrust of my work is an argument put forward by McIntosh, who argues that there has been a split between spirituality and theology (McIntosh, 1998, pp. 39–75). However, he claims there was a natural unity between these two disciplines in the past. Thus, I aim to bring Lacan and John together through theological and philosophical justification. This entails listening and reading carefully to what each practitioner had to say in their context. Hence, John’s mystical theology should be understood in the light of

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his spiritual direction. Similarly, Lacan was a psychoanalyst, a therapeutic practice which gave birth to his theory and subsequent philosophy. Both the work of Lacan and John of the Cross is thus to be located within this pastoral practice of listening and care of the soul. Lacan states: Of all the undertakings that have been proposed in this century, the psychoanalyst’s is perhaps the loftiest, because it mediates in our time between the [man of care] and the subject of absolute knowledge. This is also why it requires a long subjective ascesis, indeed one that never ends, since the end of training analysis itself is not separable from the subject’s engagement in his practice.16 (E: 264)

So, through reading carefully about what Lacan and John have to say, I will show how both thinkers help inform the practice of spiritual direction and psychoanalysis as disciplines of listening carefully to others to help understand their desire (and what desire actually is) for the Other.17 This method of listening carefully thus follows Slavoj Žižek’s conception of reading Lacan in terms of understanding Lacan’s pedagogical method as being split between the analysand prose and the analyst theory (2011, p. 128). These are located between his seminars and Écrits. By doing this, one can decipher Lacan’s meaning. Likewise, I do the same with John of the Cross, understanding that his spiritual direction is split between his prose and poetry. Both methods will form the basis of a Juanist-Lacanian mode of speaking and listening when brought together. Thus, the content of their teaching is not to be separated from their pedagogical methods.

 In the text he actually says ‘the care ridden man’ rather than ‘man of care’ as Lacan uses the term souci which means worry and anxiety. Lacan, in using this phrase, is invoking the discourse of Heidegger as souci is the usual French translation of Heidegger’s sorge, according to Bruce Fink who is the primary translator of the Écrits (Lacan, 2006, p. 792n).According to Fink, Lacan is linking the pastoral implications of being an analyst to conceptions of being linked to existentialist thought. Lacanian scholar Richard Boothby, however, has decided to translate this as ‘man of care.’ I have chosen to put this in place of care-ridden in order to focus on the pastoral nature of Lacan’s work (see Boothby, 2015). 17  The Other is a term utilised in modern theology for the alterity of God. However, Lacan conceived of the Other as being the field in which our desire is shaped and created. The two concepts have similarities and differences which I will map out in the course of this work. 16

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John and Lacan At this point, it is essential to introduce the two main ‘actors’ in the narrative of the argument. I will give a more extensive bibliographical outline in the later chapters, but at this juncture, it is necessary to introduce John and Lacan to readers to outline some similarities regarding their respective formation and their subversive exposition of desire. The main biographical sources for this sketch are from Peter Tyler’s St. John of the Cross (2011a); Dámaso Alonso’s The Poems of Saint John of the Cross (1972); Michael Clark’s Jacques Lacan (Volume I): An Annotated Bibliography (2014); and Elizabeth Roudinesco’s Jacques Lacan (1999). John and Lacan are probably the most famous and equally controversial thinkers in their respective fields. John radically changed how desire came to be conceived in mystical theology and the practice of spiritual direction, while Lacan did the same for Freudian psychoanalysis. St John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz; 1542–1591) was a sixteenth-century Carmelite who was considered a great mystical theologian and one of Spain’s most celebrated poets. One of his distinguishing features, amongst many others, is that he gave an exquisite contribution to the mystical tradition of fusing the poetic tradition of courtly love with the practice of contemplation. Like the Beguine mystic Marguerite Porete (–1310) before him and others, John did not see an absolute strict separation between his own contemplative interpretative lineage and the lineage of discursive desire found in the passionate works of secular, love poetry (Lichtmann, 1997, p. 71; Alonso, 1972, pp. 9–37).18 In other words, he did not believe that the former should outright reject the latter as they were both, for him, expositions on the absolute centrality of human desire (Alonso, 1972, pp. 9–37). Alonso has argued that John was particularly influenced by the poetry of Garcilaso de la Vega and Boscán, influences which can be seen in The Spiritual Canticle (Alonso, 1972, pp. 9–37). It can be argued that John saw in these expositions a continuation of the mystery at the heart of biblical texts like the Song of Songs insofar as he realised that his desire was just as valuable a  John is to be located in the tradition of the theologia mistica which is a tradition which distinguishes itself from speculative theology (Tyler, 2011, pp. 61–70). 18

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source to give commentary on. This resulted in the production of the prose and poetry which make up his performative discourse of desire.19 However, John’s confrontation with desire cannot merely be attributed to the high culture of theology, mystical theology, and Spanish poetry. It can be argued that John’s formation as a young person allowed him to see the sacred in the profane and the profane in the sacred. Tyler states this clearly: At the age of seventeen, John found employment in the plague hospital of Nuestra Señora de la Concepción where he found favor with his employer Don Alonso Alvarez who became something of a mentor and father figure to the young lad. The hospital had around fifty beds and served the poor with ulcers and contagious diseases, many of the patients suffering from the new incurable disease of syphilis which had returned from the New World with the conquistadores. We hear how the boy ‘told stories and sang songs’ to the suffering patients and it seems as though John’s celebrated gifts as a gentle and sensitive pastor were developed at this young age. (Tyler, 2011a, p. 15)

John’s conception of desire was initially formed within a context of contact with human suffering and deprivation. Consequently, perhaps one should not divorce his conception of desire from this distinctly pastoral formation, even if desire becomes abstract at points in his work. John may have utilised philosophical, theological and poetic ideas to explain this performative discourse of desire, but there is every reason to suppose that the kernel of it had been formed in his own pastoral experience at an early age. Jacques Lacan (1909–1981) was a twentieth-century French psychoanalyst who, like John, fused the poetic with the prevailing scientific and philosophical ideas of the time. Like John, in his early years, Lacan was situated in a pastoral context where he cared for the sick. He trained first as a psychiatrist before eventually changing fields to become a psychoanalyst (Roudinesco, 1999, p.  21). Lacan, like John, would have been  The idea of a performative discourse is central to my argument. It is a notion elaborated by Peter Tyler. The idea is that language is not ‘merely descriptive’ rather it is performative. The texts are designed to have a formative effect on the reader rather than merely describe an ineffable pre-­ linguistic experience (see Tyler, 2011). I will also argue that this performative discourse is precisely what Lacan was trying to articulate in giving an account of analytic discourse. 19

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confronted with the suffering and pain of the patients at St Anne’s hospital, where Lacan interned (Clark, 2014, p. xviii; Roudinesco, 1999, p. 10). Indeed, one of Lacan’s significant criticisms of psychiatry was that it did not treat patients as subjects but as objects. He argued that psychiatrists did not consider the patient’s desire as they did not listen to their speech (Parker, 2011, pp. 39–61). He later fused his understanding of desire, distinctly Freudian, to ideas of desire that existed in the surrealist movement (Roudinesco, 1999, pp. 16, 32).20 So, where John was not reluctant to use the once-modern secular poetry of the time to express his spirituality, Lacan was not afraid to use modern surrealist influences to communicate psychoanalytic insights. Not only this, but his own pastoral formation can be attributed to a distinctly Catholic context. First, there is his Catholic upbringing by his devout mother. Then, later in his teens, he turned to a more theological formation through the father figure and eminent John of the Cross scholar Jean Baruzi (1881–1953), with whom he remained close friends throughout his life (Roudinesco, 1999, p.  11). Baruzi’s ideas on mystical Juanist desire would return to Lacan in his further development of the concept of the Real in the 70s, which came to him through the influence of George Bataille, who took the time to read Baruzi’s thesis on John of the Cross and helped formulate some of the core ideas of Bataille’s thought (Roudinesco, 1999, pp. 11–13, 135–137; Hollywood, 2002, p. 319).21 Finally, what links both of these thinkers is their radical position of ‘returning’ to what they believed to be the true heart and teaching of their respective establishments.

 Elizabeth Roudinesco is arguably the most famous of Lacan’s biographers. She is a French historian and practicing psychoanalyst. She is also an affiliated researcher at Paris Diderot University. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages and her biography of Freud was awarded the Prix Décembre and 2014 (see Roudinesco, 1999). She was also a student of Michel De Certeau (see Badiou, 2018). 21  The real is a central pillar of Lacan’s thought. It represents an antagonistic excess within our psychological economy. It radically stands outside of our formation in language, yet also represents that which forms its innermost core (see Eyers, 2012). My argument will expand on this concept below. Again, the real is that aspect of our existence which is radically outside of any conception, whether emotional or intellectual. It is experienced as a type of opacity which is absolutely impenetrable. It plays a central part in Lacan’s meta psychology and in clinical practice. 20

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Furthermore, because of this ‘return,’ they were rejected by the institutions that initially embraced them. John was imprisoned by his own order, while Lacan was dismissed by the International Psychoanalytic Association (Roudinesco, 1999, p. 247; Tyler, 2011a, p. 29). Both institutions assumed that these teachers and leaders of communities were dangerous and heterodox. However, despite their rejection, they both maintained that there was nothing heretical about their perspectives. I will argue that both Lacan and John understood that mystical experientialism and fulfilment (D1b) could ultimately become obstacles to desire (D2). John of the Cross described this through the exposition of his Dark Night of the Soul (A I.15.2), while Lacan understood this regarding being confronted with what he called the real (E: 672). One can understand the tendency to ignore or push aside the darker aspects of both thinkers, especially within the context of spiritual direction and pastoral theology. When faced with individual suffering, these radical theories of darkness can seem cruel, as people just want to end their suffering and attain happiness. So, we relegate these dangerous ideas to an academic, theoretical field where they cannot do much damage. However, as I will argue in this work, ignoring these realities leads to a more problematic situation. When one reduces the unconscious and God to static affective representations of wholeness, we can create the possibility of even more suffering. I will argue that Juanist spiritual direction and Lacanian psychoanalysis posit that desire never leads to the experience of ‘wholeness.’ This is because a relationship with God cannot be relegated to a mere feeling, nor is it adaptive. So, by reading Lacan and John together, I hope to do something akin to what Marcus Pound has outlined in his work Theology, Psychoanalysis, and Trauma (Pound, 2007, pp. 1–28). Through this cross-reading, I hope to ‘repeat’ the ideas of Lacan and John for those engaged in the dialogue between current spiritual direction and psychology.22 By repeating their  Pound argues that the concept of repetition entails that one repeats the work but with a fundamental difference in order to create an intervention rather than a mere continuation (Pound, 2007, pp. 1–28).

22

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work, I hope to critique some of the ‘imaginary formulations’ which have coalesced around our modern ideas of desire and its place within spiritual direction.23 Arguably, it can be said that spiritual direction as praxis starts in speech and listening and ends in desire. Moreover, it is only by talking to a spiritual director to express what one desires spiritually. However, ignoring the analysis of speech as the medium of desire seems to be a common problem in spiritual direction. Speech is more or less taken for granted, much in the same way as desire is. A central idea of my argument is the recognition that desire and language are inextricably woven together, and any attempt to separate the two is misguided. By approaching the problem in this way, I will open a space by which it becomes possible to re-­ think both desire and language in relation to the practice of spiritual direction. By giving a Juanist reading of Lacan and a Lacanian reading of John of the Cross, I will demonstrate how each of these thinkers can preserve the tradition of utilising psychology within the discipline of spiritual direction with a direct focus on the centrality of desire in terms of the logic of D2 as opposed to D1a and D1b.

 he Experiential Paradigm T and Spiritual Direction Introduction This section will continue to explore the key literature surrounding modern spiritual direction to demonstrate how D1b has come to govern its  I use the term imaginary in the Lacanian sense, as the register which is concerned with wholeness, ‘affectivity’ perfection and ‘satisfaction.’ It is the psychological register of the ego. This will be expanded in the chapter on Lacan. The similarity between Lacan’s idea of avoiding the imaginary in analysis and John’s “dark night of the soul” is that both describe a process of confronting and overcoming the constraints of our own conceptual and affective frameworks regarding how we relate to ourselves. For John, this entails a fundamental disengagement from everything we generally rely on to create our identities and make sense of the world. While for Lacan, it entails realising how our reliance on received pictures-of-the-self can be a type of self-deception. John and Lacan would hypothetically agree that these processes would be challenging and could be uncomfortable. Although for John, it results in a mystical connection with God, for Lacan, it results in the subject taking responsibility for their desire. 23

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practices. First, I will examine the roots of what I shall call experientialism. After this, I will explore what shall be termed ‘the injunction-­toenjoy’ within our modern consumerist society. Finally, I will demonstrate how this concept has been passed into aspects of Christian spiritual direction.

William James and Experientialism William James’ seminal work The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902) demonstrates the value of religious experience as being grounded in opposition to the institutions in which they are located. The most important aspects of his work regarding measuring and accounting for religious experience are found in chapters sixteen and seventeen, where he concentrates on four defining criteria: 1. Ineffability: This focuses on the fact that the expression of such intense feelings goes beyond any means of expression. It has more to do with the intensity of feeling than anything to do with the intellect. 2. Noetic quality: James focuses on the importance of feeling in the first distinction, but here he demonstrates the importance of a particular type of knowing. Again, it is a knowing that goes beyond linguistic conventions and can be termed a ‘knowing’ which is replete with meaning. 3. Transiency: With this criterion, James argues that religious experiences do not last for long; they seem to be fleeting points of the extraordinary. 4. Passivity: Here, he argues that religious experience at its pinnacle goes against the autonomy of the human subject; in many cases, the person feels as if they are taken over. (James, 1902, pp. 295–296) Arguably, in searching for the value of religious experience, James’ study has unduly favoured content over form, reducing the normative discursive practices of religion to the merely arbitrary. In other words, James has psychologised the mystical. This psychologised understanding of the mystical, in turn, has found its way into theological accounts (Tyler, 2011b, pp. 13–15). As Tyler puts it:

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In such terms, the perennial-experientialist view of mysticism survives intact to the present day. James’s work combined with that of other [scholars] to produce the phenomenon that I am referring to here as ‘modern mysticism.’ Interestingly enough much academic discourse on the topic is still dominated by the approach. (Tyler, 2011b, pp. 13–15)

Carrette and King suggest that this psychologised form of mysticism (D1b) has risen alongside the current resurgence in fundamentalism (Carrette & King, 2004, p. 181). As religion eschews scientific theories, it starts to rely on the content of these mystical states as validation in the face of secular segregation.

Rudolf Otto and Experientialism Rudolf Otto (1869–1937), who was highly impressed with William James’ interpretation of religious experience, created his own framework for examining the phenomenon. Where James postulated a variety of religious experiences grounded empirically in psychology, Otto argued that only one fundamental experience signified transcendence (Almond, 2017, pp. 62–63).24 Hence, Otto brought this psychologisation of religious experience back into the folds of theological and philosophical examination with his notion of the mysterium tremendum in his seminal work The Idea of the Holy (1923). In this work, he expanded on his previous notion of the numinous to extrapolate its epistemological value for religious life. He states: We are dealing with something for which there is only one appropriate expression, mysterium tremendum. The feeling of it may at times come sweeping like a gentle tide pervading the mind with a tranquil mood of deepest worship. It may pass over into a more set and lasting attitude of the soul, continuing, as it were, thrillingly vibrant and resonant, until at last it dies away and the soul resumes its ‘profane,’ non-religious mood of  Rudolf Otto is an important theologian of the early twentieth century. The main idea he has contributed to this field is his concept of the numinous which he postulated as being the very centre of the world’s religions. He is considered to be one of the foremost theorists of the liberal theological tradition (see Almond, 2017). 24

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e­veryday experience. It has its crude, barbaric antecedents, and early manifestations, and again it may be developed into something beautiful and pure and glorious. It may become the hushed, trembling, and speechless humility of the creature in the presence of—whom or what? In the presence of that which is a Mystery inexpressible and above all creatures (Otto, 1923, pp. 12–13).

This results in a type of religious experience, which, although technically beyond intellectual conception, is moved to the affective category. The content of the experience itself has a dual quality: 1. An experience of ‘daunting awfulness and majesty,’ 2. An experience of something uniquely attractive and fascinating.’(Otto, 1923; Almond, 2017) For Otto, consequently, at the level of experience, we understand the quality of the Sacred and the Profane. The effect William James had on spiritual direction was profound. Apart from bridging a gap between spiritual direction and psychology, he also helped introduce to the vocabulary of spiritual direction the concept of creating a psychological criterion for judging the authenticity of an experience (Gojmerac-Leiner, 2011, p.  22). One can also deduce this influence in such important texts on spiritual direction such as William A.  Barry’s and William J.  Connolly’s The Practice of Spiritual Direction (2009), where they dedicate an entire chapter mapping out the criteria for judging the authenticity of religious experience (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp. 107–123). Thus, with the introduction of this methodology, ‘religious experience [became] the content of the practice of spiritual direction’ (Gojmerac-Leiner, 2011, p. viii).

The Rise of Positive Affective Experientialism However, if back in the nineteenth century there was a more nuanced understanding of what we specifically meant by religious experience, insofar as it did not focus solely on positive experience, today we see that it is much more restricted in scope, especially in the practice of spiritual

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direction. This is a tendency in modern spiritual direction and various forms of therapy that have become focused on the concept of well-being (Galindo, 1997). Hillman describes the dangers of understanding soul work as only regarding such a concept: Whenever the importance of experience is determined only by intensity, by absoluteness, by ecstatic Godlikeness or God-nearness and is self-­validating, there is a risk of possession by an archetypal person and a manic inflation. (Hillman, 1977, p. 66)

Modern direction tends to claim that although there may be suffering in life, one can overcome this with the correct listening and proper prayers. Engaging in the correct techniques can open yourself up to happiness and healing. As Hillman caustically characterises the approach: [Negative experiences] are evidence of the lower, unactualised rungs of the ladder. Our way shall be around them. Meditate, contemplate, exercise through them and away from them, but do not dwell there for insight. Analysis of them leads downward into fragmentation, into the bits and functions and complexes of partial man and away from wholeness and unity. This denial sees in psychopathological events misplaced energies by which one may be scourged by which ultimately shall be transformed to work for one and toward the One. Divinity is up at the peaks, not the swamps of our funk, and not in anxiety (Hillman, 1977, p. 66)

Hillman sees this perspective as being antithetical to older forms of spiritual direction and forms of spirituality. Even though writing in the 1970s, he could already see that the language of the soul was being transformed into something that negated some of its most fundamental aspects. As I pointed out, this drive toward experiential wholeness is a significant component in a modern globalised society with consumption and production at its very heart. (Carrette & King, 2004, pp.  1–29). In the diagram below, we can see that consumerist models are utilised by therapy practitioners and how this transforms their practice. These practices are then picked up by practitioners of spiritual direction, who begin to interpret their own paradigm under the aforementioned model. These are then fed back into a consumerist culture which in turn creates the conditions for pop spiritual culture to flourish (See Fig. 2.3):

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3.spiritual direction

2.therapeutic models

1.consumerist culture

Fig. 2.3  Representation of how spiritual direction feeds into consumerist culture

The Therapeutic Injunction to Enjoy Ian Parker has demonstrated that this commodifying cultural shift in psychology has resulted in psychotherapists accumulating what he terms ‘psychotherapeutic capital.’ They became those who could supply ecstatic, positive experiences. Parker explains that this transition took place in early modern psychology, where some therapists believed they could bypass language and representation to delve directly into the emotional content of the subject. This transition was one where the psychologist became the provider of positive emotional content while the patient became its passive recipient (2011, p. 107). This capitalisation of positive emotional experience is one of the underpinning devices driving our modern era. Parker claims that as our society drives us further and further into more complex modes of production, this psychological and spiritual complex which deals with providing positive emotional content (what he calls the psy-complex), has been crucial in mapping, tracing and creating

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the subject who enjoys producing and consuming ‘happiness’ (2011, pp. 152–153). The therapist thus offers well-being and wholeness through numinous self-knowledge. This is self-knowledge which is ultimately adaptive at the end, adaptive in the sense of creating the right emotional disposition to function correctly and effectively in society.

Self-Knowledge Therapists thus present this self-knowledge and the possibility of enjoyment as the very substance of the unconscious. This substance is presented to patients as something they should directly access (Parker, 2011, p. 117). Parker further argues that psychotherapy practitioners often try to arrive at a direct, immediate comprehension of what lies underneath language. This comprehension operates as a form of knowledge of the self, knowledge that operates as a power to be wielded over others (Parker, 2011, p. 117). However, one can argue that this psychotherapeutic capital is also presented as spiritual capital. Carrette and King note this fusion of the spiritual with the psychotherapeutic: The discourse and institutions of psychology have played a major part in maintaining control in late capitalist societies in the West by creating a privatised and individualised conception of reality. (Carrette & King, 2004, p. 26)

This individualised concept of reality is fused with individualist ideas about spirituality. Carrette and King go on to explain how the modern era is characterised by what they call the silent takeover of spirituality as a form of hegemony. They argue that there has been a privatisation of spirituality in the twofold sense of the term: 1. Religion as being separated from secular matters as a philosophical consequence of the enlightenment. 2. Religion as being privatised by companies and market institutions (2004, pp. 38–47).

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We can see this with the proliferation and sprawl of the endless publications of ‘spiritual self-help’ books in our current era. Underpinning is a concept of happiness which operates as the pure exchange value of both the spiritual and the psychological. One of the defining hallmarks of this appropriation of spirituality is what Carrette and King called ‘the promotion of unrestrained desire-fulfilment as the key to happiness’ (Carrette & King, 2004, p.  21). Put differently, it is the unrestrained utilisation of D1b. Diarmuid O’Murchu’s work The Transformation of Desire: How Desire Became Corrupt and How We Can Reclaim It (2010) is a prime example of this concept of unrestrained desire fulfilment. O’Murchu argues that the corruption of desire is the result of our inability to find any fulfilment in the coordinates of our current paradigm: My primary aim in this book is to help people integrate their desires in ways that will lead to greater happiness and fulfilment. (2007, p. 7)

O’Murchu is clear that spirituality and theological developments are where we need to look at regarding rescuing desire. However, O’Murchu also argues that we should reject ‘reductive intellectual understandings of desire,’ which bypass fulfilment. He opposes psychoanalysis to analytic psychology as he believes the latter’s holistic affective focus on desire is the correct framework by which to understand spiritual desire. (O’Murchu, 2007, pp. 1–50). O’Murchu sees the connection between spirituality and psychology as being essential but believes a particular type of psychology should inform a specific kind of spirituality. This is a typical example of the therapeutic experiential method meeting directly with its experiential theological counterpart. Ultimately, O’Murchu sees desire as integral but perceives it as some meta-psychological affective ‘energy.’ Unsurprisingly, terms like ‘healing’ and ‘fulfilment’ have become keywords by which spiritual direction now operates. In short, this is an example of a psychologistic reduction of mystical desire.

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Self-Help and Modern Spiritual Direction Danish psychologist Svend Brinkman, author of Stand Firm: Resisting the Self-Help Improvement Craze (2017), argues that ‘happiness’ is very quickly becoming almost totalitarian in its drive toward certainty: In an accelerating culture, we are supposed to do more, do it better and do it longer, with scant regard for the content or the meaning of what we are doing. Self-development has become an end in itself. And everything revolves around the self […] A vicious circle ensues. We turn inwards to master an uncertain world, which seems less and less certain as we become more and more isolated, finding ourselves with only our self-orientation for company. (Brinkman, 2017, pp. 22–23)

Reflecting this, British author Oliver Burkeman bolsters the psychological findings of Brinkman in his work The Antidote (2012). Burkeman recognises the current drive toward a numinous concept of happiness found within nearly all self-help books. Burkeman argues that although modern Western societies have the most material wealth in the world and an overabundance of self-help manuals that fixate on happiness, we seem incapable of actually being happy. Continuing this theme, Binkley argues that the current injunction toward happiness finds itself within a myriad of intellectual disciplines and functions as a sophisticated discourse of material reproduction which, in turn, creates alienation and anxiety. He writes: Happiness, once an intangible quality of individual temperament, has today emerged as an object of analytic clarity, measurable and actionable as never before. In the wake of this new object, a discourse on happiness has taken shape across a range of professional fields centered on the problematics of human government: in economics, business management, organisational theory, marketing, and public policy […]. Today it is not unrealistic to speak of a ‘technology of happiness’ in human resource management, education, business and executive leadership, in family and marriage therapy, in career coaching, physical fitness, and in all facets of personal and organisational life. (2014, p. 12)

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Binkley further argues that for happiness to become ubiquitous as a technology-­of-the-self within the various disciplines he mentions above, the subject needs to be transformed as the agent of happiness.25 Anxiety is at the heart of the modern subject who is forced into a relationship between the drive to happiness and social transformation via self-regulation: Happiness is today an asset cultivated by a solitary, psychologically truncated subject, for whom emotional self-manipulation is a simple technique. Happiness has been rendered a depthless physiological response without moral referent, a biological potential of the individual. (Binkley, 2014, p. 13)

This manufactured ‘potential for happiness’ in all facets of life is harvested and utilised by the economic plasticity of our globalised world. Our need to develop the capacity for happiness simultaneously creates the impetus for us to become machines of material production and consumption. One can see a direct connection between this and the idea of the primacy of ‘experientialism’ and the rise of what we now call the experience economy. The central idea is that market agents are no longer primarily focused on amassing material capital but instead on gathering ‘experiential capital.’ The product companies now focus on is the generation of happy experiences (Pine & Gilmore, 2011, pp. 1–40). As people become subjects who can access this hidden potential for a rarefied experience of happiness, they reject other aspects of their existence which seemingly stand in the way of this all-encompassing narrative. Everything other than happiness transforms into mere symptoms resulting from an ‘existential failure’ to fully activate this potentiality. As Žižek explains, failure to cultivate this innate capacity to be happy then results in guilt and anxiety for failing to transform into the subject of enjoyment (Žižek, 2000, pp. 132–134). People become trapped and abused by this spiritual  Technologies-of-the-self is a term coined by Michel Foucault. It refers to strategies and tactics people utilise in order to come to grasp their ethicality concerning established authority. This knowledge of self and how it relates to a broader social text is then utilised in arguments regarding scientific legitimacy. It is a model of self-regulation which has a wider relation to modes of power, especially in liberal democracies (Reuben, 2006, p. 156). 25

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imperative to be happy in service of a super-ego that demands that they produce and consume. This is what Žižek has termed the ‘injunction-to-­ enjoy’ which I will argue is synonymous with D1b (Žižek, 2000, p. 134; McGowan, 2004, pp.  11–40). Moreover, what marks the difference between the previous experiential paradigms of the nineteenth century and how it has transformed into something all-encompassing and reductive in scope: Indeed, today the shift from interest in the psychology of religion (which offers the potential of a critical and historical understanding) to contemporary ‘spirituality’ is witness to the success of the internalisation of private models of religion founded upon psychological constructions of the human. Modern forms of spirituality hide the underlying political-­ psychological implications of this regime of knowledge. (Carrette & King, 2004, p. 65)

Supposing the previous paradigm marked the beginnings of the psychological primacy of the experiential. In that case, this era is also marked by the primacy of experientialism but only regarding its total focus on positive, emotional content. Experiential affectivism is thus transmuted into positive affective experientialism. This drive toward a measurable experience of happiness has become the suturing point between the spiritual and certain forms of the psychological. Both ultimately hinge on this aforementioned inunction-to-enjoy, an injunction that gives rise to the feeling of anxiety which characterises modern living: It is your duty to achieve full self-realisation and self-fulfillment, because you can. Isn’t this why we often feel that we are being terrorised by the New Age language of liberation? (Žižek, 1999, pp. 3–6)

Žižek uses here the imprecise and polemical term ‘New Ageism,’ which Ian Parker has substituted with the term ‘psycho-spiritual capital’ and what I have termed D1b. Spiritual direction can no longer be perceived as a strange archaic discipline confined only to an ecclesial setting, but rather a spiritual direction of enjoyment has become the supplement of our modern twenty-first-century predicament. Many services and products tend to offer themselves as a type of spiritual direction in that they

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offer themselves as commodities that direct us toward the ‘good.’ Furthermore, the seeming opposition of D1b to dogmatic regulative restrictions as D1a (the freedom to find enjoyment as opposed to a life filled with arbitrary self-regulating rules) really disguises its repressed reproduction (you are now commanded to enjoy, and you are guilty of not enjoying). In Žižek’s work The Fragile Absolute (2000), he argues that Christian theology—from a revised dialectical materialist perspective—can be recovered to fight against this tyrannical form of spirituality (Žižek, 2000). He argues that Christian theology offers a valuable tool to battle against modern concepts of the self and the self ’s place in a society which forces us to consume and enjoy. The problem with Žižek’s work here is the presupposition that the correct Christian message is properly ‘anti-­ spiritual’ (Žižek & Milbank, 2009, pp. 93–94, 110). This, however, is a misunderstanding on Žižek’s part. As I will argue, the problem is not with spirituality per se—instead, the problem lies in understanding spirituality only regarding positive affective experientialism (D1b). Before I move on to a more in-depth exploration of how older forms of spiritual direction operated, I wish to explore how modern Catholic spiritual directors are co-opted into this narrative of spiritual enjoyment.

 piritual Directors and the Current Misuse S of Desire in Spiritual Direction The Spiritual Injunction to Enjoy The drive toward utility, happiness, healing, and wholeness can be seen in the current methods of spiritual direction today. Galindo states the similarities between both spiritual direction and psychotherapy as follows: Some of the emerging goals of psychotherapy that parallel the unique realm of spiritual direction include the following: attention to a meditative presence, reflective living, transcendence, a search for meaning, and authenticity of being. For both therapist and director, insofar as each is participating in a double process of healing and of growth, love is the supreme requirement. (Galindo, 1997, p. 398)

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Here, one only has to look at how spiritual directors also use personality schemes to help integrate people into their Christian community (Goldsmith, 2011, pp. 1–10). Tilden Edwards has pointed out that the tendency in spiritual direction to use the ‘Myers-Briggs Type Inventory’ is problematic. He argues that when it becomes prescriptive rather than descriptive, it covers up the ‘hard to bear mysterious evolution of uncontrollable Grace at the core of our lives’ (2001, pp. 25–26).26 The implication here is that Grace, as a theological and spiritual concept, cannot be reduced to purely utilitarian or sentimentalist considerations. In other words, the concept of Grace must be understood as transcending the paradigm of the previously mentioned ‘injunction to enjoy’ and so must not be equated with D1b. Tilden further demonstrates that what distinguishes psychology from spiritual direction is the latter’s frequent practical focus on ‘emotions’ and their manipulation (2001, pp. 25–30).

Emotional Warmth in Modern Spiritual Direction One can see how a psychotherapeutic theory of emotions, along with their practical manipulation within the clinical setting, is adopted by practitioners of spiritual direction, especially when one takes emotional stability and placation as a definitive interpretive sign of successful modern spiritual guidance. Take, for instance, this passage from Bruce Tallman’s book Archetypes for Spiritual Direction (2005): Directors identify with the hopes, dreams, fears, and longings of others, and this allows them to interpret others’ thoughts, feelings, motives and moods. (Tallman, 2005, p. 144)

This capacity for emotional resonance and identification is assumed by so many to be integral to the work of spiritual direction. Moreover, if one  Myers Briggs personality test is used to locate and describe employee’s personality traits in order to facilitate production. It is based on Carl Jung’s theory of personality types (see Bayne, 1995). According to Stromberg and Caswell, the test was Established in the 1940s and is widely dismissed by psychologists today. It is inept at predicting job success and often yields inconsistent results (Stromberg & Caswell, 2014). 26

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becomes cut off from these emotions, then it is asserted that this will ultimately hinder one’s vocation as a director: Directors disconnected from their feelings have no real motivation to do spiritual direction. At best they might feel as that they are living in an emotional fog […] In any case they are emotionally impotent. (Tallman, 2005, p. 194)

Reflecting this tendency, Barry and Connolly argue that emotional warmth is an absolute requisite for spiritual direction today. They argue that this ‘demand’ for emotional warmth is similar to Trygve Braatøy‘s theory, which suggests that all psychoanalysts should be screened for this emotional capacity.27 Similarly, they argue that we should screen spiritual directors for this same emotional capacity; otherwise, it would become difficult (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp. 134–135).28 The problem here, as I have stated earlier, is that as spiritual direction becomes more and more interdisciplinary, concepts of spiritual health and happiness become the measure by which we gauge spiritual progress. One can argue that by grafting these technologies of happiness to the framework of spiritual direction, one creates the conditions for moulding subjects of alienation. These are subjects laden with guilt and pain they cannot articulate. Consequently, the contemporary language of happiness shuts off other ways of speaking about suffering. Indeed, in the past, one usually came to a spiritual director to integrate themselves more fully into the way of living, which was part and parcel of being part of the Church. It was a practice that saw spiritual direction as a guidepost on a journey. This vision was entwined with the Grace of God, a concept irreducible to notions of happiness and utility (Lane, 1998, pp.  29–36). However, today, one of the first complaints that could be posited to a spiritual director is this: ‘I no longer feel happy in my spiritual life. Can

 Trygve Braatøy (1904–1953) was a Norwegian Doctor who specialised in psychiatry. He is famous for introducing the ideas of Freud to Norway (Koch, 1999, pp. 1–10). 28  I will argue that this requisite for spiritual directors to have the capacity for emotional and empathetic resonance is an invention of modernity, which flows from the aforementioned experiential tradition which is located in the larger paradigm of the injunction of enjoy. 27

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you help me?’ This question would have probably been completely alien to earlier incarnations of Christian spiritual direction. B.C. Lane suggests that the act of ‘wanting’ should be examined rather than finding something to negate it and fill it. He writes that the early spiritual directors of the Eastern desert ‘recognised the beginning point in spiritual life as always an exercise in wanting’ as opposed to a strategy of satisfaction and spiritual gratification (Lane, 1998, p. 203). Even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when concepts of the self in Christian theology were being outlined on a more interior basis, there would not have been the same total focus on the capacity for pure positive feeling or the need for emotional satisfaction (Turner, 1995, p. 2). The directee’s complaint of not feeling happy usually hides the underlying assumption that the measure of divine presence is now found in how happy one feels when judging God’s presence. There has been a long tradition in Christianity of conceiving God not just in the presence of feelings but also in a type of divine absence (which I will expand upon later. Because of forgetting that older tradition, it is straightforward to see how people judge the presence of God by the standards of happiness via which they self-regulate within Binkley’s secular ‘technologies-of-­ happiness’ (2014, pp. 12–13). In other words, the ‘injunction-to enjoy’ is transferred directly to the sphere of the sacred. If this is successful, it will work in conjunction with the material forces which shape our existence. This would result in a ‘productive, healthy member of society,’ even if that very impetus is unhealthy in and of itself. Reflecting this ‘injunction-­ to-­enjoy,’ Spiritual Directors International states the following: Spiritual direction or spiritual guidance helps people become whole, healthy, healed, and live an integrated, vibrant life. Happiness is an inherent part of being human.29 (2010, p. 1)

Happiness and social integration become synonymous as the drive to measure happiness alters the structure of happiness itself. Furthermore, by emphasising a noumenal presence behind language, which must be  ‘Spiritual Directors International is an inclusive, global learning community of people from many faiths and many nations who share a common passion and commitment to the art and contemplative practice of spiritual direction’ (Anon, 2018, p. 1). 29

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‘sensed’ and ‘utilised,’ one can fall into the same trap of equating enjoyment with God. Lacan detected this tendency in Seminar XX, where he stated that it is we moderns who had created a God who is defined by ‘enjoyment’ (SE, XX: 76). Furthermore, since the material world has been ‘spiritually charged’ with a type of transcendence due to these ‘technologies-­of-happiness,’ spiritual direction can end up as another pathway to shape us into creatures of production and consumption. In short, the injunction to love God becomes inseparable and indistinguishable from the injunction-to-enjoy, which alienates us from our day-to-­ day living. Thus, a spiritual director can consequently have your best wishes at heart but inadvertently contribute to a subject caught in a trap of anxiety and pain due to his unwitting participation in this hidden injunction-to-enjoy surrounding us (D1b).

Summary In this chapter, I have explored the literature surrounding modern spiritual direction, intending to show how the practice and logic of D1b has come to dominate its methodologies. In the following chapter, I will continue exploring the literature surrounding spiritual direction. First, however, I will also explore how certain authors have detected the predominance of D1b and have sought to return to the source of Christian spiritual direction through the exploration of traditional writers on the subject.

References Aaron, N.  G. (2005). Thought and Poetic Structure in San Juan de la Cruz’s Symbol of Night. Peter Lang. Almond, P. C. (2017). Rudolf Otto: An Introduction to His Philosophical Theology. UNC Press Books. Alonso, D. (1972). The Poems of Saint John of the Cross. New Directions Publishing.

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Anon. (2010). Spiritual Direction Cultivates Happiness. Spiritual Directors International. Retrieved January 10, 2018, from http://www.sdiworld.org/ blog/spiritual-­direction-­cultivates-­happiness Anon. (2018). About Us. Spiritual Directors International. Retrieved July 3, 2018, from http://www.sdiworld.org/about-­us Badiou, A. (2018). Lacan: Anti-Philosophy 3. Columbia University Press. Barry W A, Connolly W J (2009). The Practice of Spiritual Direction. . Bayne, R. (1995). The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator: A Critical Review and Practical Guide. Nelson Thornes. Beattie, T. (2013). Theology After Postmodernity: Divining the Void—A Lacanian Reading of Thomas Aquinas. Oxford University Press. Bernstein, G. (2017) My Favorite Apps for Spirituality, Meditation, Wellness & More. Gabby Bernstein. Retreived February 15, 2019, from https://gabbybernstein.com/favorite-­apps-­spirituality-­meditation-­wellness/ Binkley, S. (2014). Happiness as Enterprise. State University of New York Press. Boothby, R. (2015). Freud as Philosopher: Metapsychology After Lacan. Routledge. Brinkman, S. (2017). Stand Firm: Resisting the Self Improvement Craze. Polity Press. Burkeman, O. (2012). The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking. Farrar. Carrette, J., & King, R. (2004). Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion. Routledge. Clark, M. (2014). Jacques Lacan (Volume I) (RLE: Lacan): An Annotated Bibliography. Routledge. Clark-King, E. (2011). The Path to Your Door: Approaches to Christian Spirituality. Bloomsbury Publishing. Critchley, S. (2001). Continental Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford University Press. Cugno, A. (1982). St John of the Cross: Reflections on Mystical Experience. Seabury. De Certeau, M. (1995). The Mystic Fable, Volume One: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (M. B. Smith, Trans.). University of Chicago Press. Discover your True Self. (2023). Ask Eckhart. https://askeckhart.com/ Edwards, T. (2001). Spiritual Director. Paulist Press. Eyers, T. (2012). Lacan and the Concept of the Real. Palgrave Macmillan. Fink, B. (2013). Against Understanding, Volume 2: Cases and Commentary in a Lacanian Key. Routledge. Galindo, I. (1997). Spiritual Direction and Pastoral Counselling: Addressing the Needs of the Spirit. Journal of Pastoral Care & Counselling: Advancing Theory

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and Professional Practice Through Scholarly and Reflective Publications, 51(4), 395–402. Garrigou-Lagrange, R. (1989). The Three Ages of the Interior Life: Prelude of Eternal Life. Tan Books and Publishers. Gojmerac-Leiner, G. (2011). The Role of the Study of Religious Experience in the Ministries of Spiritual Direction and Chaplaincy. [online] Boston University. Retrieved May 1, 2019, from https://open.bu.edu/bitstream/handle/2144/8475/gojmerac_georgia_dmin_2011.pdf?sequence=1 &isAllowed=y Goldsmith, M. (2011). Knowing Me. Abingdon Press. Guenther, M. (1992). Holy Listening: The Art of Spiritual Direction. Rowman & Littlefield. Harborne, L. (2012). Psychotherapy and Spiritual Direction: Two Languages, One Voice? Karnac Books. Hillman, J. (1977). Re-Visioning Psychology. HarperCollins. Hollywood, A. (2002). Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History. University of Chicago Press. James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature. Longmans, Green and Co. John of the Cross. (1991). The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross (K. Kavanaugh & O. Rodríguez, Trans.). ICS Publications. Keller, C. (2014). Cloud of the Impossible: Negative Theology and Planetary Entanglement. Columbia University Press. Kepes, J. (2012). Psychoanalysis and God: A Comparative Analysis of Jacques Lacan and John of the Cross. Journal of Faith and Science Exchange, 1. [Online]. Retrieved January 13, 2018, from https://doi.org/10.15368/ fase.2012v1n1p1 Kerr, F. (2007). Twentieth-Century Catholic Theologians. Wiley. Koch, P. (1999). Trygve Braatøy, Bibliografi. [Online]. Retrieved July 3, 2018, from http://www.aviana.com/per/braatoy/braato07.htm Lacan, J. (1988). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book I: Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (J. Forrester, Trans.). W.W Norton. Lacan, J. (2006). Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (B. Fink, Trans.). W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Lane, B.  C. (1998). The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. Oxford University Press. Lichtmann, M. (1997). Marguerite Porete and Meister Eckhart. The Mirror of Simple Souls Mirrored. In B. McGinn (Ed.), Meister Eckhart and the Beguine

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Mystics: Hadewijch of Brabant, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and Marguerite Porete (pp. 65–86). Bloomsbury Publishing. Lindbeck, G. (1984). The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Post-­ Liberal Age. John Knox Press. McGinn, B. (1991). The Presence of God: The Foundations of Mysticism. The Crossroad Publishing Company. McGowan, T. (2004). The End of Dissatisfaction? Jacques Lacan and the Emerging Society of Enjoyment. McIntosh, M.  A. (1998). Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (Challenges in Contemporary Theology). Wiley-Blackwell. Miller, M. J. (2011). Lacanian Psychotherapy: Theory and Practical Applications. Routledge. Moon, G. W., & Benner, D. G. (2004). Spiritual Direction and the Care of Souls: A Guide to Christian Approaches and Practices. Intervarsity Press. Nelson, J. M. (2009). Psychology, Religion, and Spirituality. Springer Science & Business Media. O’Murchu, D. (2007). The Transformation of Desire: How Desire Became Corrupt and How We Can Reclaim It. Darton Longman Todd. Otto, R. (1923). The Idea of the Holy. Ravenio Books. Parker, I. (2011). Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Revolutions in Subjectivity. Routledge. Pickering, S. (2008). Spiritual Direction: A Practical Introduction. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd.. Pietsch, S. (2011). The Dark Night of The Soul—Depression by Another Name? [Online]. Retrieved February 13, 2023, from https://www.alc.edu.au/assets/ education/about/academic-­p ublications/paper/The-­d ark-­n ight-­o f-­ the-­soul.pdf Pine, B.  J., & Gilmore, J.  H. (2011). The Experience Economy. Harvard Business Press. Pluth, E. (2013). Badiou: A Philosophy of the New. John Wiley & Sons. Pound, M. (2007). Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma. SCM Press. Pryzwara, E. (2014). Analogia Entis: Metaphysics: Original Structure and Universal Rhythm. Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing. Reuben, R.  W. (2006). Governmentality, Geography, and the Geo-Coded World. Progress in Human Geography, 30(4), 496–486. Roudinesco, E. (1999). Jacques Lacan: Outline of a Life, History of a System of Thought: An Outline of a Life and History of a System of Thought. Polity Press. Ruffing, J. K., & Ruffing, J. (2000). Spiritual Direction: Beyond the Beginnings. Paulist Press.

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Sells, M. A. (1994). Mystical Languages of Unsaying. University of Chicago Press. Stromberg, J., & Caswell, E. (2014, July 15). Why the Myers-Briggs Test Is Totally Meaningless. Vox. https://www.vox.com/2014/7/15/5881947/ myers-­briggs-­personality-­test-­meaningless Tallman, B. (2005). Archetypes for Spiritual Direction. Paulist Press. Turner, D. (1995). The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism. University Press. Tyler, P. (2011a). St. John of the Cross. Continuum. Tyler, P. (2011b). The Return to the Mystical: Ludwig Wittgenstein, Teresa of Avila and the Christian Mystical Tradition. Continuum. Williams, R. (2014). Wound of Knowledge: Christian Spirituality from the New Testament to St. John of the Cross. Darton, Longman & Todd Limited. Wyschogrod, E., Crownfield, D., & Raschke, C. A. (1989). Lacan and Theological Discourse. SUNY Press. Žižek, S. (1999, March 18). You May!. London Review of Books, 3–6. Žižek, S. (2000). The Fragile Absolute. Verso. Žižek, S. (2011). How to Read Lacan. Granta Books. Žižek, S., & Milbank, J. (2009). The Monstrosity of Christ: Paradox or Dialectic? Short Circuits.

Part II Recovering Mystical Desire in Spiritual Direction: A Juanist-­Lacanian Approach

3 Desire in Pre-modern Spiritual Direction

Spiritual Direction Before Experientialism Recap of Argument To recap the main ideas explored so far: D1 (a & b). This is the modern spiritual direction paradigm. It entails that spiritual direction and its approach to desire is understood regarding cross-­ credal ineffable experientialism and psychologism (D1b) over the rational (D1a).1 The bifurcation of the mystical from the theological has consequences, disrupting their inherent connection (McIntosh, 1998, pp.  39–75). This division primarily led to discussions about God being  When I write (a & b) next to D1, I intend to show that this applies to both aspects of the split that pertains to D1’s logic. This represents a desire for the whole of the intellect and the whole of the affections. Much of my argument focuses on the logic of D1b, which is the reduction of spiritual direction to positive experientialist expressions of the whole. However, there are times when it is necessary to explain that both the reduction of spirituality to either dry intellectualism, moralistic dogma and also to expressions of emotional satisfaction. However, spiritual direction existing as D1a is not as prevalent as the modality of D1b. I will address the modality of D1a in the last part of my work in more detail as I explain it within the logic of what I have called the four discourses of spiritual direction. 1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_3

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categorically placed within the rational or emotional realm. However, the affective component has gained considerable prominence since the ­nineteenth century, largely attributed to its psychological underpinnings. This has contributed to contemporary models of economic production and therapeutic methodologies, which have subsequently influenced the practice of spiritual direction. This establishes a context in which spiritual direction is perceived as a service proffering a spiritual experiential commodity. D2. This refers to the pre-modern paradigm; it comprehends desire as relating to the entire individual in their paradoxical state of incompleteness. It is ontological as opposed to being solely affective or rational. This paradigm interprets desire as an existential apophatic process rather than a psychological faculty. Instead of viewing desire as striving towards psychological completeness, it approaches it at the level of constitutive negativity and in the context of fragmentation.

It is important to note that I do not intend to give an extensive history of the work of mystical theologians or spiritual directors. Instead, I wish to demonstrate that the experientialist paradigm, which currently predominates in the field of spiritual direction, is not the only way to approach the practice. I will then explain that although these alternative interpretations of traditional spiritual writers are important for demonstrating an alternative approach, there seems to be a fundamental gap between their work and the methodologies of modern spiritual directors. The repercussion of this is a misappropriation of these traditional authors to the extent that their concepts become subsumed within the experientialist paradigm or remain confined to academic circles. Furthermore, in this chapter, I will investigate the feasibility of employing what is referred to as the cultural-­linguistic approach. This method aims to transcend experientialist formulations and redirect the focus towards negative themes like the Dark Night. This shift is intended to move these concepts from specific academic strands into the practice of spiritual direction without succumbing to experientialist psychologisation. However, I suggest that to do this, one needs to explore the work of Lacan due to his dual focus on linguistics and desire. Thus, the questions which arise here are the following:

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1. Can we trace a non-spiritual non-direction that escapes the coordinates of a culture saturated with this injunction-to-enjoy? 2. Is it possible to move from D1b toward a new formulation of D2 without falling back into archaic formulations? It would be simplistic to revert to a wholly traditional perception of spiritual direction that overlooks numerous theoretical developments before us. Equally, it would not be fitting to merely adhere to our current comprehension of desire-fulfilment as being solely reducible to an affective reality. Before progressing to a more radical viewpoint, however, I will map the ideas of scholars who interpret these pre-modern mystics’ spiritual guidance in a manner that runs counter to the prevailing experientialist paradigm.

The Desert Fathers and Mothers Carrette and King assert that the present understanding of spirituality as a personal, psychologised experience aimed at desire-fulfilment is a modern construct. In earlier times, forms of spirituality and spiritual direction existed that envisioned the subject’s constitution in alternative ways. Notions of measurement or utility did not govern these concepts. This bygone self was not atomised or static as we recognise it in our (post) modern philosophical paradigms. As such, these pre-modern perceptions of the self-permitted a more nuanced and diverse concept of the subject, which was altogether more fluid since they were rooted within the participation of divine reality (2004, p. 58). These more ancient interpretations approach spirituality as a technology-of-the-self concerned less with the capacity for psychological healing, affective resonance, or religious experience than with detecting how we deal directly with ourselves as an actual living expression of desire for God. McIntosh argues that this theoretical understanding of desire is reflected in early writers such as the fourth-century mystic Gregory of Nyssa (1998, pp. 44–55). Lane, who has studied the above writers extensively, also reflects this view. He writes that this mystical spirituality and spiritual direction was grounded in epikistasis, an endless desire for God. It is an infinite

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‘straining forward to what lies ahead’ that is alluded to in Philippians 3:13. In Gregory’s conception of mystical desire, the excess of God’s being, insofar as it is utterly incomprehensible, results in a subject engaged in perpetual discovery. So, even after death, there is only ever a ‘satisfied dissatisfaction’ (Lane, 1998, p. 147). From this perspective, we can see that these early writers did not perceive desire solely as affective fulfilment. Instead, they understood that it had an ontological status linked to broader cosmology. Desire was caught up with the whole person and not just an affective part of the person. Both McIntosh and Lane suggest that desire was an expression of the inherent incompleteness of our entire existence and that each action, whether this is intellectual, emotional, or physical, is ultimately incomplete and thus signals its relation to the infinite (McIntosh, 1998, pp. 45–55; Lane, 1998, pp. 106–107). We can see this in the framework of the sixth-century mystical theologian Dionysius the Areopagite. McGinn writes that the Dionysian conception of desire concerns itself with the very substance of creation itself. Desire was consequently caught up with the universe and God. For Dionysius, divine Eros refracts itself into multiple theophanies, which comprise the body of existence before returning to God Himself (McGinn, 1991, p. 66). 2 In this sense, to talk of a purely personal desire would not have made much sense in these ancient understandings insofar as it was grounded in a metaphysical conception of intersubjectivity. This is reflected by McIntosh, who notes that Pseudo-Dionysius did not perceive desire in private, emotional, and supra-rational experiential terms (McIntosh, 1998, p. 46). Spiritual direction, from this perspective, was thus concerned with a person turning outward toward an experienced guide who was to help facilitate this desire in its direct relation to the intellect and affect. It is interpreted as a tradition of dependence and participation. As Brown explains in his seminal work The Body and Society (1998), the novice went to their spiritual fathers and mothers to learn about their own heart and the mass of ‘will’ or desire which lay coiled at its centre. Through the  Dionysius, or Pseudo-Dionysius, was a sixth century highly influential Christian theologian who utilised the ideas and theories of Neoplatonism to explicate Christian doctrine and mystical teachings (see McIntosh, 1998) 2

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gentle analysis of their logosmoi (chain of thought) and the technique of diakrisis (discernment), one could locate that which ‘one could not call one’s own’ within their stream of consciousness. To be sure, the novice was expected to lay bare everything which existed in their heart before the older men and women (Brown, 1998, pp. 213–240).3

Austere Spiritual Direction In stark contrast to modern practices, these desert-based spiritual guides demonstrated remarkable restraint in their advice. From a contemporary standpoint, this approach would be counterintuitive to the affability and emotional warmth exhibited by the modern spiritual director, educated in counselling and other psychotherapeutic techniques. In a significant departure from this, Lane notes that a blunt and austere economy characterised the spiritual guidance of the desert. Contrary to certain facets of modern spiritual direction, these ancient mystics favoured the concise, the immediate, and the provocative. The ancient formula of the Desert Fathers used at the start of these sayings was, ‘give us a word Father.’ This was little more than a single word that served as an ambiguous and evocative intervention. It was used to disturb and inspire rather than merely to explain (Lane, 1998, p. 167). The point here is that such an oracular reticence does not work directly at the level of pure ‘sentiment.’ Rather it is about how words shake up sentiment. Such direction functions only by a sparse linguistic intervention that almost punctuates the novice’s discourse. This verbal punctuation aids the directee in his eventual realisation that the answer to his desire lies not in some secret knowledge of the Abba. Nor is it found within some internal emotional object. Instead, it is found in the fragmented connection between their intentions, thoughts, and sense of self and how this participates in the divine (Brown, 1998, pp. 213–240). Through this aided form of contemplation, one entered  Peter Brown is an eminent scholar who is accredit with inventing the field of studies known as Antiquity. He is the author of many books and seminal pieces of research focusing on the context of ancient Christianity and its formulation. His current work focuses on the creation of wealth in the Roman Empire (see Brown, 2018). 3

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more deeply into the life of Christ. This life was not merely a cultivation for some ‘religious experience’; it was liturgical, doxological, and communal (McIntosh, 1998, p. 45). Mcintosh argues that the appeal to emotional states appears during the later medieval period with great spiritual directors like Bernard of Clairvaux, who call for directees to examine their internal emotional states.4 However, although considerable attention was paid to the affective element of spiritual life in Bernard’s work, it was not directly reducible to it. In more detail, Mcintosh argues that there has been some confusion in the reception of Bernard’s spiritual direction regarding spiritual experiences. There is a distinct difference between Bernard’s teaching to become aware of God as the source of experience and the modernistic interpretation that we locate God in affective experience as such. Moreover, what we omit in modern interpretations of Bernard, is the subtle admonishment he gives about becoming possessive about spiritual experiences themselves (1998, p. 67). It is important to note here that the tradition of the desert was very much alive for medieval Cistercians like Bernard of Clairvaux. In more detail, Taranu writes that the centrality of the desert and its mythology were crucial for Cistercian identity. At their inception, the Cistercians considered themselves as those who kept alive the light of the Orient. This was the ancient spirituality and spiritual direction associated with religious life in the Egyptian desert (Taranu, 2013, p. 6). Bruun resonates with Taranu’s research. She suggests that the imagery of the desert would have been a powerful conceptual tool for Bernard in reminding his students not to become attached to the emotional mirages that can appear as distractions in their journey toward God: ‘Dead flies spoil a bowl of balm’ (Eccl 10.1). The flies are vanity, curiosity, and desire. Because they are numerous in Egypt and around the sacrifices of the Egyptians, we in Egypt cannot offer to the Lord our God a ‘sacrifice of justice’ (Ps 50.21) and charity. And so we go into the desert, that is into

 Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153) was a major reformer of the Benedictine and major figure in Cistercian spirituality (see Evans, 2000). 4

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the solitude of the heart, ‘a three days’ journey’ (Ex 5.3).5 (Bernard of Clairvaux Quoted in Bruun, 2007, pp. 78–79)

This interpretation suggests that desire would not have been something that leads us away from the desert but drives us further into its barren heart. Reflecting on this in more detail, Lane claims that John of the Cross uses this theme of the desert to demonstrate the necessity for us to conceive desire in terms of emptiness. For John of the Cross, he writes that we do not find growth in spiritual direction and spiritual life through experiences of fullness and well-being but in being drawn toward emptiness. We discover John’s spiritual growth through a narrative of personal loss and tragedy. The apophasis of God meets material lived-out kenosis. These ruptures can be a more accurate sign of God’s perpetual presence far more than so-called religious experiences. John points to the imagery of the desert to show us that we should not seek knowledge of God’s Grace in spiritual delights. Instead, God shows us a path in the metaphorical desert that is ‘no way.’ God leads us into a dry and barren land which is vast, deep, and immense—an infinite wilderness that, in its emptiness, inversely mirrors the abundance of God. (1998, p. 74). According to Lane, the significance of the desert as a topography of desolation and uncertainty finds its culmination in John’s description of Mount Carmel and the Dark Night, which shows that spiritual direction is a direction that points to ‘nothing’ as the place where desire flourishes as D2. The way up the mountain of God’s love, as John describes in the Ascent of Mount Carmel, is the way of nada nada nada (Lane, 1998, p. 74). From this perspective, spiritual directors like John of the Cross, whom I will give a more sustained analysis of shortly, would also not have understood desire merely as some affective psychological faculty within us; instead, it was inherently linked to the image of the desert which reminded the practitioner never to take emotional states for granted.

 Mette Birkedal Bruun is a Danish Professor of Church History at the University of Copenhagen. Her fields of interest are early ‘Christian, medieval and early modern representations of salvation history.’ She is also interested in Bernard of Clairvaux’s texts (see Bruun, 2007). 5

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Denys Turner’s The Darkness of God One of the most notable elaborations on this theme of negation in the Christian spiritual tradition is the work of Denys Turner. In his book, The Darkness of God (1995), he critically examines the reductive quality of experientialism to the extent that its methodology offers a flat, oversimplified perspective on the life and works of many mystics. Consequently, his work adds depth to the body of work of mystical theologians, enabling their writing to acquire greater dimensionality when perceived outside the experiential paradigm. Turner scrutinises the inclination to interpret the work of John of the Cross through an experientialist lens. He observes that construing themes of light and darkness within John’s mystical theology and spiritual direction as signifying something comparable to experientialist psychology would be a misinterpretation. While John’s compositions undeniably incorporate a psychology of mystical and religious experience, concentrating on these aspects overlooks the crux of his exposition on the Dark Night. John is delineating spiritual guidance that is virtually impervious to the assertions of ‘religious experience.’ Furthermore, John’s reliance on metaphors of darkness do not describe experiences as such; rather, they function as continuous critiques of these experientialist tendencies within spiritual direction (1995, p. 227). From the aforementioned, it could be suggested that attempting to psychologise John’s work is misdirected. However, the challenge arises when the significance of the Dark Night and other negative motifs, as non-experiential, are restricted to certain academic explorations. I contend that this academic constraint is due to the difficulty of communicating this form of desire. Desire as D2 is the juncture where theory and practice converge. Such a juncture implies that if academics aspire to make these ideas accessible for spiritual directors‘ practice, they must elucidate the role and operation of desire. Though Turner‘s work is groundbreaking, he does not directly tackle the problem of desire. Hence, while he critiques reductive psychologistic interpretations of mystics and spiritual directors, he fails to clarify how desire fits into this reading. Is desire something that resides outside of experientialism? Does it lean towards the affective rather than the intellectual? Or does it encompass both? Moreover, if mystics like John of the Cross talk of desire, is it nominally

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the same as we use it today in contemporary spirituality? These questions are essential for spiritual direction because it is the focus on desire and its practical manipulation that the latter are interested in. However, since the current methodology mostly focuses on desire in terms of experientialism (D1b), these academic formulations need to translate better into the practice of spiritual direction as such.

Peter Tyler’s Return to the Mystical Peter Tyler’s work The Return to the Mystical (2011a) offers a reading of the work of Teresa of Avila in relation to Wittgenstein. He argues that although the mystical should not be understood purely in terms of experientialism, nor should it be interpreted regarding academic constructivism (2011b, pp. 16–25). In contrast, he argues for an understanding of the mystical as a performative discourse which is used to create an interruptive effect upon the reader. He expands on Michael Sells’ idea of Languages of Mystical Unsaying (1994, pp.  1–13). Tyler develops a Wittgensteinian discursive method he calls the ‘Mystical Strategies of Unknowing.’ This perspective focuses on the mystical element as not being reducible to some cross-creedal ineffable experientialist substance but rather a discursive method of interruption which is used to shake up the theological worldview of the reader (2011b, pp.  227–236). Incidentally, this notion is similarly echoed in Maria Balaska’s work, where she compares the early philosophies of Wittgenstein and Lacan concerning the concept of astonishment. In her interpretation, she deliberately emphasises that the Wittgensteinian boundary—the unspoken mystical limit that creates value—and Lacan’s Real do not represent inexplicable moments of ineffability. Instead, they signify a moment of encounter in which the boundaries established by Wittgenstein, derived from the world’s contingency, and the Lacanian tarrying with impossibility, lead to subjective transformation. The crux of the argument is that this ‘other’ point is never directly experienced—as it is beyond experience—but its impact transforms our fundamental experience structure: a change in worldview (2019). Tyler’s work is also pivotal in challenging the otherwise dominant experientialist paradigm. He astutely establishes that what we label as

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‘mystical’ cannot be detached from language. My research aims to extend Tyler’s intervention by directly aligning his discursive approaches with Juanist spiritual direction and psychology, thus connecting it to the centrality of D2. I will later provide a more detailed exposition of Tyler’s ‘Mystical Strategies’ in the text. I contend that when it comes to interpreting these motifs of spiritual negativity within contemporary practical spiritual direction texts, they are often perceived as a type of negative signifier heralding an impending experiential fullness: John’s dark night is not an empty space, although it does involve emptying, nor a barren one, although it may feel so in comparison to ‘the green pastures’ of our earlier spiritual experience.” (Clark-King, 2011, pp. 89–90)

The problem with this interpretation is that it construes the Dark Night as a dark experience rather than a contemplation of the inherent obscurity and ambiguity of experience itself. Moreover, this approach differs significantly from the academic reflections previously mentioned: It is, in any case, all too easy to read John of the Cross exclusively as an ‘early modern’ writer, to detach his work from its roots in the medieval tradition, and in no respect is this more likely, or more misleading, than in the tendency to characterise John’s ‘modernity’ precisely by its ‘experientialism.’ (Turner, 1995, p. 226)

The therapeutic and experientialist nature of much spiritual direction to date entails that what must remain certain—even in the face of absolute uncertainty—is the locus of experience itself. Reflecting this theme, Nelson claims that although the Dark Night is a painful desolate experience, it is actually God closely working with the soul. Moreover, he argues that as we enter further into this experiential darkness, we begin to interpret it as peace and abundance as it transforms into a full acceptance of an intimate relationship with God (2009, p. 378). Consequently, it seems that in attempting to distinguish the Dark Night from other psychological manifestations, spiritual directors like Nelson, end up psychologising the event even further. In writings about this clear distinction between depression and the Dark Night, Gerald May (1940–2005) states:

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1. Dark-Night experiences are not usually associated with loss of effectiveness in life or work, as are primarily depressions. Often, in fact, the individual is mystified at how well he or she is continuing to function. This is especially true in terms of helping others in their spiritual journeys. 2. Surprisingly, sense of humour is usually retained after Dark-Night experiences. This humour is not cynical or bitter as it might be in mild depression; it retains an almost sparkling quality. 3. Compassion for others is, if anything, enhanced after Dark-Night experiences. There is little or none of the self-absorption seen in clinical depression. 4. In the Dark Night, one would not have things otherwise. While there may be great superficial dissatisfaction and confusion, the most honest answer, the deepest response, is that in spite of everything, there is an underlying sense of rightness about it all. This is in stark contrast to primary depression, in which one’s deepest sense is of wrongness and, consciously at least, the desire for radical, even miraculous, change is possible. (Quoted in Pickering, 2008, p. 183) May interprets the Dark Night in terms of usefulness and a deep underlying experience of certainty regarding its existential significance. Thus, one can argue that although the significance of D2 is maintained in academic explorations, in transferring it to the framework of current spiritual direction, the discipline transforms into the affective logic of D1b due to a sustaining therapeutic structure.

 he Possibility of Moving Beyond T the Experientialist Paradigm in the Modern Context of Spiritual Direction Framing the Problem In summary, my argument is centred on the assertion that revisiting a more fundamental conception of desire within the practice of spiritual direction would necessitate rejecting the experientialist foundations that underpin our current worldview. However, reverting to a pre-modern

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perspective of spiritual direction would not be a favourable outcome. This is because it would result in a form of spiritual direction that would be fundamentally inflexible and restrictive, necessitating greater adaptability for modern spiritual guidance. Furthermore, our present ways of thinking—as products of modernity and the Enlightenment—are fundamentally incongruous with the complete adoption of a pre-modern worldview. It is crucial to balance preserving the essential elements of the pre-­ modern concept of desire and incorporating the advancements made in the experiential and psychological understanding of spirituality. This approach would offer a more holistic and comprehensive approach to spiritual direction, considering the complexities of human existence in the modern era. Therefore, my argument highlights the importance of finding a middle ground between the pre-modern and modern perspectives on spiritual direction. This would allow us to create an approach rooted in tradition while still being relevant and responsive to the needs of contemporary seekers. By embracing this balance, we can provide meaningful and transformative spiritual guidance that meets the needs of individuals in the modern era. Consequently, the options, very broadly, seem to be the following: Capitulation to Experientialism (D1b): This would entail developing Christian spiritual direction as a technology for healing and happiness. It would correlate to what George Lindbeck calls the ‘experiential-­ expressivist’ model. This necessarily reduces spiritual direction to ­operating on feeling and psychological content. From this perspective, doctrinal propositions have less to do with positive realist content and more with an emotive non-discursive expression of inner states and feelings (1984, p. 31). Thus, the best option would be to understand desire—as a feeling—in relation to satisfaction. In this sense, desire always aims at transcendent fulfilment and emotional wholeness. Spiritual direction then concerns the direction of the emotions toward God. One can automatically see how such an approach would open the door to psychological methodologies. Symbols take on particular importance through this method. The appeal of depth psychology to those interested in more experiential applications of spiritual direction

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attests to these philosophical foundations. Keywords like wholeness and individuation become crucial in demonstrating ‘spiritual progression.’ Capitulation to Vulgar Realism (D1a): This would primarily be a fundamentalist perspective. It would involve rejecting modern ideology as being antagonistic to the Christian worldview. The dogmatic-rational and experiential split would represent a preference for the former instead of the latter. This is synonymous with what George Lindbeck terms the cognitive-propositional approach. This is the traditional understanding of religion as an expression of dogmatic, realist formulations (Lindbeck, 1984, p. 16). This model would arguably require a form of spiritual direction that would probably focus on doctrinal adherence, rules, and scriptural orthodoxy. In other words, since this perspective perceives desire as only about the affective, it must be suppressed and controlled by doctrinal orthodoxy and applying moral rules and laws. In other words, Agape becomes the more perfect expression of God’s love as opposed to Eros (Nygren, 1953, pp. 739–741). Moreover, this perspective entails acknowledging the beliefs and worldview of pre-modern anthropology. A particular type of limiting pragmatism is in play here. This thought proposes that successful spiritual guidance would primarily revolve around rectifying misinterpretations in theological understanding or erroneous beliefs concerning the veracity of a specific doctrine. Under this realism-based perspective, subjective stances are firmly subordinate to ‘objective’ ones. The relationship between the spiritual director and the directee would then mirror that of an educator and a student. This model would likely shun psychotherapy, citing its incompatibility with its own rigid principles and the perceived psychological preference for methods’ that are affective and experientially based. Radical Detour (D2): This perspective aims to return to spiritual direction via a philosophical detour through modern philosophies. It also correlates to Lindbeck‘s linguistic-cultural method and argues for a middle ground between earlier experiential and cognitive propositional methods. It essentially inverts the experiential project of giving inner states primacy over their imperfect cultural-symbolic expressions. Instead, it argues that discursive practices are precisely what shape our experiences of the divine.

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This approach mediates between the previous aforementioned realist and psychological accounts. This is because propositional knowledge and inner states do play a role, but they have to be understood as an effect rather than a cause of a person’s existential integration within the coordinates of a given symbolic network of meaning (1984, pp. 32–41). As we will see later, this view was very much promoted by Lacan within the field of psychoanalysis. Lacan’s return to Freud was not merely a fundamentalist reading of Freud, nor was it one which forced Freud into the boxes carved out by experientialist positions. Instead, the return to Freud was a repetition of Freud’s fundamental discovery through the modern theories of the day (Nobus, 2000, pp. 1–2). So, just as Freud utilised the tools of the burgeoning sciences of the day to peer into the radical discovery of the dark continent of the unconscious, Lacan also did the same with modern linguistic philosophy. As Marcus Pound points out, it was an act of repetitive difference (Pound, 2007, p. 152). This third method of spiritual direction would look entirely different from the previously mentioned models. As said, it would invert the notion that language and symbols are secondary. Instead, it would understand that language and symbols play a crucial role in developing a relationship with God.

Toward a Radical Spiritual Direction The last option will be my approach for attempting to map out a methodology for recovering the operation of desire as the modality of D2 within the discipline of spiritual direction. I start with the idea that no desire can exist without the ‘Word.’ As my starting point, I will take two people I believe utilised this method: John of the Cross and Jacques Lacan. I hold that John of the Cross was acutely sensitive to the complexity of human desire, language, and its relation to God. He brings together the traditions of the Desert Fathers and others through his writings to create a truly interruptive, traumatic, and ontological conception of spiritual direction. In other words, he creates an ethical framework through which spiritual directors can work with the desire of the directee. John of the Cross existed during a time of transition as the scholastic propositional worldview gradually gave way to the burgeoning modern

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experientialist perspective. (De Certeau, 1995, p. 178). We can compare this to Lacan, who lived at a time when the contemporary experientialist, phenomenological worldview was challenged by the early linguistic structuralisms that questioned its axioms. John, like Lacan, understood that he could not just return to a scholastic worldview where desire once operated, nor could he capitulate to the budding modern ideologies. Instead, through his carefully crafted use of poiesis and prose (the theo-poetic), he radically transgressed many of the theological presumptions of the time to return to an orthodox understanding of spiritual direction that placed desire at the very heart of the discipline. In summary, John of the Cross fought against the tendency to reduce desire to either dry scholasticism or the growing experientialist worldview. At the same time, Lacan used the bourgeoning structuralist philosophies at the time to fight against the already replete experiential and dogmatic paradigm in which psychology was already firmly located. Both John and Lacan understood that desire could never be adaptive. Its raison d’etre could not merely be about adapting a subject to society, nor could happiness be measured in terms of functionality. Lacan used the works of modern linguistic philosophy, medieval philosophy and even the practice of spiritual directors (even John himself ) to articulate this radical return to desire (Labbie, 2006, pp.  1–36; Harris, 2016, pp.  1–8; Kesel, 2009, p.  72; Beattie, 2013, pp.  1–12; Pound, 2012, pp. 450–456). Hence, I will attempt to repeat this activity. I will place both Jacques Lacan and John of the Cross in dialogue with each other. My work will take seriously how Lacan and John were serious in their commitment to rescue desire for their respective disciplines. However, they did this not by rejecting the disciplines and methodologies of the day but by going through them. I have taken as my starting point the significant challenge for the experientialist paradigm to date: the linguistic turn. Lacan utilised the linguistic turn to return to Freud just as John employed an eclectic mix of theological positions to return to desire as conceived in the desert Fathers and Mothers. Hence, I wish to continue the work of Lacan by utilising the linguistic turn and reading him in relation to a Juanist conception of desire. But, equally, I will demonstrate that for Lacan to move beyond the

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linguistic turn, he will use a theological detour correctly understood in relation to traditional spiritual direction and mystical theology. I will also argue that a Lacanian approach bypasses some of the challenges that have come to typify ‘post-modern’ philosophy with its tendency to reduce subjectivity and transcendence as being a by-product of language. Indeed, Lacan’s meta-psychology does not restrict itself solely to the field of language in its conception of subjectivity. Against such linguistic reductivism, Lacan suggests that to be linguistic creatures entails consistently tarrying with an interruptive element which stands outside of it. However, this ‘outside’ is not something we can experience or even think about and can only be conceived in relation to language as something radically within it. To summarise, I have explored how certain scholars have interpreted the work of pre-modern spiritual directors and mystics as not being reducible to experiential or psychologistic expressions. I have demonstrated that certain scholars have interpreted John of the Cross in a way that subverts the experientialist paradigm. The following section will outline an alternative approach to the practice of spiritual direction and desire which operates in what I have termed D2. I shall now turn to John of the Cross.

J ohn of the Cross, Spiritual Direction and Desire The last part focused on the transformation of desire in current spiritual direction. It also outlined the difference between pre-modern spiritual direction, scholars’ interpretation, and its relation to the experientialist paradigm. In this section, I will explore John of the Cross’s understanding of spiritual direction in detail. It will begin by exploring some of the context of his life and the significant events that impacted John. After this, there will be a short exposition of his texts’ major themes within his work’s corpus and its relation to the practice of spiritual direction. Following this, I will briefly examine the initial reception of the work of John and how this reception shaped our understanding of his work

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today. I will then explore modern scholarship that has attempted to break free from this received image of John to let new understandings arise. The argument here is that these new understandings of John of the Cross, which problematise perceiving him as either a fully systematic thinker or an ‘experientialist psychologised’ mystic, do not fully translate over to the practice of spiritual direction. After this, I will examine the doctrinal foundations of John’s spiritual direction before looking at its practical application within the corpus of his writings. I will then give a cultural-­ linguistic interpretation of John’s spiritual direction, which opposes dogmatic or experientialist understandings of the language I have developed as either D1a or D1b. This will then position my argument to explore the relevance of Lacan for a Juanist practice of spiritual direction.

John’s Early Life John was born in 1542  in Fontiveros as Juan de Yepes. John’s father, Gonzalo de Yepes, was part of the wealthy emerging trading class flourishing in Toledo (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 1–8). While on a business trip to Fontiveros, he met a weaver named Catalina Alverez. (Crisógono, 1958, p. 2).6 The two later married in 1529 despite warnings about class differences from the family (Brenan, 1975, pp. 3–82).7 However, because of this decision, Gonzalo was disinherited, resulting in the family falling into poverty (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  9–27). McGinn states that John’s mother was most likely of Moorish descent, while his father hailed from Jewish stock. However, both were Christian, and Gonzalo’s family were  Padre Crisógono de Jesus Sacramentado (1904–1945) was John’s foremost biographer in the twentieth century. Over the course of his life he read the works of John over sixty times. He studied philosophy in Madrid and taught dogmatic and mystical theology in Salamanca. He is noted for taking to task the other eminent biographer of John, Jean Baruzi, where he argues against Baruzi’s thesis that God is not a pantheistic substance behind the perceived pluralism of created things. It is again important to note that Baruzi was Lacan’s teacher at a young age. (see Aaron, 2005, p. 200). 7  Gerald Brenan was one of the first Anglophone scholars to give a sustained focus on his impact as a poet in his biography St John of the Cross: His Life and Poetry 1975. He writes: ‘St John of the Cross is the first Spanish poet I read when I went to live in Spain. He did not, at that time, seem to be much known or appreciated except as a writer on mysticism’ (Brenan, 1975, p. xi). Brenan draws upon the biographical material supplied by Crisógono in order to contextualise and understand his poetry. 6

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among those converts who converted to Christianity in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (2017, pp. 231–238).8 Gonzalo eventually learned the craft of weaving to support his family. However, he passed away when Juan was two years old (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 1–8). With the death of Gonzalo, the family fell into poverty, and although Catalina supported her family, she eventually resorted to asking Gonzalo’s family for financial assistance (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 1–8). Unfortunately, she was rejected by them. The family’s resulting poverty was so severe that John’s brother Luis succumbed to malnutrition (Brenan, 1975, pp. 3–82). This bereavement forced Catalina to uproot the family and move eighteen miles to Arévalo (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 9–27). Regrettably, even these new surroundings proved too difficult. So, she moved her family to the market town of Medina to resume her profession of weaving in a more economically stable environment (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 9–38). In Medina, John was enrolled in a school that helped impoverished children. Here, he received his elementary education, tuition, and his first introduction to theological thought (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 9–27).9 Kavanaugh depicts the school as resembling and operating much like an orphanage. In this place, children received lodging, clothing, and food. Furthermore, it was here that John was most likely first introduced to Augustinian thought as the school director allowed John to serve as an acolyte at the local Augustinian monastery for nuns. While at the monastery, John aided the minister in pastoral work in the sacristy in the morning and afternoon (1991, pp. 9–27). John showed little interest in carpentry and painting, where he was tutored and preferred aiding and comforting the sick (Tyler, 2011a, p. 15). The administrator of the local hospital noted this tendency toward pastoral care, so he was recruited as a nurse and alms collector (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 1–8). Tyler notes that we hear stories of how he sang and told stories to patients who were incurably sick (2011a, p.  15). Thompson  These Jewish Converts were known as the converso. They were Jewish families who converted to Roman Catholicism in Spain or Portugal particularly during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (see Gojman de Backa, 1997). 9  Kieran Kavanaugh, O.C.D., was a member of the Institute of Carmelite Studies and the English translator and biographer of the writings of St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross (see Kavanaugh, 1991). 8

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claims that it was here that he most likely heard popular songs that would eventually find their way into his poetry (1977, pp. 1–50). Later, while still at seventeen, he was enrolled at the Jesuit school where he was tutored in metaphysics, grammar, rhetoric, Latin and Greek (John of the Cross, 1991, pp. 9–27).

John’s Studies and Vocation Eventually, after finishing his tuition at the Jesuit school, John was offered a chance to become an ordained priest and the post of Chaplain at the hospital (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 15–16). However, in 1563 he instead decided to join the Carmelite novitiate, which had been recently founded in Medina (Crisógono, 1958, p. 21). Kavanaugh suggests that the Carmelites’ contemplative nature most likely appealed to John (1991, p. 10). Taking the name of Juan de Santo Matiá, he spent a year studying the Carmelite Rule before going to Salamanca University to study at the Carmelite College of San Andreas (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 1–8). While at Salamanca, he enrolled in the Arts Faculty, where he studied philosophy for three years and then studied theology for one year in 1567 (McGinn, 2017, p. 231). Tyler notes that Carmelite tradition traces its origins to the Jewish School of the Prophets that Elijah established on Mount Carmel near Haifa in present-day Israel (2011a, pp. 19–20). McGinn states that at the start of the thirteenth century, a group of hermits living in the Wadi-ain-­ es-Siah presented themselves to the Patriarch of Jerusalem (Albert of Vercelli) to request a formula of life (formula vitae). The resulting document given in 1208 as The Rule of St. Albert is considered the birth of the Carmelites (2017, p. 114). Consequently, in 1216 we find Jacques De Vitry, the Bishop of Acre, writing the following: Others after the example and in imitation of the holy solitary of Elijah, the Prophet, lived as hermits in the beehives of small cells on Mount Carmel. (Quoted in Tyler, 2011a, p. 19)

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The Rule in its original form is unknown, but Pope Innocent IV eventually disseminated a version of it in his 1247 Bull Qurem Honorem (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 19–20). The order itself focused on simplicity and aimed to emulate the life of the desert Fathers and Mothers to which it traces its origin. However, due to political circumstances brought about by the Crusades, the order eventually had to leave Carmel. Tyler notes that within a Chapter in Aylesford, Kent 1247, we find the altered Rule full of mixed mendicant and eremitical elements (2011a, p. 20). The reform of the Carmelite order was thus started because of a belief that the original teaching had been corrupted (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 41–56). However, this need to return to spiritual simplicity created a division between those who wished to live a reformed life akin to those of the Desert Fathers and Mothers and those who did not (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 41–56). Moreover, the need for reform should be situated in the broader context of the more extensive religious reformation throughout Europe. Expanding on this, Kavanaugh notes that we see the efforts at reform within Carmelite religious life at the start of the fifteenth century as a reaction to the disruption to monastic living and religious life due to Black Death. These attempts focused on anti-intellectualism and defined themselves through a clear focus on affectivism, ceremonies, liturgy, devotions, and communal prayer. However, he notes that the long hours given over to these sorts of activities eventually became mechanical and monotonous (1991, p. 14). We can see here that there is an oscillation between the logic of D1a and D1b as we see a polarisation between the legislative aspects of religious life vs the affective. We can see that there were ongoing attempts to return to the simplicity of the original order, but the reform lacked the theoretical and practical tools to do this. With the birth of printing, more sophisticated spiritual methods became available. More precisely, Kavanaugh teaches us that these technological advancements made the previously absent classics available. Hence, the Carmelites had access to classics such as Gregory the Great, Bernard and Bonaventure. Coupled with the new Franciscan practice of ‘recollection,’ which focused on creating an interior union with God, we can see the outlines of modern Catholic Christian spiritual direction.

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Moreover, we find the cross-pollination of religious practices and spiritual direction from different orders begin to have a formative effect on the life of the Carmelites over time. For instance, the Franciscan friar Francisco de Osuna expounded his form of spiritual direction in his work The Third Spiritual Alphabet. This work inspired Teresa of Avila to conceive her understanding of spiritual guidance and prayer (1991, p. 14). Hence, from the above, one can postulate that the need for reform in the Carmelite order arises over time from a desire to return to a form of simplicity which polarised eremitical and mendicant components but also derives from the shifting political, material, and historical context.

John’s Meeting with Teresa of Avila and Crises In 1567 the Carmelite General Chapter had chosen the Italian Giovanni Rossi as the new Prior General. He arrived in Spain in the same year to visit the Spanish Carmelites in Avila, where he met the foundress of the Discalced reform (Williams, 1991, p.  5). He shared Teresa’s zeal for reform and gave her documents allowing her to find more houses and spread the reform to male adherents of the Rule (McGinn, 2017, p. 231). John was at the time thinking about leaving the Carmelite order and joining the Carthusians. Still, Teresa convinced John to stay, promising that he could find the type of life he desired within the order of the Carmelites if he helped her mission of reform (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 44–45). Hence, it was in 1568 that John founded the primitive house at Duruelo in Spain. Tyler tells us in more detail that Teresa first met John after founding her first Convent in Avila and before setting out to create another in Medina. She was fifty-two and more than twice the age of John. Tyler further claims that they seemed to have a good spiritual rapport. She refers to him as ‘her novice’ after she persuaded him to stay on and found the first male house of the reform in Duruelo. John thereby took the name he became known for, San Juan de la Cruz, Saint John of the Cross (2011a, p. 18). Teresa wanted John to share her vision of the reformation of the order. She sought this by restarting the observance of the

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original Rule. It required much of the day and evening to be engaged in prayer, devotional reading, mass, and solitude (Tillyer, 1984, p. 8). Eventually, John moved away from Duruelo, and after founding other communities around Spain, he moved in proximity to Teresa, who was now prioress of the Monastery of the Incarnation in Avila and became her spiritual director (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  9–27). This relationship helped facilitate their lasting friendship with each other. Despite their friendliness and openness to each other, both reformers faced intense opposition to their reforming activities from the outset. This tension built up around opposing mitigated and discalced elements at all levels within the order, along with confusion about which direction the reform was headed (Thompson, 2003, p. 46).10 John’s fate was sealed with the appointment of Jeronimo Tostado, an authority within the Church who wanted to limit the Discalced reformations. As a result of this, John was thus kidnapped from his small hut by the side of the Encarnacion, where he did most of his work, blindfolded and brought before the authorities to explain his actions (Tyler, 2011a, p. 29; Brenan, 1975, p. 29; Crisógono, 1958, p. 100). He was accused of the sins of rebellion and disobedience (Crisógono, 1958, pp.  102–103). After this, John was imprisoned in awful conditions for nine months in Toledo (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 102–103). During this time of imprisonment, we know that he composed the following: The Spiritual Canticle; For I know well the Spring; some of The Romances, and On the Psalm Super Flumina Baylonis.  In more detail, in the beginning, Teresa’s reforms were supported by the General Prior of the Order who was, as I have pointed out, positive of the reforms in question (Crisógono, 1958, pp. 41–56; Tyler, 2011a, p. 25). However, the King of Spain felt the need to get involved with the situation and just as Rossi set out to spread the reform, Philip obtained other documents from Rome which passed authority to ordinaries (Visitors) who were directly responsible to him for the reform (Tyler, 2011a, p. 25). Therefore, from 1571 these reforms had been placed under the supervision of these two Visitors from the Dominican orders. One was tactful and understood the tensions between the Discalced and Mitigated friars, while the other was not. This led to forcing through of Discalced reforms in Andalusia until a General Chapter of the Carmelites was called for at Piacenza during the year of 1576 because the reforms were supposedly getting out of hand. (Tyler, 2011a; Brenan, 1975; Crisógono, 1958; McGinn, 2017). Consequently, a General Visitor, Jeronimo Tostado, was thereby appointed to oversee the direction of the reform of the entire order. His position was inherently more conservative and thus wanted to place severe restrictions upon it. He also wanted to restrict the influence and status of John in the order of the Discalced Carmelites. This also led to restrictions on Teresa, making her a home prisoner in the Convent at Castile while John was brutally incarcerated in Toledo (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 26–27). 10

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Kavanaugh writes that the largest block of poetry in John’s writings came to us during this time in the prison of Toledo. Whether or not any of his poetry predates this time is a matter of speculation (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 33–34). McGinn notes that being locked up seems to have created a deep well of creativity in John. This period of deprivation and suffering operated as an essential resource in his writings (2017, pp. 234–235). The writings during this time of imprisonment are replete with motifs of abandonment, darkness, anxiety, and desire. These themes will be explored shortly.11 McGinn claims that John’s directee, the nun Maria del Encarnación writes that, ‘he would say that his soul had never been more contented, nor had he ever rejoiced in the sweetness and light of Our Lord as during that long period while he was in prison’ (2017, p. 234). Tyler compares Teresa’s sublimation of crisis with that of John’s. He notes that while concealed in the Convent at Avila and reckoning with the ruin of her life’s work, she experienced a spontaneous externalisation of this crisis in the form of a mandala. The image of a ‘castle, or sphere of pure crystal’ appeared before her that she describes at the start of her work, Las Moradas. Similarly, we can understand John’s sudden outburst of poetry as a response or sublimation to the extreme deprivation he was experiencing (2011a, p. 21). It is important to note that although the experience of darkness and deprivation was most certainly a source of inspiration, one must not neglect the poetic value of John’s dramatic escape since this, too, appears as a theme in his poetry.

John’s Escape The poem of The Dark Night references finding oneself across a dark landscape but also speaks about being guided in the darkness by longing and desire. It speaks of finding one’s way urgently in the anxiety of darkness.  Moreover, as John faced certain expectations and demands laid before him by his own order, he refused to give up, or give ground to his desire, and was ultimately forced to confront this state of deprivation. These very conditions of lack are what allowed him to create a discourse of desire which subverted and transformed these stark circumstances. In other words, the poetry is what allowed him to make sense of this confrontation of emptiness and the ensuing prose of his work is what allowed him to continue the conversation of exploring the value of this with spiritual directees. 11

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This poem reflects the nature of John’s escape. Kavanaugh writes that in August, during one particularly hot night after being held in prison for over nine months, John eventually escaped. He managed to plan his escape during the rare times he was allowed outside (1991, p. 19). Kavanaugh further tells that John eventually discovered a means of escape, a window that promised a path to freedom. Gradually, when his guard was not alert, he managed to loosen the screws on his cell door. One fateful night, he finally managed to pry the door open and navigated his way to the recently discovered window. He climbed to freedom by employing a blanket tied into knots and attached to a lamp hook (1991, p. 19). He then found refuge at the Discalced Sisters’ convent located on Calle de la Silleria. Upon his arrival, the sisters were taken aback by his frail physical condition, which conveyed the gravity of his ordeal (Tyler, 2011a, p.  32). They quickly hid John in the Convent just before the Mitigated order enquired about his whereabouts. In confronting the order, the Prioress subverted their paternal authority by answering them that ‘it would be a miracle if you were to see a friar here’ (Tyler, 2011a, p. 32). Shortly after this, John was transferred to Santa Cruz, where he was to make his recovery for six weeks before moving on to Andalusia for further convalescence. During his time in recovery, the persecution of the Discalced lessened because Pope Gregory XIII ratified their independence (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 33–35).

Final Years During John’s final years, he completed what is considered one of his most celebrated pieces of work: The Living Flame of Love, along with the final stanzas and commentary on The Spiritual Canticle (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  21–23). Unfortunately, the relative peace would not last as John eventually confronted those who bore malice toward him (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 36–37).12 This further confrontation eventually led to John  John came into conflict with friars who had risen to power and whom he had once earlier rebuked for overtly focusing on the mendicant form of Carmelite life. These were Fray Francisco Crisóstomo and Padre Diego Evangelista (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 21–23). Evangelista was to eventually replace him as Definitor during a debate which sought to bind the discalced Sisters to the Brothers which 12

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returning to a life of solitude and prayer in La Peñuela. We Can get a sense of his poor emotional state concerning these state of affairs in his letter to Ana de Peñalosa. John tells us in this letter that he desired to stay in La Peñuela. He states that although he admired the wilderness of his surroundings, which apparently reminded him of the desert spirituality he loved so dearly, his soul was otherwise faring very poorly. John implies that he was anxious about the slander and plotting, but he nevertheless occupies himself through the daily religious life of this place. He ends the letter by asking for prayers from Ana so he can stay in La Peñuela in peace (Letters: 28). Unfortunately, those that bore him malice did not want this for John, so a vicious campaign of slander was initiated to get him expelled from the order (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 22–23). During this entire process, John became very poorly and was moved to a place for treatment where he was perceived as a troublemaker and consequently unappreciated. Because of this, the Prior at the house ensured he did not receive the best medical care he could have received and ultimately succumbed to neglect. Tyler notes that during his time in Toledo, John bore this pain and humiliation with fortitude (2011a, p. 37). Now that I have mapped out a short biography of the life of John of the Cross to give some context to what shaped his writings, I will now move on to give an outline of the main texts which formulate the body of his work. I will mainly use Kavanaugh’s work to briefly summarise this work’s body since he is the most concise and authoritative voice on the matter.

The Texts Sayings of Light and Love Kavanaugh states that the Sayings of Light and Love reflect much of the work and spiritual direction of the ancient desert fathers and mothers (1991, p.  83). They were written around 1578–1881  in the style of was obviously resisted by the nuns as it went against the teachings of Teresa of Avila. John, in this scenario, took the side of the sisters and as a result of taking sides was replaced (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 36–37).

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maxims and aphorisms, which were meant to be contemplated and reflected upon. In the prologue of Sayings of Light and Love, John highlights their distinctly pastoral nature by articulating them in terms of service and love: O my God and my delight, for your love, I have also desired to give my soul to composing these sayings of light and love concerning you. Since, although I can express them in words, I do not have the works and virtues they imply (which is what pleases you, O my Lord, more than the words and wisdom they contain), may others, perhaps stirred by them, go forward in your service and love-in which I am wanting. I will thereby find consolation, that these sayings be an occasion for your finding in others the things that I lack. (SL Prologue)

Most of these writings are from the time when he resided in Avila and was a spiritual director to the nuns there. Before he started any of his other texts, John noted his many thoughts to help guide those under his spiritual direction (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 83–84). After his confinement in Toledo, he returned to Andalusia, continued giving spiritual direction, and writing down his thoughts into maxims. Kavanaugh claims that these sayings were sometimes for individuals and groups of people (1991, pp.  83–84). The most widely recognised collection is found within an autograph manuscript from John. Kavanaugh states that this document was restored in 1976 and reproduced in a facsimile edition (1991, pp. 83–84). This is the edition I will use as presented in Kavanaugh’s collection. John calls the maxims, in the prologue of this set of writings, the Sayings of Love and Light, which is where the title is derived from (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 83–84). This text gives us the clearest pragmatic example of John’s spiritual direction, unlike The Living Flame of Love, which talks about the formation and character of the spiritual director.

The Ascent of Mount Carmel This text can be characterised as a systematic study of the soul’s desire to seek union with God. It starts as a commentary on the poem The Dark Night, but shortly after giving commentary on the first and second

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stanzas, it transforms into a theological and doctrinal exposition (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 101–109). The sketch of Mount Carmel and the poem of The Dark Night, along with the accompanying treatise, is known as the Ascent of Mount Carmel and was completed in Calvario-Beas-Baeza between 1578–1581 (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  101–109). However, this treatise was begun in 1581 and was probably not complete until 1584. Kavanaugh states that the Ascent of Mount Carmel is broken up into three parts: 1. The sketch of The Mount of Perfection, or alternatively known as The Sketch of Mount Carmel. 2. The poem entitled The Dark Night. 3. The work entitled The Dark Night which deals with the passive nights and serves as a commentary on the poem. Apparently, the Carmelite created many sketches of the mount to serve as a visual aid for the nuns and monks whom he served as spiritual director (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 101–109). Along with these copies, he also made one for the beginning of his Ascent, which operated as a summary of the teachings. In addition, the sketch was a valuable pedagogical tool. Students could have this drawing before them while they contemplated John’s ideas and direction; both served to clarify the other. John’s sketch of the mountain (See Fig. 3.1) starts with a small path which leads to a place of spiritual freedom and flourishing where God dwells (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 101–109). The path leading to this place is nada or ‘nothing.’ The text of the Ascent eventually reveals that the way is the Dark Night and the ‘theological life.’ This path, for John, is also the path which is referred to in the gospel of St Matthew [Matthew 7:14]. John explains that this treatise operates as a type of spiritual direction since its function is to help students reach this state of perfection. But, again, it must not be assumed that the text is just a practical handbook for the soul. Kavanaugh tells us that the book is much more than a manual of rules and techniques. Although there are rules for religious living, the Ascent examines the philosophy, theology and spirituality underlying them. In this sense, it is a work of spiritual theology for spiritual direction (1991,

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Fig. 3.1  The sketch of Mount Carmel (Source: The Sketch of Mount Carmel (see Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 110))

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p. 102). Kavanaugh further explains that John wrote this work because he noticed that many of those on the spiritual path gave up or stopped advancing because of what he called ‘darkness or trials’ (1991, p. 103). John also realised that spiritual directors who did not understand the value of this darkness destroyed the path of directees under their tutelage (A. Prologue, 5). Kavanaugh also claims that John wrote this work to encourage his students to discern the movement of God in the soul so that one removes those aspects of ourselves that hinder this movement of Grace in ‘poverty of spirit’ (1991, p. 103). This text mainly focuses on the active nights of the senses and spirits, and although John promises to deal with its passive aspects, he abandons the text when he realises he is going into too much detail (Kavanaugh, 1991, p.  107). According to Kavanaugh, the copy that is used most by scholars and considered most reliable is the codex of Alcaudete, which is conserved in the Silverian archives in Burgos (1991, p.  109). I will be using this text as presented in the collection by Kavanaugh.

The Dark Night The treatise of The Dark Night was completed around 1584–1585  in Granada. It is a commentary on the poem of the same name. Again, this text tells the story of the soul’s journey toward the divine (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 353). This work differentiates itself from the text of the Ascent as it mainly focuses on what John calls the passive night of the senses and the spirit. The manuscripts themselves are separate from those of the Ascent. This work broadly describes how God moves in the soul and how we passively receive Him and is thus considered as supplementing the text of the Ascent. Consequently, at its fundamental core, it sketches the process where the soul moves toward union with the divine. This all happens at night and serves as an allegory for the obstacles a directee might meet in their process of spiritual detachment in their journey toward God. Again, like The Ascent, it takes the form of an analysis of his poem The Dark Night, although with more intense theological and philosophical scrutiny

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(Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  353–357). Hence, John argues that the poem outlines two crucial processes in the spiritual journey. The first is the struggle through The Dark Night, and then there is the ineffable joy when one encounters the divine (DN. Prologue). Reflecting on this in more detail, Kavanaugh states that, ‘the main topics of the book are: the experience of the night; the theological principles underlying both its causes and its purpose; analysis of a person before, during, and after the purification; and the fruits of love and illumination’ (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 355). The first book has fourteen chapters, while the second has twenty-five chapters. Book one expands on the passive night of the senses, while the second focuses on the passive night of the spirit. According to Kavanaugh, the manuscripts generally used most by scholars—and hence the ones I shall use for this study—are the Hispalensis and Roma codex as presented in The Collected Works of John of the Cross. The former resides at the National Library of Madrid, while the second is found at the archives of the Discalced Carmelite Friars in Rome (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 357).

The Spiritual Canticle The poem of The Spiritual Canticle was written in Calvario-Beas-Baeza between (1578–1581) while the treatise of The Spiritual Canticle, the first redaction of the treatise of the 39-stanza poem, was written probably between 1584–1585. Like his other works, this text takes the form of poetry and prose. The poem forms a dialogue between the bridegroom and the bride, representing Christ and the soul. John clearly articulates that his aim in using this imagery is to map out the soul’s journey toward God. He states that the stanzas of his work begin with a directees first steps in the service of God and carry them until they reach perfection. This is the state he calls ‘spiritual Marriage.’ He then suggests that the traditional monastic way of spiritual exercises apply (purgative, illuminative and finally unitive) until they reach this desired state of spiritual perfection (CB 1.1). Kavanaugh states that this poem’s apparent source and commentary are the Song of Songs and John’s own experience (1991, p. 462). As said, he wrote the poem while imprisoned in Toledo but added other stanzas

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and commentary later. While John was brutally incarcerated, the imagery evoked by The Song of Songs, which he knew by heart, helped him to re-­ interpret the cramped dismal confines of his predicament. He re-­ configured the images of this biblical narrative to make his own song (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 462). The first thirty-one stanzas of The Spiritual Canticle are the result of this. He wrote this down with the material given to him by his prison guard (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 464). Shortly after this, he escaped and made his way to Beas. The nuns who resided there read his poetry and quickly made copies of them. John eventually added more stanzas over the ensuing years. Following a request from the nuns at Beas, John created a commentary to help enlighten them of the meaning of his poetry (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 464). John initially faced challenges in this process, largely due to the nature of poetry, which generally resists rigorous theological analysis (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 465). Consequently, he restructured the poem’s stanzas to better align with the level of theological and philosophical analysis required for its elaboration. Concurrently, he undertook revisions of his initial commentary on the poem. The outcome of this is the existence of two versions of The Spiritual Canticle that we now refer to as Canticle A and Canticle B (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 465). The first redaction is believed to have been written around 1584, while the second redaction is said to have been written about 1585–1586, after the first redaction of The Living Flame of Love (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp.  467–468). Clearer and better arranged, Kavanaugh argues that Canticle B is better suited to scholars. This is known as the Codex of Jaen and the one that will be utilised in this study (1991, p. 468).

The Living Flame of Love The Living Flame of Love describes an elevated state of proximity to God. John is careful to state that the subject matter within the poem is so profound that one can only speak of it in a state of deep recollection. He also tells us that the matters these writings deal with are so spiritual that he finds it difficult to rely upon their content adequately (LF. Prologue). At its heart is the self-transformation that occurs when one reaches a state of union with God. Unlike the other poems, there is no process of

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progression, and each stanza has the same intensity, disrupting our sense of time and space (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 633). There are moments within the poem where he briefly acknowledges the past, but that is only to recognise the intensity of the moment God has embraced him. The imagery used within the poem is necessary to describe the transformation of the self at the heart of the text: the wood, the flame, the extraction of moisture from the object until it is completely transformed, and all that is left is a living flame of love (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 633). The poem itself was written as a form of spiritual direction. Kavanaugh further explains that the poem was written for Doña Ana de Peñalosa, a wealthy widow and benefactor to the Carmelites (1991, p.  633). The commentary that followed was also due to a request from the Doña. Thus, its creation was similar to that of the commentary of The Spiritual Canticle (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 634). However, its lyrical quality distinguishes the commentary from other forms of prose. John states that he had to wait for a spirit of recollection to descend upon him to write this text. He wrote the commentary within two weeks (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 634). Thus, it is almost as if there is a blurring of the categories of prose and poetry due to the intensity of the recollection. Like The Dark Night and The Spiritual Canticle, John follows his method of interpretation: 1 . He states the entire poem. 2. He then states each stanza separately while summing up its content. 3. He then explains each verse specifically (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 634). Kavanaugh states that the commentary of The Living Flame is longer and more detailed than The Spiritual Canticle, but not as long as The Dark Night (1991, p.  634). John also diverges from mere interpretation to delve into spiritual direction: He heeds the call to be a spiritual teacher and enters into digressions that enlarge the commentary. The paramount one occurs in the third stanza, numbers 27–67. There he explains how souls must watch what they are doing and into whose hands they commit themselves so as not to impede God’s work and thereby stumble and slip back on their journey. (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 634)

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The dominant theme of the commentary is the work of the Trinity within the soul. This reference to the Trinity stops John from moving into a monistic description of the soul’s absorption into the absolute. This is because it focuses on the flow of desire between each distinct hypostasis and demonstrates how we participate in this greater love. Hence, a constant theme of communion and participation underlies these descriptions (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 635). Like The Spiritual Canticle, we have two redactions of The Living Flame: Flame A and Flame B. However, unlike The Spiritual Canticle, there is little difference between the two redactions. Both versions are laid out similarly, but version B has some clarifying comments and doctrinal expansion. Kavanaugh writes that the variations in the text were introduced in his writing while he resided at La Peñuela during the last months of his life, August–September 1591. Someone witnessed John’s routine here. John used to withdraw to the garden to pray and stay there until it became too hot. He then took to his room, where he worked on the stanzas of his poetry. By this time (1591), all of his other works, including the Canticle, had reached their final stage (1991, p. 636). To summarise, the first text was written in Granada around 1585, while the second draft was written at La Peñuela in 1591. The texts that scholars mostly use are known as the Codex of Sevilla and the Codex of Baeza, which are copies of the second draft, and also the Codex of Toledo, which is a copy of the first redaction (Kavanaugh, 1991, pp. 636–637). For this study, I will use Flame B, as used by Kavanaugh, as translated from the Codex of Sevilla and the Codex of Baeza.

The Special Counsels John drafted these precautions and letters for the sisters he served while living at El Calvario after escaping in 1587 (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 719). They reflect much of the wisdom he nurtured while working as a spiritual director in Avila. The sisters made copies of these writings to send to other Religious. The work is known for its brevity, although it is dense with doctrine and theology (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 719). Kavanaugh also notes that these were written for sisters devoted to and inspired by Teresa

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of Avila. Thus, they reflect the sense of immediacy that characterised her teachings. We can see this in the introduction of the precautions. He urges directees to follow these instructions to quickly attain a holy recollection and poverty of spirit (The Precautions: 1). Kavanaugh notes that the structure of The Special Counsels focuses on spiritually fighting against the world, the flesh, and the Devil. From this framework, John describes a type of behaviour that people must nurture in relation to different aspects of living (1991, p.  719). Accordingly, although John describes the benefits one receives when following a counsel, he is also lucid in describing the problems that result from not taking it seriously (Kavanaugh, 1991, p. 719). The text that most scholars and editors use is the autograph copy made by Alonso de la Madre de Dios, which is conserved at the National Library of Madrid (Kavanaugh, 1991, p.  719). These are the texts which I will be using as presented in the Collected Works of John of the Cross.

The Reception of John’s Texts Early Reception It is essential at this point to make some comments on the initial reception of John’s work as this first reception and interpretation of John have shaped what we understand of him today in terms of the two aspects of D1 I have previously discussed: negative affective experientialism (a) and positive affective experientialism (b). The first editor of John’s work was Diego de Jesús (1570–1621) (Tyler, 2011a, p. 69). He published the first complete edition of John’s work in 1618. However, it is important to note that the editor took liberties with John’s text to avoid scrutiny from the Church and accusations of heresy (Tyler, 2011a, p. 69). Tyler indicates that there are some alterations in the first edition of his work, including the omission of The Spiritual Canticle, possibly due to its overtly erotic nature (2011a, p. 6). Diego states that we must not confuse John of the Cross with being a moral or a scholastic theologian and argues that we should comprehend him in the specific school of mystical

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theology. He tells the reader that in these ‘lofty matters,’ it must be understood that John is speaking of mystical experience. So, he must be allowed to use imperfect and poetic language to symbolise this. He further explains that in these matters, ‘Grace rather than language is mistress’ and so ‘obscurity’ rather than ‘clarity’ is needed. He also says we must not limit the unsayable (Quoted in De Certeau, 1995, pp. 138–139). Arguably, Diego was interpreting mystical theology in such a way as to allow it license to operate creatively outside the purview of scholastic theology and moral theology. However, Diego’s interpretation of mystical theology as concerning religious experience, which is distinct from theology, ultimately shaped later experientialist-focused receptions of John’s work. Hence, we find other seminal scholars, such as Jean Baruzi in the early twentieth century, place an overt focus on the importance of experientialism as the central core of the Juanist project (see Baruzi, 1924). This notion of experientialism is at the heart of understanding John as an inheritor of the teologia mistica. Diego tells us that the mystic has permission (so long as there is no contradiction) to use unfamiliar terms that enliven and signify the experience. He says that this tradition spans back to Pseudo Dionysus. He speaks of them describing the enjoyment of this mystical substance in imperfect language (Quoted in De Certeau, 1995, pp. 138–139). However, even with this thorough introduction of John’s work and the omission of The Spiritual Canticle from the first edition, forty propositions were extracted from the editio princeps and reported to the Holy Office for censure. This resulted in the first edition of John’s work being withdrawn from circulation (Tyler, 2011a, p. 6). All in all, the initial reception of John’s work seems to reflect his life. During his lifetime, John was a controversial figure perceived as dangerous to his own order and the Church. This perception eventually led to him being imprisoned and hidden from view. Similarly, we find that with the reception of John’s work, there were efforts to suppress his ideas or translate them in different ways and modes of thought to avoid scrutiny from authorities. More accurately, we find that to present these ideas in a way that was less problematic to the institution of the Church; one can detect the outlines of the logic of D1b concerning the initial reception and interpretation of John’s work.

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Modern Reception Over time there has been a tendency to interpret John either as a systematic thinker or as a mystical theologian who, although using terms from theology, is using these terms metaphorically to describe something wholly experiential (Louth, 2007, p.  212). However, there has been a shift away from perceiving John of the Cross as a theologian or mystical thinker whose works can be systematised entirely and more significant attempts to understand his works as more interdisciplinary (Tyler, 2011a, p. 3, 17). Thus, modern scholarship tends to focus on different aspects of his work, such as theology, mystical theology, psychology, pastoral theology and spiritual direction, while at the same time understanding that what is being said is by no means exhaustive (Tyler, 2011a, p. 3). As I have already outlined, I focus on continuing the conversation between spiritual direction and psychology but by concentrating on the underexplored clinical aspect of Lacanian psychoanalysis and its relationship to spiritual direction. Nevertheless, it is important to briefly mention some groundwork in other areas of Juanist scholarship since spiritual direction and psychology necessarily encompass these other disciplines. Regarding exploring John’s mystical theology, modern scholarship has tended to try to ‘fit’ John’s work into different mystical traditions and not to not make assumptions about what this mystical tradition is. Andrew Louth argues that John fits into what he terms a ‘Western Mystical Tradition,’ which he sees as different from the ‘Eastern Mystical tradition.’ Louth contends that the Eastern mystical tradition is distinguished from the Western tradition by the latter coming to anachronistically focus more on experientialism, emotion, and interiority (2007, pp. 174–185, 212). He states: St. John is in contact with this tradition and it must have influenced his understanding of the Dark Night of the Soul. Part of this influence can be seen in the way such a development of affective mysticism serves to emphasize the contrast between the theoretical character of Patristic mysticism and the dramatic and affective character of later Western mysticism. (2007, p. 179)

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Louth is saying that the Western medieval mystical tradition developed an inward affective flavour in contrast to Eastern patristic sources. He continues: It is the contrast we have noted already between St. John’s more introspective, experiential approach and the objective, theoretical character of Patristic theology. St. John of the Cross is discussing the soul’s experience as it seeks God in love; St. Gregory of Nyssa, for example, is discussing what is involved, at an ‘objective,’ theological level, in the soul’s loving pursuit of God. (2007, p. 181)

I agree with this interpretation on the proviso that one understands that this overt focus on experientialism is more of a modern phenomenon than one distinctly associated with the medieval tradition and Western mystical theology in toto. The seeds of it are certainly present throughout the ages, but only in the nineteenth century did it come into its own as a distinct phenomenon. Moreover, I think John’s work, although certainly lending itself to experientialist interpretations, can also subvert and challenge these conceptions. For instance, Tyler understands John as belonging to the tradition of the theologica mistica that stretches back to Pseudo Dionysius. However, unlike Louth, he argues that John’s adherence to the tradition of mystical theology has less to do with pure experiential, emotional interiority and more with a specific disruptive mode of speaking (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 69–78). As we have seen, Denys Turner has also done important work in arguing against the experientialist paradigm in which John is usually interpreted. His specific interpretation of the Dark Night of the Soul centres not on descriptive metaphors of a type of experiential darkness; instead, he aims to demonstrate how a certain opacity of the self, which is operative in the work of John, is all but utterly resistant to both intellectual and experientialist models of interpretation (Turner, 1995, pp.  226–227). This is also reflected in the work of Eugene Thacker, who comes to similar conclusions as Turner, albeit from a different theoretical tradition (2011, pp. 113–115).13 Hence, one can argue that some modern scholars seem  Eugene Thacker is Associate Professor of Media Studies at the New School, New York. In his work Starry Speculative Corpse, he traces the motif of mystical darkness. He is part of a modern 13

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to be moving away from an experientialist paradigm and exploring ways of understanding the mystical, and its role in the work of John, as operating outside of this psychologistic paradigm. The first major study that gave a clear psychologistic understanding of the mystical in the specific works of John of the Cross can be said to have been carried out by Jean Baruzi (Lacan’s teacher and significant influence on Bataille, who also influenced Lacan). His major study on John of the Cross is entitled, Saint Jean de La Croix et le Probleme de l’ Experience Mystique; John of the Cross and the Problem of Mystical Experience (see Baruzi, 1924). I will explore Baruzi’s work in more detail later, but it suffices to say at this point that Jean Baruzi interpreted the work of John by construing it through the lens of a psychological-phenomenological framework (Baruzi, 1924, p. xxiii). This major work was first published in 1924. Baruzi’s study marked an approach in the study of mysticism that broke away from the more rigid dogmatic ways that marked the prevalent neo-­ scholastic movement in France at the time—what I have called the modality of D1a (Simons, 1999, p.  198). He did this by utilising the work of William James and Henri Bergson as a heuristic framework to interpret the ideas of John. He argued that within John’s oeuvre, one could detect the operation of an experiential transcendence working to annihilate all phenomena until a pure ‘experience of nothing’ becomes present to the subject (Baruzi, 1924, p. xxiii). For Baruzi, this ‘Dark Night’ is paradoxical since we wish to use the language of phenomena to describe something that is not phenomenal whatsoever. Moreover, this darkness transmutes, changes, and warps the mystic’s descriptive use of language concerning this non-phenomenon. For Baruzi, what is at stake for the mystic is a ‘certitude of the divine’ (Baruzi, 1924, pp. 308, 498; Nelstrop & Onishi, 2016, p. 24)The negative character of this experience of certitude is essentially negative, and so philosophical movement called object orientated ontology and speculative realism. Broadly speaking it applies mystical theology not merely to God, but to all reality. All entities in the end become opaque to others and ultimately themselves, when analysed. He traces it through John of the Cross, Meister Eckhart, to Dionysius the Areopagite. He sees in these mystical writers a type of discursive practice which allows us to approach ‘the unhuman.’ He reinterprets darkness not as a thing to be experience but an absolute darkness that is not just a privative negation, but an absolute negation, one that, in order to be thought, requires the negation of philosophy and theology itself (see Thacker, 2015).

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raises the epistemological question as to what sort of knowledge this limit-experience yields. In his last chapter, he lays out the criteria of this experiential theopathic state and how to distinguish it from the psychological category of psychosis (Baruzi, 1924, p. 308; Nelstrop & Onishi, 2016, p. 24). This resulted in an interpretation of John that focused on the supposed experiential aspects of his work as opposed to its more doctrinal aspects. Baruzi’s interpretation was ultimately challenged by Maurice Blondel, who questioned the intense psychological individuality of Baruzi’s interpretation—the modality of what I have called D1b—and so highlighted the importance of a pragmatic, communal and liturgical framework (Nelstrop & Onishi, 2016, pp. 23–33). So, whereas Baruzi offered a corrective to the overtly dogmatic institutional interpretation of John by way of experientialism, what we see now in modern scholarship is a critique of the experientialist paradigm itself. In the language I have developed, we can see that Baruzi critiqued the logic of D1a by utilising the framework of D1b. On the other hand, modern scholarship has focused on critiquing this interpretation without sliding back into the logic of D1a. In response to these overly psychologistic interpretations, there has been a movement to focus on the shared communal structures that are said to be mystical. Critiquing the tendency of scholars to be drawn to experientialist interpretations, Gimello tells us that this concept of mystical experience is ‘the psychosomatic enhancement of religious belief ’ and that it becomes of interest to scholars simply because it seems to exist as a non-dogmatic confirmation of religious belief (1983, p. 85). Tyler interprets John’s mode of writing and speaking in the vein of a Wittgensteinian language game, while McIntosh argues for a more liturgically focused interpretation following that of Rowan Williams. Don Cupitt, on the other hand, argues for a post-structural perspective of mystical theology that eschews the transcendent while drawing on aspects of deconstruction in interpreting the poetry of John of the Cross (Tyler, 2011b, pp. 3–26; Cupitt, 1998, p. 71; McIntosh, 1998, p. 55). Edward Howells’ work explores the significance of John’s contribution to questions of the self and knowledge in relation to concepts of psychological structures of subjectivity. He explores how mystical knowing changes these structures. However, he carefully distinguishes the value of mystical

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knowing and its contextual nature from modern psychology (Howells, 2017, pp. 140–161). What the above interpretations have in common is the warning that one should resist the temptation to place the prose purely on the side of the theological, while the poetry is an expression of pure emotional, psychological experience. Louth echoes this common sentiment: ‘Comparative mysticism’ is too easy, and unhistorical: it simply lulls us into thinking that we can regard as fundamentally significant (‘mystical’ has never lost the connotation of what really matters, what is ultimately powerful) what appeals to the individualized consciousness of the West—religious literature that aspires to the form of poetry, devoid of dogmatic content or ritual expression. (2007, p. 213)

Both poetry and doctrine are parts of what mystical theology is for John, as it encompasses both the intellect and the affect in their performativity. Reflecting on this general tendency in Juanist scholarship, McGinn argues that focusing on prose and poetry is crucial to understand mystical theology (McGinn, 2017, pp. 240–241). I have already expanded on the modern reception of John’s work as a spiritual director. Nevertheless, it is sufficient to say that the current use of John in the practice of modern spiritual direction has not developed contemporary linguistic contextual readings of his work. Consequently, Juanist spiritual direction, in some forms of practice, has the danger of being reduced to experiential psychologism or dogmatic moral guidance. One can suggest that the reception of John’s work within the discipline of contemporary spiritual direction oscillates between the logic of D1a and D1b. On the other hand, the more radical reception of John’s conception of desire in the modality I have defined as D2 remains locked at the level of academic theory. John’s teaching stays locked at the level of experientialism in spiritual direction because much of its vocabulary is borrowed from experientialist forms of psychology. In other words, the D1b logic of therapy meets the D1b logic of Juanist experientialist interpretations, thereby solidifying it. There is no pathway for these contextual, linguistic interpretations of John into the arena of spiritual direction, so to speak.

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My argument functions on the premise that a contextual linguistic understanding of John is not opposed to psychology, nor does it entail that it is reducible to it. I shall argue that by interpreting John’s spiritual direction through the linguistic psychoanalysis of Lacan, one can paradoxically remedy the psychologisation of Juanist spiritual direction today. This is possible because Lacan believed his understanding of psychoanalysis was closer to pre-modern forms of spiritual direction. However, before this, I will map out the key ideas and concepts that form the core of his ideas on mystical theology and spiritual direction.

J ohn’s Spiritual Direction: Sources and Foundations  he Biblical and Philosophical Foundations of John’s T Spiritual Direction It is essential to understand that John’s spiritual direction is grounded in certain theological and philosophical ideals. First, I will set out to explicate how within his writings, John conceived of the role of the intellect and the affect in his conception of the self and its relation to God. After this, I will explore John’s specific writings on spiritual direction. I then interpret some of the main ideas in John’s mystical theology through the paradigm of the linguistic turn—and the concept of language games—as provided by George Lindbeck and Peter Tyler.14 The purpose of this is to apply these methods not just to his mystical theology but to the practice of Juanist spiritual direction that takes it out of the experientialist logic of D1b. While John was imprisoned in awful conditions, he had no access to books or conversations with anyone else besides his jailer. Instead, he had to rely on the sources he had become equated within the past. John accessed these sources by memory to make sense of the awful conditions  Language games is a concept attributed to Wittgenstein. It states that words have meaning not by way of ostensive correspondence, but by way of signification within a performative context. In other words, language has meaning via use. It operates by way of a theory of coherence rather than correspondence (Kerr, 1986, pp. 1–100). 14

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in which he was forced to exist (McGinn, 2017, pp.  242–243). Throughout John’s writings, he directly cites Bible passages but is much more relaxed concerning referencing other theological and philosophical sources (McGinn, 2017, pp. 242–243). Tyler and McGinn suggest that although the teachings of Thomas Aquinas are evident within the body of John’s work, it would be a mistake to assume that he was a Thomist as there are times when his work diverges entirely from Aquinas’ teachings in his anthropology and seems to make use of Augustinian themes. This is likely the result of his education at the University of Salamanca, which encouraged its students to study the work of Thomists, Anti-Thomists, Scotists, Avincennians and Averoists (Tyler, 2011a, p. 17; McGinn, 2017, p. 231). Hence, any attempt to locate John in one school of thought—as carried out by scholars such as the aforementioned Thomist Garigrou-­ Lagrange—is possibly misguided (Tyler, 2011a, p. 17). According to the research of Crisógono, we know that along with these philosophical and theological influences, one can also see that John was schooled in the writings of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite and St Gregory the Great (1958, p. 38). Thus, one can detect the influence of the tradition of the theologia mistica throughout his writings, which I will highlight later in the text. Poetry was also an important resource for John. John came into contact with Spanish and Latin Classics while at the Jesuit school.15 Kavanagh argues that it was here that John learned the fundamentals of poetic construction, which consisted of reading, composition, imagery and literary technique that are evidenced throughout his writings (1991, pp. 9–27).16 Brenan has described the work of John as a ‘man of two books’ in reference to the influence of The Song of Songs and Garcilaso de la Vega’s secular poetry (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 216–219).

 Tyler notes that the Jesuit curriculum was exceptional at the time. He studied under the great humanist scholar Juan Bonafacio (see Tyler, 2011a). 16  From a Lacanian perspective one can suggest that we can see all three registers operative within the development of John of the Cross. One can argue that his use of imagery and emotive language belongs to the register of the imaginary. The intellectual philosophical development belongs to the register of the symbolic, while the experience of destitution, the suffering of the body belongs to the order of the real. This work will expand upon this in later chapters. 15

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Henri Sanson argues that of the three interrelated sources for John (Science, experience and the Bible), it is the Bible that John relies on to ground everything else (Quoted in McGinn, 2017, p. 243). It would be fair to say that John uses the Bible as the primary source and his training in philosophy and theology as a resource. John had a comprehensive understanding of the Bible and quoted it openly and regularly throughout his writings. On the other hand, the influence of other thinkers in his writings is apparent, but he does not cite them directly (McGinn, 2017, pp. 242–243). John generally follows the tradition of other mystics that went before him insofar as he aims to give allegorical, spiritual readings of Biblical texts. However, John constantly warns his readers not to veer off into the realm of pure experientialism and warns against literal scripture readings (McGinn, 2017, p. 244).

J ohn’s Understanding of the Intellect Affect and the Self It can be said that the work of John of the Cross differs doctrinally from other mystical writers precisely because of its experiential force and its relation to the self (Turner, 1995, pp. 226–251). However, just because John takes his starting point as experientialism does not mean it ends in it. On the contrary, by taking experience to its furthest point, he demonstrates its poverty and darkness (Turner, 1995, pp. 226–251). By locating desire as moving through the intellect, will, memory and senses, it encapsulates and transcends them in a moment of subjective suspension. Reflecting on this, Alois M Haas tells us that the strange character of John’s anthropology is its non-experientialist core (Haas in McGinn, 2017, p. 263). We do not find this non-experientialism in some ultimate limit experience17 but within a slow emptying out of the self through what John calls the active night of senses, the passive night of the senses, the active night of the spirit and the passive night of the spirit (AC I. 13. 1; AC III. 2. 13). I will say more about these categories in the next section on John’s mystical theology. For now, one can claim that through these  This is a term that has its origins in the philosophical work of Michel Foucault when describing and expounding on the ideas of Georges Bataille and Friedrich Nietzsche. 17

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strategies, there is a dual emptying out of the operations of both the intellect and the affections so that God can work his Grace on the soul (AC II. 6. 1–4). However, this can result in interpreting John in quietist terms as if all desire has been shut down. In counteracting this point, Turner distinguishes between possessive and non-possessive desires in John’s concept of the self. He claims that possessive desire is an imperfect relationship with creation and becomes an obstacle to our transformation into God. Turner then explains that freeing up non-possessive desire calls for a procedural elimination that must be utterly unremitting and extend across our emotional and intellectual desires. Only by doing this can one become free to desire ‘all’ (1995, p. 233). Turner‘s elaboration on the concept of desire remains relatively sparse. Nevertheless, this aspect proves critical to my argument, given that desire forms the cornerstone of a revolutionary interpretation of spiritual guidance that transcends the experientialist paradigm. Thus, I will endeavour to expound upon his observations. Nevertheless, it goes without saying for Turner that misconstruing John’s statements as advocating for the suppression of desire would be a mistake. What is, in fact, shut down is the false-self that hinders this radical form of self-emptying desire. In other words, instead of interpreting our encounter with God as a moment where we meet some dark object and the resulting ecstatic, experiential termination of our desire, John is describing the death of the old self that stands in the way of our participation in a greater desire as grounded in the ontological reality of the God-Head. John reflects on this process in The Living Flame of Love, where John—speaking about the depths of the soul—tells us of the infinite capacity of this new self: The capacity [in the soul] is deep because the object of this capacity, namely God, is profound and infinite. Thus, in a certain fashion [its] capacity is infinite, [its] thirst is infinite, [its] hunger is also deep and infinite, and [its] languishing and suffering are infinite death. (LF 3. 22)

John here speaks of the infinite capacity of the soul to receive the infinite capacity of God’s Grace. However, because both are infinite, they entangle and never fully cancel each other out. In other words, there is no

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Hegelian negation of negation. So, all there is, is an endless desire stretching out as the ‘deep calls out to the deep’ [Psalm 42: 7] in a symbiotic, desirative echoing. He continues: Although the suffering [of this desire] is not as intense as is the suffering of the next life, yet the soul is a living image of that infinite privation, since it is in a certain way disposed to receive its plenitude. This suffering, however, is of another quality because it lies within the recesses of the [soul’s] love; and love is not what alleviates the pain, since the greater the love, so much more impatient are such persons for the possession of God, for whom they hope at times with intense longing. (LF. 3. 22)

In this quote, we can see that John not only takes to task a two-­dimensional understanding of desire in this life but also applies it to the next. What John is describing is not some static celestial totality, of which we have a terrestrial taste of here, but a continuation of beautiful agony—’love is not what alleviates pain,’ and God is, after all, love [1 John 4: 16]. We can understand the transformation of our desire regarding the soul coming to terms with its own infinite nature and its shedding of false finitude. To do this, one needs to give up prosaic concepts of satisfaction. Moreover, the only way to give up these notions of satisfaction is to give up entirely the old self. In other words, the non-possessive desire culminates in a non-­ possessive new self. As my point of departure, I will interpret Turner’s understanding of possessive and non-possessive desires as D1b and D2. For if John is to escape the charge of ‘experientialism’ specifically in the practice of spiritual direction, then one must understand desire as that what also goes beyond experience and encompasses both the intellect and the affect. The problem at hand is that our current understanding of desire is understood in affective experiential terms as D1b. I contend that John was at pains to express this latter form of desire as D2. Moreover, from this interpretation, it can be seen right the way through his texts. To better understand how this form of desire operates and transcends both D1a and D1b, it is important to outline John’s understanding of the self and how it relates to God, as this underpins the concept at hand.

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Theologically speaking, what is vital for understanding John is that he had a holistic vision of the human person and its relationship to the divine. This new self-had its place in God’s creation and its relationship to God’s Grace. John reflects this when he writes the following in his Romances: My Son, I wish to give you a bride who will love you. Because of you she will deserve to share our company, and eat at our table, the same bread I eat, that she may know the good I have in such a Son; and rejoice with me in your Grace and fullness.’ ‘I am very grateful,’ the Son answered; ‘I will show my brightness to the bride you give me, so that by it she may see how great my Father is, and how I have received my being from your being. I will hold her in my arms and she will burn with your love, and with eternal delight she will exalt your goodness. (R III)

The Son represents Christ, and the bride is the human soul. John says that the soul will participate in the love the Father and the Son share. He then goes on to bring in creation as a gift for the human soul and its participation in the Godhead: ‘Let it be done, then’, said the Father, for your love has deserved it. And by these words the world was created, a palace for the bride made with great wisdom. (R IV)

However, there is a tendency to negate this holistic vision of the self in the writings of John. McGinn has pointed out that there can be an inclination to think that John is talking about the soul as a type of separate faculty which ends up splitting up John’s concept of the self and how it relates to God. This, though, is a mistake; McGinn explains that although John often speaks of the soul or alma, this is a synecdoche for the whole human person and not merely some metaphysical part of it. Both sense and spirit must work to transcend the false self and realise their unity (2017, p. 253). In the contemporary era, it is easy to perceive the soul as some ethereal presence extending towards another nebulous entity—what we identify as God. Regrettably, this notion is partly a consequence of the

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psychologistic framework I described previously. John’s conceptualisation of the self-originated from a worldview predating Cartesian thought. Nevertheless, his approach to this pre-modern worldview was not straightforward. There are times when people have argued that his understanding of the self was Thomistic and others who have said that his anthropology is Augustinian (Tyler, 2011a, p.  17). Not only this, but these theologies seem to be shifting throughout his writings (McGinn, 2017, pp. 253–261). The critical idea emerging from John’s understanding of the self with its categories of will, Intellect and sometimes memory, along with the appetites, is that the process of spiritual union empties them out completely. However, in this process of radical dispossession, it is essential to remember that for John, the place of the soul is still related to creation, although radically different. He tells us in the Ascent that as directees acquire more liberty of spirit and clarity of reason, they obtain more joy and recreation in the creatures of the world precisely through their dispossession of them. He further explains that directees cannot rejoice in creatures if they wish to possess them and that it is in detachment directees acquire a clearer knowledge of them in relation to both natural and supernatural truths (AC III. 20. 2). John is thus always clear that participation of the soul in God transforms identity and its relation to creation. He states that: When God grants this supernatural favour to the soul, so great a union is caused that all the things of both God and the soul become one in participant transformation [en tranformancion participante] and the soul appears to God more than the soul. Indeed, it is God by participation. Yet truly, its being (even though transformed) is naturally as distinct from God’s as it was before, just as the window, although illuminated by the ray, has being distinct from the rays. (AC II. 5. 7)

This activity of God cannot be understood without reference to the inherent goodness of creation or the Trinity. These are not just arbitrary elements that can be discarded as one reaches a final state of union, as Baruzi’s thesis seems to hint at (see Baruzi, 1924). Instead, they are concrete points of reference for John in his understanding of God’s activity

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on the human person. Again, in his Romances, John describes through the imagery of the Bride and Bridegroom and the love between them in distinctly Trinitarian language. Not only this, but the human self and the world, which are creations of this overflowing of love, are taken up by the incarnate Word into a greater participatory Desire (D2) at the heart of the God-head. John writes: In the beginning, the Word was; he lived in God and possessed in him his infinite happiness. That same Word was God, who is the Beginning; he was in the beginning and had no beginning. He was himself the Beginning and therefore had no beginning. The Word is called Son; he was born of the Beginning who had always conceived him, giving of his substance always, yet always possessing it. (R I)

In this passage, we see that the pre-existence of the Word subsists with God. John is at pains to distinguish between the Word’s personhood and his paradoxical inseparability from God. In the next stanza, John introduces the device of desire to help us envision the distinction and ‘sameness’ between Father and Son: And thus the glory of the Son was the Father’s glory, and the Father possessed all his glory in the Son. As the lover in the beloved each lived in the other, and the Love that unites them is one with them, their equal, excellent as the One and the Other: Three Persons, and one Beloved among all three. (R I)

At this point, we see the hypostatisation of desire itself as it transforms to take on the personage of the Holy Spirit, which operates as a type of ontological binding substance and subject that introduces the language of sameness within difference: One love in them all makes of them one Lover, and the Lover is the Beloved in whom each one lives. For the being that the three possess each of them possesses, and each of them loves him who bears this being. Each one is this being, which alone unites them, binding them deeply, one beyond words. Thus it is a boundless Love that unites them, for the three have one love which is their essence; and the more love is one the more it is love. (R I)

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The broader point here is that part of God’s essence, what it means to be God, is to desire as D2. In other words, imagining God without desire destroys any conceptual relevance of the Trinity for John. For John, true desire is always the desire of the Other (God). In the Romances, John describes that this gratuitous, transcendent, self-giving activity defines the human self. Just as the Son and Father self-empty toward each other in an infinite, overflowing kenotic movement, so too can the human, as one made in the image of God, and adopted through the incarnation, participate in this activity (McGinn, 2017, p. 275). This gratuitous, overflowing, paradoxical desire is of absolute centrality to John’s spiritual direction insofar as its referential point is John’s understanding of Grace and its relation to the self (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 40–58).

 he Mystical Theological Foundations of Juanist T Spiritual Direction At this point, although I have mapped out some of John’s mystical theology in relation to the self and God, I wish to state more about this mystical process that takes place in those who undertake the process laid out by John, as this is a formative aspect of his spiritual direction.

Purgation and Illumination The journey of denudation uses the three stages of the monastic tradition associated with the Desert Fathers. First, we see purgation, illumination, and union as the overlying framework via this mystical process in the self (McGinn, 2017, pp. 230–313). In the first stage of purgation, we start with what John calls in the opening part of The Ascent of Mount Carmel, the active night of the senses (AC I. 13. 1). This is a process whereby through prayer and meditation, students actively strip themselves of possessive bodily desires (AC I. 13. 4). At the end of this stage, students will undergo what John Calls the passive night of the senses. This is the interruptive moment of God’s Grace where the experience of denial is undermined by a dulling of the physical senses themselves

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(AC I. 8. 1). So, in the first part of the purgative process, directees are made aware of their desires for imperfect bodily things. At the same time, in the transitive to the illuminative stage, we see the dulling of these yearnings themselves and the consequent shutting down of this register of experience.18 The illuminative stage corresponds to the second part of the ascent of Mount Carmel. One can find in this stage a movement to a desire of the spirit. Students begin to move to a more profound form of prayer, what John calls contemplation (DN II. 8. 6). This is typified by what is termed the active night of the spirit (AC II. 2. 1). It was the process of actively ridding oneself of the attachment to lingering aspects of the old self-connected to the modalities I have termed the modalities of D1b (the affect) and D1a (the intellect). These desires hinder the purgative process of the spirit under the modality of D2. John writes that the first night (active and passive night of the senses) applies to the lower sensory part of the self and is thus considered more external. Thus, the second nights (the active and passive night of the spirit) are darker and more intense and belong to the rational part of the self. He states that these nights are darker than the first nights (the night of the senses) because faith is gradually deprived of the light of rationality or becomes blind to it. He suggests that once one reaches the point of the passive night of the spirit, ‘it is indeed comparable to midnight, the innermost and darkest period of night’ (AC II. 2. 2–3). In The Dark Night Treatise, John tells us that the purgation of the senses is only the beginning of contemplation that eventually leads to the purgation of the spirit. In expounding on the active night of the spirit, John states that ‘the stains of the old self still linger in the spirit, although they may not be apparent or perceptible. Suppose these are not wiped away using this purgative night’s soap and strong lye. In that case, the spirit will be unable to reach the purity of divine union’ (DN II. 1. 1). John realises that the experience of darkness and emptiness is confusing and subtle. This focus on darkness, for John, is one concerned with giving directees the tools to discern the sources of emptiness and darkness within one’s soul. This is the exercise of recollection, a Christian practice of silence and solitude without distraction (McGinn, 2017, p.  272).  Note: this is not a shutting down of desire as such, but a movement into true desire.

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Recollection starts in the active night of the spirit as the three faculties of intellect, memory and will are silenced and ultimately make the transition to the passive night of the spirit to find its ‘hiding place of interior recollection with the Bridegroom’ (CB 40.3) (McGinn, 2017, p. 272).19

Unitive Stage In John’s The Spiritual Canticle, there is a greater focus on the sexual description of desire and its relation between bodies. These writings hark back to a long commentary tradition on the biblical Song of Songs (McGinn, 2017, pp.  286–302). Here we find that John illustrates the role of desire between the soul and Christ. The poem takes the form of a dialogue between the bride (the soul) and the bridegroom (Christ); this is a further exposition of the themes found in the Romance poems (McGinn, 2017, pp.  286–302). By the time his order carried out the incarceration, these themes are taken up in the poem. It was a time of profound suffering and loss. This poem and commentary have more urgency than the others since it is born not out of quiet contemplation but instead of an interruptive trauma that had disturbed the very fabric of his life. As John says, all spiritual progress is founded first and foremost on a ‘wound.’: Touched with dread and interior sorrow of heart over so much loss and danger, renouncing all things, leaving aside all business, and not delaying a day or an hour, with desires and sighs pouring from her heart, wounded now with love for God, she begins to call her Beloved and say: Where have you hidden, Beloved, and left me moaning? you fled like the stag after wounding me; I went out calling you, but you were gone.20 (CB 1.1)

 Memory is not a separate faculty of the self for John, rather it is akin to the intention of the will to direct itself toward images that are stored in what he called the ‘fantasy’(McGinn, 2017, p. 257). 20  The commentary of the Spiritual Canticle is quick to remind his students of this interruptive and disturbing quality that a more complacent spirituality would tend to ignore. It is an interruption of Grace that we are not meant to comprehend fully: ‘The Spirit of the Lord, who abides in us and aids our weakness, as St. Paul says [Rom. 8:26], pleads for us with unspeakable groanings in order to manifest what we can neither fully understand nor comprehend’ (CB. Prologue). 19

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This wound is found in one’s own need for the comforting encapsulation of God within the intellect, understanding and will. The active night of the spirit correlates to the nurturing of this wound after the active and passive night of the senses. After this, John creates another interruptive, traumatic wound where this active night of the spirit is wholly undermined. The very desire to actively negate the positive content of God is negated by a more fundamental apophatic process that again stems from the side of Grace. As we have discussed, this would correlate to the passive night of the spirit. However, this ultimately leads to the destination of no-place, no-thing and no-self—a third wound. Peter Tyler expands on this theology of trauma. First, we have the primordial sense of loss predicated on the assumption that we are thrown into this world as fallen beings that cannot find God. Secondly, we have the trauma of experiencing God as an interruptive moment that marks the transition from the active to the passive night (2011a, pp. 40–46). In both cases, we are confronted with a polarisation of extremes that never really balance out. In the first case, we are confronted with a radical loss; in the second, we face an overabundance that drives us out of ourselves. However, in all cases of loss, the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity guide us. Tyler points out that this strange state of existential contradiction should be counted as the third disturbance (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 41–48). In other words, this final wound is not another experientialist night beyond the passive night. Instead, one should see it as a different way of interpreting and integrating the passive night into the fabric of one’s life. This is the fundamental nature of desire as D2: 1 . It is first based on a loss that cannot be articulated. 2. When this desire is engaged, it ultimately creates another loss through the total transformation of the self via an antagonistic participation within the said object of our desire. This is also the highest manifestation of desire that is paradoxically expressed in the language of darkness and light. A discourse that harkens back to the mystical theology of Pseudo Dionysius. We can see this use of contradiction in The Spiritual Canticle, where John uses terms like ‘silent music’ in the full reiteration of the poem just after the prologue:

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the tranquil night at the time of the rising dawn, silent music, sounding solitude, the supper that refreshes, and deepens love. (CB 1.15)

This unitive stage is typified by perfect habitual contemplation as if the self that exists in the previous stages suffers complete negation. In its place is the presence of something wholly other, a state of being defined by the complete engulfing in a luminous cloud of desire that problematises the very ‘I’ that first stepped into this process. John explains this lucidly in The Spiritual Canticle, where he writes that this spiritual process should be understood as the two ways of ‘going after God.’ A departure from all things defines the first through contempt for them. The second is defined by going out of oneself through what John calls ‘self-­ forgetfulness.’ He argues that God’s love for us achieves the latter. He then states that when this divine love touches the human soul, it causes the soul to go further out from itself in a state of utter forgetfulness in its desire for the divine (CB 1. 20). It leaves behind all natural supports to run head first into this night. John expresses these ‘wounds’: The first is called a wound; it is the mildest and heals the most quickly, as does a wound. This wound arises from the knowledge of the soul receives from creatures, the lowest of God’s world ‘The second is called a sore wound and cuts more deeply into the soul than the simple wound…this sore wound is produced in the soul by knowledge of the Incarnation of the Word and the mysteries of faith. The third kind of suffering is like dying…This death of love is caused in the soul by means of a touch of supreme knowledge of the divinity. (CB VII 1–4)

It would be a mistake to think that the preparation for union with God is just a case of getting one’s house in order and then essentially waiting for God to walk in: For John, fear, disturbance and pain are not an occasional add-on to the Christian life but may indeed be at the very heart of it, here is where we enter the true mystery of the Cross which lies at the heart of John’s Theology. (Tyler, 2011a, p. 46)

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So, from the very beginning of the anxiety that leads people toward this moment of union of self-abandonment and transformation, one must be painfully purged. This painful purging is not to be confused with the self-­ flagellation of an austere legalism. Instead, it is to be compared to the pain of love. It is a pain mixed up with desire. It is contradictory, fragmented, and traumatic. Throughout this process, the very fabric of the self is constantly questioned via our relation to a loss that cannot be articulated. It is an all-encompassing love that saturates us until we can no longer say ‘I.’ From this sense of the self ’s dislocation and its relation to worldly knowledge, toward addressing this relation to the incarnation and the mystery of the cross, to the final interruption of God into the soul, we have traumatic wound following through to wound following through to wound. Whether he is depicting the strenuous ascent up Mount Carmel, elucidating the essence of darkness, or discussing the purifying aspects of romantic desire, John is not providing a spiritual direction centred on healing. Instead, John is giving us a spirituality of laceration, kenosis, and uncertainty. These theological foundations serve as the basis for forming his spiritual direction. The tendency here, as Thacker notes, is that there is a propensity to understand this latter stage as a type of psychological experience of dark satisfaction, a sense of receiving a positive experience for the martyred ego. Thacker teaches us that for John, dereliction, abandonment, and abjection are what formulate the core of his spiritual direction. Thacker cautions us not to approach John’s work as expounding some direct experience of the divine. Instead, we should understand that for John, the mystical is the mystical precisely because it does not bolster the human subject. Moreover, he explains that it is an extended exposition of the impossibility of experience (2015, p. 34). In drawing together the ideas above, we can understand John’s concept of human desire as being D2 as opposed to D1 (a & b). Throughout his work, one can see that he closes the gap between the intellectual and the affective and transcends both. What is at stake in his work is not so much an articulation of an object of desire that is experienced, which we must somehow attain, but rather a direction of changing the very subjective structures that create desire in and of itself. Through the purification of desire as D1 (a & b), which creates binary oppositions between knowing

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and feeling, subject and object, what we find in John’s description of the soul’s journey, as it draws closer to its source, is the transformation of desire in and of itself. This continues until a moment where subject and object become blurred and become expressed in distinctly trinitarian language. Consequently, the very subjective structures of the soul transform in God and with God through participation. Moreover, since God’s nature is the modality of desire as D2—and due to the existence of the Trinity— the subject is introduced to a mode of desiring, speaking, and thinking that is transformed by Grace. The fullest expression of this mode of speaking is found in The Living Flame of Love, which is rapture-like in its expression as it blurs these epistemological boundaries by being saturated with Grace. Spiritual direction, for John, would be aiding the directee in facilitating this form of desire that aims to have everything by desiring nothing. Furthermore, by desiring nothing, one achieves everything— this is achieved through a shift from conventional understanding and desiring to a form of desire and knowledge that we have denoted as D2. (Sketch of Mount Carmel).

John’s Specific Writings on Spiritual Direction J ohn’s Spiritual Direction in The Sayings of Light and Love and The Living Flame of Love Before going any further, it is essential to look in more detail at what John says specifically about spiritual direction. His central exploration of the subject is found in his work The Living Flame of Love, but it is also found in The Sayings of Light and Love (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 143–152). The latter was written when he was in Avila and is written in the style of the Desert Fathers (Tyler, 2011a, pp. 143–152). The body of the work differs from John’s other works in that it does not take the form of a poem or commentary. In its place, we have a collection of maxims that resulted from giving spiritual direction and compiled as a reminder to those under his tutelage. The sayings themselves are aphoristic and were created for

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directees to spur them into contemplation. Many of these sayings echo John’s more comprehensive commentary in his subsequent compositions. Several themes crop up in these maxims: a. The need to be open to God’s Grace through humility and simplicity. b. The importance not to become attached to sensual or spiritual goods. c. The importance of purging one’s self of desires to be open to a higher desire. Although this work is short, his advice on seeking spiritual direction is crucial as it also reflects his theology of the community. This acts as an antidote for any tendency toward spiritual individualism. John writes: Whoever wants to stand alone without support of a master and guide will be like the tree that stands alone in a field without a proprietor. No matter how much the tree bears, passers-by will pick the fruit before it ripens. (SL 5)

The implication here is that the spiritual director is much like a protector. While we are on our journey, and especially at the beginning of it, it is very easy to lose what we have gained. John further writes: Those who fall alone remain alone in their fall, and they value their soul little since they entrust it to themselves alone. (SL 8)

John highlights the paradoxical combination of arrogance and low self-­ esteem of those who do not seek a spiritual director. They are simultaneously arrogant in assuming they can make spiritual progress by themselves. Yet, on the other hand, they also think so little of their souls due to the assumption that one can make spiritual progress alone. Like Ignatius of Loyola, who went before him, John understood the importance of discernment in this discipline. However, he went further than Ignatius of Loyola by arguing that one should use discernment to ensure that one does not become attached to ‘spiritual goods.’ This notion is directly attached to his notion of ‘excavating the caverns of the heart’(Tyler, 2011a, p. 146).

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The idea of excavating the caverns of the heart is built on the notion we should start from the existential wound that lies at the heart of John’s work. It is not about plastering over this primordial trauma but about working with it and actively helping it grow. Central to John’s theory is that the more we remove our self-centred aspects, the more profoundly God’s Holy Spirit occupies our being. Spiritual direction is a dynamic form of communication whereby both the director and the directee continuously have to remind themselves that God is the primary agent in the matter (Tyler, 2011a, p. 147). Furthermore, to recognise the primacy of God’s agency, it is essential not to hinder this process via an arbitrary clustering of arbitrary rules and stipulations.

John’s Ethics of Spiritual Direction So, according to John of the Cross, what are the ethics of spiritual direction? How should a spiritual director conduct himself in the presence of a directee to ensure that one does not stray into the illusions of the false self of the ego? For John, the ethics of spiritual direction is a discipline concerned with the direction of desire. It is a discipline that aims to ensure that directees do not relinquish their desires. This ethics differentiates itself from an ethics of spiritual direction predicated on a foundation within the positive experientialist paradigm. Indeed, in many cases, ethics related to the therapeutic setting could be construed as creating the conditions for preserving the egoistic self. This can take place from two kinds of expectations: 1 . Expectations from the directee. 2. Expectations from the director. This dynamic hinges on the false self, which refuses to give itself up to God by giving up God. The misuse of spiritual direction was, in a word, to give in to the demands of the directee’s cry for ‘meaning’ or from the director to impose and give meaning to the directee:

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Since (God is the supernatural artificer), he will construct supernaturally in each soul the edifice he desires, if you, director will prepare it by striving to annihilate it in its natural operations and affections, which have neither the ability nor strength to build the supernatural edifice. The natural operations and affections at this time impede rather than help. It is your duty to prepare the soul, and God’s office, as the Wise Man says, is to direct its path, that is, toward supernatural goods, through modes and ways understandable to neither you nor the soul. (LF 3.47)

We should take the injunction to annihilate natural operations and affections seriously here. Consequently, spiritual directors should be wary of a directee’s capacity to become attached to natural goods. Instead of aiming at objects suitable for the affections, they should aim beyond them. All these things are on the side of meaning and understanding. They are goods that get in the way of the flourishing of a radical desire in the modality of D2. To be sure, to supply the directee only with understanding is to go directly against the very essence of spiritual direction. John makes this clear: God transcends the intellect and is incomprehensible and inaccessible to it. Hence while the intellect is understanding, it is not approaching God but withdrawing from him. It must withdraw from itself and from its standing. In this way it reaches perfection, because it is joined to God by faith and not by any other means, and it reaches God more by not understanding than by understanding…thus it advances by darkening itself, for faith is darkness to the intellect. (LF 4.48)

Commenting on this quote, Tyler points out that spiritual directors must not put anything in the way (including themselves) between the soul and God. But again, the chief agent in spiritual direction is the Holy Spirit, and all guides must never forget this (Tyler, 2011a, p. 47).

The Quality of the Guide Another critical point John makes concerning spiritual direction is about the quality of the guide. In this sense, a spiritual director does not hold a

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unified theoretical body of knowledge that ‘qualifies’ them. Preferably, a spiritual director has been formed in the work of God. For John, the various transformations of the self that John calls for throughout his oeuvre are something that a spiritual director should have gone through themselves: These spiritual masters, not understanding souls that tread the path of quiet and solitary contemplation, since they themselves have not reached it and do not know what it is to part with discursive meditation, think these souls are idle […]These directors do not know what spirit is. They do a great injury to God and show disrespect toward him by intruding with a rough hand where he is working. (LF 3.54)

John understood that at the heart of the misuse of spiritual direction was not merely just the misapplication of a rule—rather, it was a question of the misdirection of desire (D1 a & b instead of D2). Hence, directors should discern to what extent their own desire has undergone a traumatic interruption and transformation through God’s Grace in discernment and contemplation. Certainly, if directors are not aware of their formation, they end up forcing themselves, rather than God, into the chasm of the directee’s heart. John is clear about warning directors of the seriousness of the consequences of this lack of introspection: Thus one who recklessly errs will not escape a punishment corresponding to the harm caused, for such a one is obliged to be certain, as is everyone in the performance of duties. The affairs of God must be handled with great tact and open eyes, especially in so vital and sublime a matter as is that of these souls, where there is at stake almost an infinite gain in being right and almost an infinite loss in being wrong. (LF 3.56)

Because of the seriousness of misdirecting a person’s desire within the process of spiritual direction, John urges directors to know their limits. They should know when to direct people in the purgative stages, if that is what they are suited to, and not attempt to engage in matters beyond their ken. Not only this, but they should know when to place a directee in the hands of another director who is more apt to deal with the specificities of their desires.

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Additionally, supposing directors are to effectively undermine a specific latching onto positive emotional experiences within directees. In that case, they can only do this if they have been through the vicissitudes of experience to the extent that they can understand the poverty of latching onto experience itself. As stated earlier, John’s spiritual direction enters through the rubric of experience only to demonstrate its brittleness compared to the darkness of God and of experience in and of itself. John utilised the sense of uncertainty that gripped his time and used it to his advantage to create a powerful spiritual direction. John was writing at a time of profound anxiety. De Certeau writes: [John’s work] responds to the historical circumstance of the moment, defined by the reform (a re-creation) needed by a corrupt Church and a time of decadence. (2015, p. 77)

So, where there was uncertainty, he focused on uncertainty; and where there was darkness, he focused on darkness; and where there was lack, he focused on lack. He subverted the uncertainty experienced through writing and speaking. De Certeau states, ‘John’s poetry and prose is the invention of a space in prison. It animates; and it moves a closed, decadent order from within’ (De Certeau, 2015, p. 77). However, this radical message of John has diminished within the more substantial modern experientialist paradigm mentioned above (McGinn, 2017, p.  263; Turner, 1995, pp. 226–227). From a certain perspective, our modern society is an extreme reflection of John’s world. The uncertainty, lack, and darkness have increased tenfold. This is what is known as the post-­modern condition. Positive affective experientialism comforts those lost in uncertainty in this disenchanted world. Yet, as John would have pointed out, this is merely an attachment to a type of spiritual good. On the other hand, we can sometimes get a reactionary interpretation of John in the face of the ubiquity of this positive experientialist paradigm. This is one that reduces Juanist spiritual direction as a supplement to an austere legalism. I have termed this D1a: Negative affective experientialism that should be opposed to John’s non-affective mystical negativism in the modality of the logic I have termed D2.

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One can see that John’s spiritual direction offered a radical way of addressing the problems he faced at the time. However, he did this not by going backwards but by going forward. Today, the same problem persists, but to a much higher degree; we are trapped more than ever by the paradigm of enjoyment. So, whereas John offered a solution through a radical technology of desire (D2), spiritual direction today capitulates all too easily to this positive experientialist ideology (D1b). Certainly, many spiritual directors utilise therapies rooted within this positive experientialist framework. The problem becomes one where the framework annuls and destroys the anti-positivist message at the heart of John’s work. In other words, it cannot help but lead John directly back to what he was trying to escape from in the first place. Turner suggests that experientialism is the positivism of Christian spiritual direction. He states that the experientialist tendency abhors John’s apophatic, kenotic vacuum. He further argues that this tendency resists the mystical deconstructive way and is happy to reduce its radical methods to paltry expressions of psychologistic interiority. Moreover, this experiential appropriation of darkness mysticism begins to cash them in as the currency of an attenuated understanding of spiritual direction based on the primacy of the affective (1995, p. 259). Darkness and emptiness are taken as something to be experienced. Since it is to be experienced as a psychological ‘negative,’ it signifies the coming of a psychological ‘positive.’ This reduces spiritual direction from being a radical technology of desire to just another technique of emotional satisfaction in a world of endless self-help services and technologies that offer the same. This goes against the ethical duty of the Juanist spiritual director to ensure we sustain our desire for God. As I have shown, John’s concept of desire and its importance for religious life is traumatic, interruptive, ontological, and radical. He expresses this implicitly in his notes in stanza 26 in the spiritual canticle: Since that act of love inflamed and transformed her into love, it annihilated her and did away with all that was not love. (CB 26.17)

John conceived Grace—God’s love and desire for us—as being caught up with our ontological fabric. Likewise, since our desire for God defines us,

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we manifest God’s desire in creation. This theme is suggested by Alain Cugno, who sums up John’s theory of the soul as being ontologically defined by its desire for God (Cugno, 1982, pp. 1–30). Tyler also reflects this by stating that John clearly says that when we seek out God, it is because God is also moving first to seek us out (Tyler, 2011a, p. 103). This notion that God’s desire for us—as the instigator of our desire—lies at the very heart of John’s conception of spiritual direction and mystical theology. It is about understanding this opaque desirative activity at the root of all our faculties as that which ultimately transcends them in their excess. This means that every thought, feeling, and action are caught up in the coordinates of desire. It involves more than conceiving desire as a ‘feeling’ or faculty divorced from other aspects that make us human. Love, or desire, transcends emotive and cognitive faculties because—at our core—we transcend them also. In his commentary to stanza 28 of the spiritual canticle, he states: This is like saying that now all this work is directed to the practice of love of God, that is: All the ability of my soul and body (memory, intellect, and will, interior and exterior senses, appetites of the sensory and spiritual part) moves in love and because of love. Everything I do, I do with love, and everything I suffer, I suffer with the delight of love. (CB 28.8)

John understood spiritual direction and contemplation as developing techniques to detect and nurture ourselves as desired in terms of D2. However, this desire can sometimes be a traumatic and painful experience, not merely a positive one (Tyler, 2011a, p. 46). From this perspective, mystical theology and spiritual direction are concerned with directing people to this ontological necessity of desire. It is not about using desire primarily to indicate a future emotional, psychological wholeness (D1b) as if God is to be understood solely regarding His utility for human satisfaction. This is because emotional satisfaction is predicated on a false self that must be sheared away with desire in the modality of D2. However, as I have shown, the radical nature of John’s focus on desire has been somewhat diluted due to the psychologistic hermeneutic via which John has been interpreted over the centuries. As a result, desire and its relation to spirituality and certain strands of spiritual direction have become equated with feeling and affect.

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Detecting the Passive Night Another prime example of John’s spiritual direction is found in his writings dealing with criteria he gives us to distinguish the passive night from what he calls ‘melancholia’(Tyler, 2011a, p. 88). Melancholia is defined by a sense of something being lost—something fundamental that is never to return. John locates this sense of loss as being rooted in physiological causes. It is important to understand that both melancholia and the passive nights are rooted in loss. The difference lies in their causes, one being transcendent and spiritual, while the other being corporeal and immanent. In analysing this, Denys Turner demonstrates that although John starts with an experiential framework, the recovery of an old lost self is undermined precisely via these interruptive moments that effectively destroy any notion of recovery or return to normality (1995, pp. 226–251). John writes that there is a notable difference between the loss associated with the dryness of spirit and the sense of loss associated with what he terms lukewarmness. He states that those suffering from the latter are lax and negligent in their will and have no real desire to serve God. On the contrary, however, those suffering from purgative dryness associated with the passive night of the spirit are anxious and pained about not being able to serve God (DN I. 9. 3). This purgative dryness is thus distinguished by a longing to please God and not a desire to return to an old form of self that typifies lukewarmness and melancholia. Expanding on this, Turner claims that we should understand melancholia by what he calls the category of the therapeutic self (1995, p. 244). This self has at its operative goal a return to its normal functioning state. This self-functions through an absence that defines its existence in the hope of its normative psychological recovery. Although the passive night, at surface level, is characterised by the same loss and absence, it should not be confused with the latter in terms of structure. Instead, Turner suggests what is at stake is the structure of this loss and its constitutive role in the subject. With the passive night, there is no desire for recovery for a normative state. He states, ‘the hope it acquires is of the non-recovery of that selfhood in any form, for what is lost in the passive nights was never the self at all, but only an illusion all along’ (1995, p. 244). As I suggested earlier, it could be proposed that melancholia is

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the experience of darkness while the passive night of the spirit is the darkness of experience. So, what takes place is the sense that the object of our desire—in melancholia—is so far from our grasp that we fall into a sense of apathy and nihilism as we become locked in a type of repetitive cycle. In this sense, the passive night, as an expression of D2, is utterly anti-therapeutic. Hence to lock oneself into understanding John’s spiritual direction as leading to a return to normality is to therapeuticise its goals and go directly against the thrust of what John is trying to articulate. This is the crucial distinction between melancholia and the passive night, what John also calls dryness, for there is no desire for ‘recovery.’ It is here that we can see the radical nature of John’s spiritual direction. Far from being the sentimental, feeling-oriented spiritual direction that has capitulated to a world of therapy, it is something wholly other. It is dark and destructive rather than healing and constructive. In other words, it concerns the continued direction of desire rather than its premature end. The therapeutic self, for Turner, is backwards-looking, while this radical self-transformation is forward-looking to the extent that it looks directly beyond any sense of self and only to God. Pain, uncertainty, and doubt are necessary requisites of a forward-moving desire since it is necessarily based on a painful loss of the self. The only way we can understand this idea of experience beyond experience is through the birth of a new self, which like God, stands in complete opposition to the current self. McIntosh suggests that the only way to fully grasp this contradiction of an experience of being beyond experience is to understand it Christologically (1998, p. 203). John mirrors this sentiment, not viewing Christ as a metaphor leading to a monistic totality of experience. Instead, the premise is that by dying with Christ, we participate in the same self-­ emptying, kenotic process, extending to the moment of death and the subsequent emergence of the resurrected self (AC II. 7. 9). Consequently, John’s work does not locate spiritual direction on the side of dry intellectualism, nor does he locate it on the side of therapeutic voluntarism. Rather, he subverts the entire problem at the outset. John uses the language of academic theology to describe a non-experiential process that results in a moment of interruptive Grace that goes beyond both the intellectual and the affective. This is where the night of the spirit

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leads to the totality of the unique nature of the night of faith. John is speaking of a desire that problematises the role of intellect, memory, and will. More precisely, Turner writes that as intellect, we are dispossessed by this dark night of faith to construct a meaningful life world or even a meaningful concept of God. He argues that to desire even to feel God as if He were comprehensible or accessible is precisely what this unitive stage does not profess. Turner further suggests that as memory, we face spiritual, subjective destitution to the extent that our very sense of identity falls away. Moreover, our will is set free to the extent that it gives up any semblance of possessiveness as it is drawn into an opaque, participatory, and incomprehensible divine love (1995, p. 247). I would argue that a further exposition on desire is missing from Turner’s commentary. Thus, our desire is transformed to the extent that it participates in a wider desire. As agents, we are dispossessed as this purging desire empties the self of fallacious ontological vestiges. It moves through these three aspects of the self as a destroying torrent, so in the end, we can no longer say that we desire but are desire. What one can see here, as desire moves through and transforms us, is an uncoupling of meaning from truth. Meaning is located on the side of the creaturely self and therapeutic experientialism that hinders desire. This drive for meaning can be sought in the intellect or affections. In contrast, John’s point is that the shearing and purification of desire takes us beyond the generation of meaning toward the excessive truth of God. This truth can only be ‘stammered’ since we are divested of the tools associated with meaning-making in our naked participation with God’s being (CB 7.1). For John, truth is always the aim of spiritual direction, a truth that can only be partially spoken.

 eading John’s Spiritual Direction Through R the Linguistic Turn The Mystical Speech of Juanist Spiritual Direction I have previously mentioned the importance of the linguistic turn in philosophy. I will now look at how the spiritual direction of John of the

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Cross can be understood as a type of linguistic discourse that shapes a directee. In later chapters, I will show John’s spiritual direction as a manner of speaking as commensurable with a linguistic approach to psychoanalysis. More precisely, I will take Juanist spiritual direction out of the experientialism paradigm to focus on the importance of desire in the modality of D2 and not D1b. I will do this by approaching it as a specific mode of speech. This will, hopefully, enable a return to the radical notion of desire as D2 that was present in John’s writing via a detour of modern linguistic theory. I mentioned briefly the importance of post-liberalism in helping us understand the process of language within Juanist spiritual direction. Fodor gives an excellent summary of the operations of post-liberal theology. This theory places language as the primary focus of its methodology. It focuses on language as a device through which we use narrative theory to make sense of our lives. Moreover, it postulates that faith cannot be divorced or separated from those performatively telling the Christian story. Fodor claims that post-liberal theology differs from other essentialist perspectives precisely because it focuses on the ‘peculiar grammar of Christian faith.’ By not omitting language from its analysis, it focuses on scriptural rules and the role of doctrine to explore how these linguistic intertextual structures sustain ‘native-speakers’ who face diverse pressures in modernity.’ In a word, it focuses on how the language of faith shapes the Christian subject (Fodor, 2013, pp. 230–231). Approached in this way, one can argue that John’s use of mystical theology and spiritual direction is a type of grammar that needs to be distinguished from other types of grammar that can sometimes conflate and confuse it. This also entails that its approach is non-essentialist. It does not attempt to get behind John’s stammering to reach a presumed universalism, so to speak. This implies that we should reject the interpretative tendency of aiming to get behind John’s strange, jarring language to reach the experiential core or ‘truth’ that all religions are said to share. Instead, it entails taking John’s language’s uniqueness seriously. This linguistic method focuses on a constructive, contextual retrieval of a community-based non-­essentialist

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grammar and narrative of faith.21 According to Shakespeare, several vital aspects flow from this theory: The importance of the community: The importance of language is utterly crucial here. Language is a community-based activity that forms the histories and stories of those participating. The importance of Performance: In the context of Christian mysticism, this is utterly crucial; words are not just passive signs pointing to some reality beyond this one; our life is acted out via the use of language. Words affect ourselves and others. The need to be an insider: To be shaped by this language of faith. It is not enough to be a spectator; one has to participate within the communal language of faith (2007, pp. 46–47). This linguistically focused approach helps us realise that language is used to tell our story and link our narrative to the broader story of the Christian journey. However, what is missing from this linguistic formulation is how Christian spiritual direction operates as a language game. In other words, how is spiritual direction different from, say, theological or doctrinal discourse? The idea that spiritual direction is primarily a ‘way of speaking’ that is distinct from other modes of theological discourse is highlighted by the psychoanalysts Jesuit spiritual writer and historian De Certeau—a student of Lacan—who writes that, ‘in contradistinction to Theo-ology, discourse on God, which it parallels, [ Spiritual direction] is a manner of speaking’ (1995, p. 113). He implies that what made this mode of speaking so different from the theological discourse is that it appeared within a specific historical context where there was a need to speak about God in a living, breathing way that reflected the paradoxical, incarnational roots  John Milbank takes this a step further and relates this primacy of language to God Himself. In his work The Word Made Strange (1997), John Milbank argues that Christian doctrine has always implied the primacy of language well before the event of the linguistic turn. He Writes: It is these thinkers who first introduced a ‘modern’ linguistic turn into western thought…It will then be my argument that the post-modern embracing of a radical linguisticality, far from being a ‘problem’ for traditional Christianity, has always been secretly promoted by it (Milbank, 1997, p. 34). The idea that God himself is a Trinitarian relationship who exists before the formulation of essence is at the centre of this pre-modern radical linguisticality. 21

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of the Christian faith. Indeed, for the Word to come alive again, it needed to be ‘spoken’(De Certeau, 1995, p. 113). This manner of speaking reveals itself in rules for discerning poetry and other forms of discourse that aim to appropriate aspects of the ruling type of communication of the day. Yet, its appropriation also subverts the tendency toward linguistic completeness. One can understand the birth of this manner of speaking as a corrective to the desire for ‘wholeness’ (D1 a & b) disseminated by institutional discourse. This manner of speaking highlights the fragmentation and incompleteness that already saturates the more institutional ways of talking about God. De Certeau, earlier in the text, implicitly suggests this. He writes that mystical theology and spiritual direction arose from the conviction that ‘there must be a speech of God.’ This manner of speaking—’modus loquendi’—is the outcome of the opposition to and the waning trust in discourse [theology] with its God-­ affirming assurances that the spoken word cannot be lacking. (1995, p. 115). De Certeau is possibly highlighting here the tendency for creating totalising narratives in approaching God through dogmatic or affective discourses. He shows how spiritual direction found its voice between these tendencies. The totalising drive of theological discourse creates the impetus to either try and say everything while reducing those things it cannot ‘say’ to positive affective experientialism. As I have demonstrated, these are both aspects of the reductive logic of D1a and D1b. Juanist spiritual direction—as a ‘modus loquendi’—is consequently a way of speaking which is neither one nor the other. It starts from the premise that we can speak about God in a way that is lacking; we start from a lack that saturates speech. In other words, if theology is about telling a specific story about God, then Juanist mystical theology and spiritual direction—from this linguistic perspective—is the art of fragmenting the story. It disrupts the flow of a ‘perfect narrative’ so that a multiplicity of other stories can arise. In other words, it invents an unconscious for Christianity. As I have demonstrated, the Juanist logic of D2 is not defined by the merely affective aspect of our spiritual life. Rather it encompasses and uses both the intellectual and the affective aspects of our being. However, unlike the logic of D1, which creates an artificial distinction between

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these two registers, it does not aim at experiential or intellectual ‘wholeness.’ Instead, the logic of D2, in using both the intellect and the affect, aims at stammering incompletion and linguistic disruption. Therefore, I will suggest that instead of aiming for any singular experience, D2 operates by shifting and disrupting the structures of experience itself. This is because these structures depend on language and how we use it. Hence, we have a spiritual direction that flows from the failure of institutional discourses (D1a) to speak adequately about God but also understands the need to continue to speak. This created a new way of speaking about God without the clear boundaries associated with dogmatic and institutional discourse. Said differently, one can see a transition from discourses of certainty to the birth of a type of spiritual direction that understands desire as flowing from the dual ability to speak and not speak about God simultaneously. From this perspective, the Juanist spiritual director does not merely pass on a body of Christian teaching. Instead, he introduces a directee into a specific mode of speaking that allows them to live their life as a desiring Christian. One who can reflectively see their own limitations in the face of the infinite from a Christological and Ecclesiological perspective.

Strategies of Unknowing in John of the Cross Peter Tyler has argued for a nuanced reading of the mystics regarding how their contribution to the broader linguistic structure of the Church can be understood. Building on de Certeau’s understanding of Christian spiritual direction as being a manner of speaking, Tyler furnishes this analysis through a Wittgensteinian framework (2011a, pp.  227–236). He has pointed out that the idiosyncratic writing of the mystics can be understood as a type of incomplete discourse designed to change the reader’s perspective rather than offering a new experiential object within their perspective. Tyler has argued for a specific understanding of John’s work as an inheritor of the theologia mistica that operates in such a way as to escape the previously mentioned psychologistic paradigm.

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This entails that one understands John’s mystical theology concerning the content presented within his work and how it is presented. We can understand Tyler’s work as a further mystical theological application of the post-liberal linguistic method. This involves not separating the mystical concept from the performative nature of its work. Tyler states this clearly: a. [Mystical theology is a] particular form of theology to be distinguished from speculative, scholastic theology. b. A form of discourse that subverts other forms of discourse. c. Destabilising ‘knowing’ in the process of ‘unknowing.’ (2011a, p. 70) Mystical theology and spiritual direction operate not by stating fully formed objective metaphysical facts but by functioning as a means of showing rather than saying (Tyler, 2011b, pp. ix–xix). One can suggest that this manner of speaking is different from a manner of saying insofar as the former is concerned with what can be shown through speech rather than being concerned with its correct ostensive content. To show, a method must be introduced that functions by the following strategies: The Direction of Locution: A method of discursive performance: a living language in all its imperfection that is performed for an audience unseparated from the community who uses this discourse. This direction of speech is to be contrasted with the formalism of academia. It utilises terms from this discourse but locates them within a field that distances itself from it. Contradiction: The use of paradox and contradiction within a discourse to undermine the tendency toward certainty and absolute statements of an essentialist nature. Avoiding Conclusions: Humility: The process of understanding that one’s use of language and position within language can never encapsulate the reality of the divine. Disorientation: The disruptive operation of language. It cuts into the very core of our beliefs and presuppositions. It concerns itself with how language operates to undermine itself. This gives rise to a new way of seeing things which can be disorientating.

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Humour: Humour is used to highlight how this discourse cannot be subsumed into the dry, humourless academic world surrounding John and other mystics. It was a method to differentiate itself as a living language that expressed a relationship between living things. Use of Ordinary Speech: Although John uses academic language within his commentary, he also uses idioms and expressions that would have been widely recognised. Again, this is to demonstrate that the language of God, is the language of humanity. This is a language existing outside of the ivory tower setting. Tyler argues that these strategies are to disconcert and lead us into ‘unknowing’ by engaging the affectus with the intellectus. (Tyler, 2011b, pp. 208–209). This entails that one does not see John’s work as merely being descriptive of psychologistic internal states; rather, they are formative of them. They are a language game which brings us closer and deeper into the body of Christ as a signifier for the ecclesia, yet this body of Christ is fragmented and living. I will now briefly locate how these mystical strategies appear in John’s work if we approach them as a form of spiritual direction which is meant to change the verbal position of the reader. I will also show how they can be used within spiritual direction as a linguistic practice.

The Direction of Locution in Juanist Spiritual Direction It is important to note that within John’s texts, one must remember for whom he is writing. These texts are not dry academic treatises to scrutinise from a distance but should be performatively read aloud as spiritual direction. John’s work is also primarily poetic and pragmatic. He uses ecstatic poetry describing an erotic encounter with God within the darkness, but he also gives practical advice on how one detects and directs one’s desire toward God (McGinn, 2017, pp. 230–313). The bulk of his writings exists as commentary on these mystical poems. One can argue that this commentary is, in a sense, a theoretical spiritual direction.

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In light of this, one cannot separate John’s mystical theology from his spiritual direction. John’s prose writings were always mystagogical insofar as they aimed to explain the evocative images of his poetry to a broader Christian audience who would have been familiar with this imagery. McGinn argues that in the early twentieth century, there was a tendency to favour the prose side of his work, and it was only later on that there was a greater focus on the value of John’s poetry (2017, pp. 230–313). This led to theologians reducing the centrality of locution, as its discourse was transposed into a more scholastic theological setting. However, John is always at pains to say that his work is not to be read as being primarily theological: I hope that, although some scholastic theology is used here in reference to the soul’s interior converse with God, it will not prove vain to speak in such a manner to the pure of spirit. Even though Your Reverence lacks training in scholastic theology, through which the divine truths are understood, you are not wanting in mystical theology, which is known through love and by which these truths are not only known but at the same time enjoyed. (CB. Prologue: 3)

This ultimately led to the eminent theologian Hans Von Balthasar arguing that he was a Doctor of the Church primarily due to his poetry which was, by implication, to be performed (Balthasar, 1982, p.  171). Like Teresa of Avila, John’s writings were dependent on the ‘oral community’ of the Carmelites that both John and Teresa had created (Tyler, 2011a, p. 101). His spiritual direction invites us to explore the poetic side of our lives, those confusing elements that cannot be made direct sense of or absorbed into a more comprehensive system of knowledge. He encourages us to adopt a contextualised mode of expression that assists us in recognising our everyday experiences as embodying transcendence in their own right. From a Juanist linguistic viewpoint, spiritual direction should, therefore, focus on the direction of locution. We must understand that the very way we talk about things in our life, in their specificity, ultimately gives them meaning. How and who we speak for cannot be extracted from this analysis.

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Contradiction in John’s Spiritual Direction Making sense of things does not always entail making meaning of things. The great Christian mystics understood this. In many cases, it is only through the use of contradiction that the mystics could evoke the very impossibility of their desire, which went beyond what they were trying to express. To be sure, one can see this use of contradiction when John writes the following in the Sketch of Mount Carmel: In order to arrive at having pleasure in everything, desire to have pleasure in nothing. In order to arrive at possessing everything, desire to possess nothing. In order to arrive at being everything, desire to be nothing. In order to arrive at knowing everything, desire to know nothing. (Sketch of Mount Carmel)

This method of paradox and contradiction is found in the work of the previously mentioned Pseudo-Dionysus and the tradition that flowed from him (Tyler, 2011a, pp.  59–78). In essence, the use of paradox focused on the transient nature of the affections and intellect. Paradox was a way to throw ourselves into the opacity of God. In spiritual direction, contradiction can be found in exploring our own contradictory nature. John was at pains to express that, at many times, our own wants contradicted our deeper desires. Much of the work in John’s spiritual direction would have been gently highlighting these contradictions to the directee. John suggests that in the process of spiritual direction, God begins to place contradiction in the heart of the directee as He weans them off spiritual goods that used to bring comfort. Thus directees begin to feel anxiety arising from this contradiction in their desire. John explains to his directees that this contradiction of the heart is part and parcel of God’s purgative activity as he moves them to later stages of spiritual progression. Hence, contradiction becomes a sign of progress in the Juanist spiritual direction rather than an obstacle (LF 3. 32). In summary, John highlights the experience of existential contradiction when one approaches God. As directees draw closer to the fullness of life, they begin to feel empty.

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John also utilised contradiction to shake up the reader’s worldview and destabilise meaning in the process of unknowing. Colin Thompson highlights this disorientating powerful affect which arises from this mode of speaking: Changes of speaker, audience, tense location, large numbers of unrelated images; paradox, logical nonsense, constant uncertainty on the reader’s part as to the exact meaning-the whole poem is constructed in this extraordinary manner. In parts, it is almost impressionistic in other parts, it seems to using a sixteenth-century equivalent of modern cinematic technique:flashbacks introduced without warming, events implied rather than stated, characters introduced in passing, focussed upon briefly, then discarded. (2003, p. 86)

It is important to remember that the only way one can access the power of these contradictions is through language, insofar as there is no sense of disorientation without it.

 voiding Conclusions: Humility in John’s A Spiritual Direction In one of John’s minor works, The Sayings of Light and Love, a work which reflects the sparse sayings of the Desert Fathers, John reminds the reader of the following: God is more pleased by one work, however small, done secretly without desire that it be known, than a thousand done with the desire that people know of them. Those who work for God with purest love not only care nothing about whether others see their works, but do not even seek that God himself know of them. Such persons would not cease to render God the same services, with the same joy and purity of love, even if God were never to know of these. (SL 20)

John was acutely aware of the tendency toward pride with directors and directees in trying to measure ‘spiritual progression.’ The only guard against such obstacles is through the virtue of humbleness. As Tyler points

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out, this exhortation toward humility is found in the pneumatological focus that is requisite in all forms of communication between director and directee: Therefore, all talk of Spiritual direction must constantly remember that ‘God is the principal agent in this matter (LF 3. 29) who acts ‘as a blind man’s guide’ to lead us to the ‘place we know not’ (AC I. 13. 11). (2011a, p. 146)

In other words, the Holy Spirit is at the very heart of spiritual direction, and it is only by humbleness that one can allow Him to work. By highlighting God as the principal agent in the matter, John emphasises the inherent uncertainty in all communication. This uncertainty means that one should foster a sense of humility all the way down. This can be linked to the earlier exhortation of Jones’ monk, who said I want non-spiritual non-direction. We should not misconstrue the act of humble surrender as merely handing over our leadership reins to God—such a notion merely shifts our addiction to certainty to another register. Rather, it is about recognising the inherent futility in the desire to be guided as such—the concealed arrogance in insisting on being taken to a destination mirroring the cravings of the false self and its quest for certainty. I believe this encapsulates John’s intended message concerning the cultivation of humility. One can also see that John used humility to guard against the tendency to perceive his work as a type of scholastic propositional discourse. For example, John states the following in the prologue of Sayings: Oh my God and my delight, for your love, I have also desired to give my soul to composing these sayings of light and love concerning you. Since, although I can express them in words, I do not have the works and virtues they imply (which is what pleases you, O my lord, more that the words and wisdom they contain), may others, perhaps stirred by them, go forward in your service and love. (SL prologue)

John thus humbly submits himself before God in understanding that these words fall short of what God wants. This understanding of lack

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spurs us into ethical action in the world. John also uses humility to guard against the prying eyes of those who might be watching him. He states this at the beginning of the Spiritual Canticle. He writes that his writings are imperfect expressions of his own personal perspective and asks for them to be submitted to any authority within the Church with better judgement and expertise than himself (CB. Prologue). Tyler points out that Teresa of Avila also made use of this methodology. By undermining one’s position in relation to scholastic authority, one becomes free to explore more radical forms of expression and formulation (2011a, p. 145). Implicit in this quote is the use of humility to qualify over-reliance on theological explanation or experience. This perspective starts from the position that language will always miss the mark, so to speak. It is a very fact these mystics spoke a simple language that was entirely separate from the authoritarian and scholastic discourse of the day, which made them so attractive from the outset: One must connect with this religious and social experience the movement that led ‘spiritual’ learned men and theologians toward witnesses who humbled their competency: maids, cowherds, villagers, and so on. These real or fictitious characters were like pilgrimages to an alternative ‘illumination.’ While the ‘erudite’ made up little scientific oases intended to serve as foundations for rebuilding a world, these intellectual converts to ‘barbarism’ testify to the disarray of their knowledge confronted with the misfortune that had stricken a system of reference. (De Certeau, 1995, p. 38)

During the sixteenth century, the stagnation of previous forms of knowing entailed that the voices of those previously considered insignificant by such institutions became living texts (spiritual directors) who could help direct their desire back to God. Humility in spiritual direction would thereby go both ways. The spiritual director would humble themselves regarding the position from which they spoke, but also, the director would make clear the importance of humility for the directee. It would stem from the idea that whatever can be said, there can always be something more one can say about it, and because of our finitude, we can only let Faith and Grace guide our speech. Humility gives us a sense of freedom to explore our language concerning God. It comes with a

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sense of safety in uncertainty and humility. This is a safety which comes with knowing that one’s use of language in the space of spiritual direction is not being judged by an all-watching draconian ‘Other’ that expects our words to be perfect and correct.

Disorientation De Certeau suggests that the writings of John created a sense of disorientation by in essence, undoing language: [spiritual direction and mystical theology] undid the coherence of signification, insinuating into each semantic unit wily and ‘senseless’ shifts of interplaying the relations of the subject with others and himself. It tormented words, to make them say what they did not say literally, in such a way that they became, in a sense, the sculpture of the tactics of which they were the instruments. (1995, pp. 141–142)

In this play of undoing the method by which people usually understand meaning-making, John of the Cross used non-sense to signify the supra-­ abundance of meaning within meaning as its nonsensical, overflowing core. However, this overflowing of meaning is disorientating. One, in essence, loses themselves and way in approaching God. John fluctuates between symbols of dispossession and dryness to dazzling images of raging beauty that perplex and mystify the reader. Take these stanzas from the poem The Living Flame of Love: There you will show me what my soul has been seeking, and then you will give me, you, my life, will give me there what you gave me on that other day: the breathing of the air, the song of the sweet nightingale, the grove and its living beauty in the serene night, with a flame that is consuming and painless. No one looked at her, nor did Aminadab appear; the siege was still; and the cavalry, at the sight of the waters, descended. (LF 38. 40)

What one finds in John is not just the simple matter of learning a language game to express what is essential within the Christian narrative, as if this narrative is all meant to fit together neatly as a type of existential

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framework. No, John seems interested in divesting directees of meaning before suddenly flooding them with a barrage of beautiful images and symbols! This fluctuation between non-meaning and its overabundance is at the heart of what John understands as the role of mystical theology. John states at the beginning of The Spiritual Canticle: I do not plan to expound these stanzas in all the breadth and fullness that the fruitful spirit of love conveys to them. It would be foolish to think that expressions of love arising from mystical understanding, like these stanzas, are fully explainable. (CB. Prologue: 1)

This is a strange performative manner of speaking that consciously and purposely tests the limits of certainty and consistency as the grounding elements of orientation. Put differently, a Juanist spiritual direction starts from the importance one may attribute to language and moves directees to a position whereby they can see the fundamental impotence of speaking about what matters most. Thus, a Juanist Spiritual direction that utilises this strategy should not feel an absolute need to offer orientation to a directee at all times. Nevertheless, sometimes it is important to feel disorientated as spiritual dryness allows us to stop moving and take stock of the present. In a word, our desire is temporally conditioned to misperceive God through the intellect, will and memory. Our propensity to only seek within the flow of time destroys Him in the present. In other words, through the intuitive act of finding our way, we lose sight of God. This is another sense of what John meant when he says that in our desire for God, He already desires us in the present. John understood the need to be broken out of walking useless well-trodden paths. John does this by shocking the reader through his overflowing symbols and images as if to get the reader to stop mindlessly looking for ‘a way.’

Humour In contrast to his contemporary Teresa of Avila, John isn’t particularly renowned for his humour. As a result, it’s not possible to directly ascribe this rhetorical approach to his writings. Yet, it’s evident that Teresa of

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Avila reproached John precisely for his somewhat grave demeanour (McGinn, 2017, p. 232).22 Therefore, we can imagine that John found this gentle taunting humorous. Furthermore, those who knew him and were given spiritual direction by him spoke about his humour. Therefore, although not directly detectable in his writings, one can imagine his use of humour against those overly austere in their approach to spirituality. The use of humour is, however, a strategy used in the writings of Teresa of Avila (Tyler, 2011b, pp.  156–160). Therefore, I would argue that a Juanist Spiritual direction needs to be supplemented here.

Shaking Up the Framework All of John’s work should be approached via this mode of speaking. They are neither mere theological expositions nor descriptive accounts of ‘religious experiences.’ Against this perspective, one should approach them as pragmatic texts that are designed to shake up the linguistic framework of the reader. They are designed to move us from the logics of D1 to D2 insofar as they move us from a place of emotional certainty and wholeness to a place of uncertainty and purgation. One can also think that his writings on spiritual direction proper are somehow distinguishable from the rest of his writings. This approach is somewhat limited. When reading John’s work, it is helpful to remember that he is giving spiritual direction to you as someone who exists in a pre-existing linguistic framework that cannot be discounted. The result of these mystical linguistic strategies would be the reintegration and participation of a believer into the Body of Christ. Although having an individual focus, spiritual direction would be less about measuring the importance of affective experience and, instead, exploring how a person is integrated into a way of life, a particular way of seeing and speaking about things. Thomas Dubay highlights this ecclesial aspect of John’s spiritual direction:  There is a story about Teresa being thrown off her carriage and into mud and in response to this she said, ‘if this is how you treat your friends, Lord, then no wonder you have so few.’ Barry argues that this type of humour and ease of speech demonstrate her close relationship to God and her ability to mitigate the challenges of spiritual life.(Barry, 2010, p. 127) 22

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Spiritual direction is completely incarnational and ecclesial. It is an activity that happens in, from and for the Church of Christ. The director is not simply a wise adviser who operates solely on the basis of his own competence[…]Therefore, the San Juanist director is speaking in the name of God because he is functioning in the name of the Church sent by the incarnate Son[…] This ecclesial approach to Spiritual direction excludes…the illuminist who heeds only his own imagined inner light.’ (Dubay, 1989, pp. 354–355)

This is not to say that sentiments are unnecessary, but they do not become the primary focus of spiritual direction. This is important because it tallies with the ancient concept of spirituality as having its foundations in ‘ecclesial integration’ so saliently pointed out by McIntosh (1998, pp. 46–47). It also escapes the idea that spiritual direction is about merely following a set of static, unchanging rules, as the mode of this specific language game is to shake up and disrupt received narratives constantly. It reminds us that if this language is ecclesial, it is due to being part of a living, breathing, moving body that should not be reduced to the generation of dogmatic rules. Because of this discursive method’s incomplete and interruptive nature, the directee will be forced continuously to revise their relationship to the community, truth, language, themselves, God and others. This again relates to the central idea of uncertainty and Grace in John’s work. In addition, the director must not allow false idols to develop within the director’s fantasy, which from this perspective, would result from the illusions language casts upon us. Finally, it is important not to allow John’s work to be reduced to descriptive or prescriptive status. Rather his writings are performative and become ‘spiritual’ through their use. I will return to these strategies in the last chapter in my analysis of Lacan.23 From this perspective, the spiritual is perceived as part of different language games.  What the latter adds to this perspective, is if the linguistic turn outlined by Tyler is predicated on how we use language to create meaning, then Lacan adds to this by demonstrating how language uses us also to keep us trapped in meaning. We do not just speak language, it also speaks us in its manifestation as unconscious desire, and how, we can subvert this through psychoanalytic intervention. 23

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This allows us to see that the language game of Christian spiritual direction differs from the language games of our consumerist culture, which functions within the paradigm of experientialism. In other words, it offers a space whereby Christian spiritual direction can operate as a type of linguistic disruption to a culture that sees positive affective experientialism as a universal currency that grounds all institutions. This linguistic, theoretical foundation opens many possibilities for spiritual direction to revive the ancient concept of the mystical as having its foundations first and foremost in the life and participation one has in the Body of Christ. However, it does present some problems: 1. Although the cultural-linguistic model offers an alternative to the experiential perspective, it still does not adequately answer the question of desire and its relationship to language. Although we have said that language shapes emotional experience, we have also said that desire cannot be reduced to the purely emotional. 2. Furthermore, desire cannot be reduced solely to the activities of language itself. So, how does a pre-modern perspective of desire square with the linguistic turn? Is desire somehow outside of it? 3. One of the benefits of the experiential method is that it works comfortably with many of the ideas of therapy insofar as both place feelings and emotions at the forefront of their theoretical framework. The problem here is that if the cultural-linguistic method can justify itself as a model for Juanist spiritual direction, what type of psychology would work with that? There would be methodological disjunction insofar as one understands affect as secondary and the other sees affect as being primary. Not only this, but how would a focus on language conceive the role of God and the unconscious? These are likely to be conceived as pre-linguistic affective realities (the archetype of the self for Jung or the ineffable for James). Therefore their conceptualization and use would inevitably bring us back into the aforementioned positive experientialist paradigm? This brings us to a central question, ‘can there be a dialogue between an alternative model of spiritual direction with psychology which keeps its focus on human desire and the formative role of language and their

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centrality for both disciplines?’ To explore this, I will look at the work of psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan for three reasons: 1. His work constantly focuses on the absolute centrality of human desire and its relationship to language. 2. His concept of desire owes itself to the work of mystical theologians and spiritual directors of the past. 3. His psychoanalytic method is remarkably similar to the aforementioned cultural-linguistic method, which holds that human subjectivity is the product of language. Indeed, he believes that the unconscious is precisely that; it is how language shapes us and our sentiments, rather than being based on some transcendent affectivity. This shared philosophical framework between spiritual direction and linguistic psychoanalysis will open up a dialogical space for a new concept of spiritual direction which keeps human desire and language firmly in focus.

Summary In summary, this chapter has aimed to give a short biographical outline of the life of John to demonstrate how it has shaped his writings on spiritual direction and mystical theology. It then gave a brief summary of the major themes in the primary texts of John’s corpus. After this, it explored the initial reception of John’s work and how it shaped our later understandings of him. The chapter then went on to explore some of the modern scholarships on John of the Cross. The recognition of the tendency to let new conceptions of John’s spiritual direction emerge that break free from an overly dogmatic or experientialist paradigm emerged. After this, I explored the doctrinal foundations of Juanist spiritual direction before looking specifically at what John had to say about the discipline itself. A concept of spiritual direction emerged that challenges preconceptions that locate it either in the logic of D1b or D1a. Instead, we have John utilising both theology and the poetic to articulate a concept of desire that breaks free of these conceptions. This is a desire I have termed D2.

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Finally, the chapter explored the concept of D2 concerning ideas mapped out in the philosophies of the linguistic turn. Consequently, I focused on developing John’s spiritual direction as an extension of mystical theology as a manner of speaking following the work of Tyler and de Certeau. I then argued that this linguistic mode of spiritual direction is useful for going beyond the experientialist paradigm. However, its essential dialogue with modern experientialist forms of psychology leaves it open to being subsumed into their interpretative framework. The next chapter will explore whether or not this Juanist conception of spiritual direction is compatible with modern psychology concepts. I will argue that it is if approached from a Lacanian perspective since this stops the potential backslide into experientialism as D1b or conservativism D1.

References Aaron, N. G. (2005). Thought and Poetic Structure in San Juan de la Cruz’s Symbol of Night. Peter Lang. Balaska, M. (2019). Wittgenstein and Lacan at the Limit: Meaning and Astonishment. Springer. Balthasar, H. U. von (1982). Glory of the Lord VOL 1: Seeing The Form. A&C Black. Barry, W. A. (2010). A Friendship Like No Other. Loyola Press. Baruzi, J. (1924). Saint Jean de La Croix et el Problème de l’Expérience Mystique. Felix Alcan. Beattie, T. (2013). Theology After Postmodernity: Divining the Void—A Lacanian Reading of Thomas Aquinas. Oxford University Press. Brenan, G. (1975). St John of the Cross: His Life and Poetry. Cambridge University Press. Brown, P. (1998). The Body and Society. Faber and Faber. Brown, P. (2018). Peter Brown | Department of History. Available at: https:// history.princeton.edu/people/peter-brown. Accessed 3 Jul 2018. Bruun, M.  B. (2007). Parables: Bernard of Clairvaux’s Mapping of Spiritual Topography. BRILL. Carrette, J., & King, R. (2004). Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion. Routledge.

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Clark-King, E. (2011). The Path to Your Door: Approaches to Christian Spirituality. Bloomsbury Publishing. Cugno, A. (1982). St. John of the Cross: Reflections on Mystical Experience. Seabury. Cupitt, D. (1998). Mysticism after Modernity. Blackwell. De Certeau, M. (1995). The Mystic Fable, Volume One: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (M. B. Smith, Trans.). University of Chicago Press. De Certeau, M. (2015). The Mystic Fable, Volume Two: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. University of Chicago Press. de Crisógono, J. (1958). The Life of St. John of the Cross. Longmans, Green. Dubay, T. (1989). The Fire Within. Ignatius Press. Evans, G. R. (2000). Bernard of Clairvaux. Oxford University Press. Fodor, J. (2013). Post Liberal Theology. In D.  F. Ford (Ed.), The Modern Theologians: An Introduction to Christian Theology Since 1918 (pp. 229–248). John Wiley & Sons. Gimello, R. M. (1983). Mysticism in Its Contexts. In S. Katz (Ed.), Mysticism and Religious Traditions. Oxford University Press. Gojman de Backa, A. (1997). Conversos. In Conversos (Vol. 1, p.  340). Fitzroy Dearborn. Harris, O. (2016). Lacan’s Return to Antiquity: Between Nature and the Gods. Routledge. Howells, E. (2017). Is Darkness a Psychological or a Theological Category in the Thought of John of the Cross? In B. McGinn (Ed.), The Renewal of Mystical Theology: Essays in Memory of John N. Jones (1964–2012), 1st edn (pp 140–161). Crossroad Publishing Company. John of the Cross. (1991). The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross (K. Kavanaugh & O. Rodriguez, Trans.). ICS Publications. Kavanaugh, K. (1991). General Introduction. In K. Kavanaugh (Ed.), St John of the Cross: Selected Writings. Paulist Press. Kerr, F. (1986). Theology after Wittgenstein. Blackwell. Kesel, M. D. (2009). Eros and Ethics: Reading Jacques Lacan’s Seminar VII. State University of New York Press. Labbie, E. F. (2006). Lacan’s Medievalism. University of Minnesota Press. Lane, B.  C. (1998). The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. Oxford University Press. Lindbeck, G. (1984). The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Post-­ liberal Age. John Knox Press. Louth, A. (2007). The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys. Oxford University Press.

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McGinn, B. (1991). The Presence of God: The Foundations of Mysticism. The Crossroad Publishing Company. McGinn, B. (2017). Mysticism in the Golden Age of Spain. The Crossroad Publishing Company. McIntosh, M.  A. (1998). Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (Challenges in Contemporary Theology). Wiley-Blackwell. Milbank, J. (1997). The Word Made Strange: Theology, Language, Culture. Wiley. Nelson, J. M. (2009). Psychology, Religion, and Spirituality. Springer Science & Business Media. Nelstrop, L., & Onishi, B. B. (2016). Mysticism in the French Tradition: Eruptions from France. Routledge. Nobus, D. (2000). Jacques Lacan and the Freudian Practice of Psychoanalysis. Brunner-Routledge. Nygren, A. (1953). Agape and Eros. Westminster Press. Pickering, S. (2008). Spiritual Direction: A Practical Introduction. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd. Pound, M. (2007). Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma. SCM Press. Pound, M. (2012). Lacan’s Return to Freud: A Case of Theological Ressourcement? In G. Flynn & P. D. Murray (Eds.), Ressourcement: A Movement for Renewal in Twentieth-Century Catholic Theology (pp.  440–456). Oxford University Press. Sells, M. A. (1994). Mystical Languages of Unsaying. University of Chicago Press. Shakespeare, S. (2007). Radical Orthodoxy: A Critical Introduction. SPCK. Simons, M. A. (1999). Beauvoir and The Second Sex: Feminism, Race, and the Origins of Existentialism. Rowman & Littlefield. Taranu, C. (2013). A New Heaven and a New Earth’: The Making of the Cistercian Desert. Ex Historia, 5, 1–13. Thacker, E. (2011). In the Dust of This Planet: Horror of Philosophy (Vol. 1). Zero Books. Thacker, E. (2015). Starry Speculative Corpse: Horror of Philosophy (Vol. 2). Zero Books. Thompson, C. P. (1977). The Poet and the Mystic: A Study of the Cántico Espiritual of San Juan de la Cruz. Oxford University Press. Thompson, C.  P. (2003). St. John of the Cross: Songs in the Night. Catholic University of America Press. Tillyer, D.  B. (1984). Union with God: The Teaching of St John of the Cross. A. R. Mowbray, Limited.

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Turner, D. (1995). The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism. University Press. Tyler, P. (2011a). St. John of the Cross. Continuum. Tyler, P. (2011b). The Return to the Mystical: Ludwig Wittgenstein, Teresa of Avila and the Christian Mystical Tradition. Continuum. Williams, R. (1991). Teresa of Avila. Geoffrey Chapman.

4 Lacan’s Conception of Psychoanalysis

Lacan’s Biography Summary of the Previous Section To summarise the previous section, we have seen that one of the defining features of modern spiritual direction is its tendency to foster positive affective experientialism. The centrality of experience is the governing feature of many forms of modern spiritual direction. This found its articulation in the late nineteenth century, where ‘experience’ became the locus upon which we judge the things of God. Not only this, but we find that this judgment was taken up by other discourses that were not theological. There was a growing trend amongst academics to give a scientific account of religion (Carrette & King, 2004, p. 51). This development profoundly impacted spiritual direction; the harmonious coexistence of reason and desire was no longer feasible. Instead, desire began to be interpreted through intuitive psychological classifications. As per the categories I have formulated, this has culminated in the dominant affective logic of D1b.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_4

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As we have seen in the second chapter, William James was the first to give a secular account of religious experience from a pragmatic psychological perspective (James, 1902, pp. 295–296). His primary focus supposedly demonstrated the phenomenological strata of all religious experiences shared by all forms of religion. Rather than seeing religious experience as being an abnormal moment of what is otherwise the norm in religious living, James saw it as the primary experience on which religious ritual was based. I also demonstrated that this movement toward experientialism had been altered further by our twenty-first-century consumerist culture. I also outlined a cultural ideology of the ‘spiritual,’ which is synonymous with an injunction toward an adaptive enjoyment that is ultimately fed back into modern forms of Christian spiritual direction. This is further impacted by the fact that many psychotherapeutic traditions are in the same societal adaptation paradigm. I have argued, following a Žižekian line of thought, that satisfaction is what kills desire, so to rescue desire in spiritual direction, there has to be a constructed space whereby the injunction-to-enjoy is negated, thereby freeing us to articulate a spiritual direction of desire. It is important to note here that I argue that desire is not to be considered merely as an emotion. The techniques used in modern spiritual direction, from this perspective, are those that aim at mending feelings of fragmentation and the lack of experience (spiritual dryness). There is usually a focus on assessing negative and positive emotions when discussing God. Thus, rather than teaching about the love of God, there will be a tendency toward helping the directee assess their feelings regarding the love of God. Love has the danger of being regarded as a ‘feeling’ in this consideration. There will also be openness toward accessing religious texts to validate the journey toward positive religious experience. Naturalness is the watchword here; the spiritual director is expected to respond naturally to the various input and data the director gives. If the director does not have this natural quality, he will be perceived as a hindrance to the directees spiritual journey. Theologically speaking, this can reduce spiritual direction to fideism that fails to consider critiques of the structural nature of human emotion. Also, it can end up hypostasizing human emotion. After outlining this problem in the practice of modern spiritual

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direction, I explored some scholars who have recovered a non-­experiential interpretation of John of the Cross. I also argued that the problem, due to the prevalence of the positive experientialist paradigm, is that these ideas do not pass down to pastoral practice. I described writers like John of the Cross, who, through his powerful poetic language, reminds us that one should not reduce desire to just an emotion. Instead, John teaches us about the traumatic quality of desire in all our human faculties. The consequence of this is found in John’s description of the union of God with the human soul, which had its theoretical and practical foundation in the unity of Faith and Reason, intellectus and affectus, Eros and Logos. It concerned the whole person rather than just some affective part of it. The problem, however, is that John was writing at a very different time with a very different anthropological model of the human person that might not make sense in our modern paradigm. Hence, the tendency to sometimes utilise psychotherapeutic models to locate his ideas of spiritual transformation. I then argued for a possible cultural, linguistic detour via the work of George Lindbeck and Peter Tyler that would allow us to see that language is formative of emotional and psychological states rather than purely descriptive of them (Tyler, 2011, pp. 27–62; Lindbeck, 1984, pp. 30–46). As we have seen earlier, Tyler has described the work of the mystics as a performative discourse that aims at showing rather than saying. This showing has its meaning regarding the use of language that moves beyond a mere ostensive, experiential value. In applying this to John’s spiritual direction, I argued that we could see these linguistic strategies in the following categories: The Direction of Locution, Contradiction, Avoiding Conclusions, Disorientation and Humour. These are linguistic strategies designed to shake up the narrative framework of the directee. I argued that directors utilising this linguistic basis would be interested in personal narrative and helping the directee connect to the narrative of scripture or doctrine. This is not to say that emotional content does not play a part in such a form of spiritual direction. Instead, it recognises the constructive and contextual nature of emotion. However, I claim that although this linguistic method certainly does help side step the problem of experientialism, it still leaves

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the problem of dialoguing with psychology. A spiritual direction that focuses on desirative linguistic performance would not be compatible with a psychology that omits this in favour of an experientialist methodology.

Lacan’s Catholic Youth Jacques Marie Émile Lacan was born on April 13, 1901, the eldest of two children of a well-off Catholic middle-class family that made its wealth dealing in soap and oils. He was a precocious child and initially studied at the Collège Stanislas, a Jesuit establishment, where he was taught by the famous John of the Cross scholar Jean Baruzi (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 11–12).1 While Baruzi was teaching Lacan, he also wrote his thesis on John of the Cross, a seminal text that influenced theological and philosophical scholarship (Stein, 2002, p. 225). Lacan was a bright pupil; he excelled at religious studies and Latin translations. He and Baruzi went on to become good friends in his later years. Lacan, like his mother, was devoutly Catholic in his early years, but as a teenager, he came to question his faith and took an interest in the writings of Spinoza (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 10–12).2 Baruzi introduced Lacan to a type of Catholicism that differed from the provincialism of his family as it was intellectual and scholarly but also more focused on the mystical tradition (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 10–12). It is important to note that Spinoza was a philosopher who said, ‘the very essence of man is desire’ (Bennett, 1984, p. 222). So, between the desirative theology of John of the Cross and the philosophy of Spinoza, we can see that Lacan was introduced into thinking about human Eros in highly sophisticated ways at a young age.  Baruzi was part of a French intellectual tradition in Paris that included Étienne Gilson, Alexandre Koyre and Henry Corbin. This was an intellectual movement priding itself on approaching religious phenomena in a manner which was interdisciplinary and scientific. The above thinkers had a lasting effect on Lacan’s thought (see Roudinesco, 1997). 2  Baruch Spinoza was an enlightenment thinker who produced a radical perspective on God which resulted in a type of radical determinism of the subject which was the result of his monistic perspectives on the nature of being. His famous dictum ‘that desire is the essence of man’ can be seen repeating itself throughout the work of Lacan, along with its structural determinacy (see Nadler, 2006). 1

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Baruzi states that ‘it is impossible to understand a Christian mystic without attempting to live with him in the world of Grace’ (Baruzi, 1924, p. iv). This world of Grace was inseparable from John’s pastoral focus (Tyler, 2011, p. 15). This approach to Christianity as intellectual, mystical yet contextual and pragmatic typified Lacan’s approach to mystical theology and spiritual direction (I will explore the influence of Baruzi in more detail later).

Lacan and Medicine This pragmatism was most likely further nurtured in Lacan’s medical studies. He studied medicine in the 1920s when he specialised in psychiatry at Saint-Anne’s Hospital in Paris. Here he studied mental and cephalic illnesses. Later, he studied at the Paris police headquarters, where dangerous patients resided (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 17). After this, he spent two more years at the Henri Rousselle hospital, where he qualified in forensic medicine. This hospital specialised in the most advanced psychiatric treatment of patients (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 17). In 1934 he eventually defended his thesis on paranoid psychosis in its relation to personality, which was wellreceived among the psychiatric community (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 21–27). However, Lacan later became disillusioned with psychiatry, believing that how it treated patients was problematic. He argued that the psychiatry patient was treated like an inert, passive recipient rather than a subject (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 21–27; Parker, 2011, pp. 39–61).

Lacan and Psychoanalysis At this point, he transferred to the discipline of psychoanalysis and undertook analysis with Rudolf Lowenstein (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 69). Whether or not he completed his psychoanalytic formation with Lowenstein is a matter of debate. Still, at this point, Lacan had already made his mark on the intellectual milieu of Paris. In France, there were two critical approaches to Freud’s work. The first can be understood as medicinal, strict, and didactic. The second was the approach to the intellectual tradition in Paris. This was the Freud of surrealist emancipation,

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the Freud that focused on the centrality of desire. This interpretation of Freud was popular with the surrealists, who saw his methodology as allowing the emancipation of desire (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 55). One can argue that Lacan situated himself squarely between these two traditions. He did not wish to throw away the medical and therapeutic framework. Roudinesco tells us that his thesis on paranoia in 1932 reveals a tendency to appropriate the positions of the surrealists. However, even in this work, he is careful not to state who his sources are. She further tells us that he did this as he did not want to offend his masters in psychiatry by referencing such unorthodox sources (1999, p. 55). Only much later, we see reference to the surrealist approach to Freud come to the fore in Lacan’s work. However, one can argue that Lacan appropriated surrealism, whereas the surrealist appropriated Freud. That being said, the main philosophical focus informing Lacan’s work up until publishing his thesis seems to have been a form of phenomenology (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 75). However, after the avant-garde well received his thesis, his methodology became more open to different strands of interdisciplinary development (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 20, 61; Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456).

Lacan’s Intellectual Development One can trace his philosophical development broadly within the contexts he taught. From 1951, Lacan started to teach his popular weekly seminar in his apartment before transferring to St Anne’s Hospital in 1952. He continued teaching here until 1963 and then transferred to the École Normale Supérieure after expulsion from the International Psychoanalytic Association.3 He was expelled for what they saw as a gross misinterpretation of Freud’s ideas. The accusation specifically focused on his use of what is known as the variable length session that stood in opposition to the fixed time they stipulated. The IPA argued that the organisation (Société Française de Psychanalyse SFP) that Lacan was a part of needed to expel him if they wanted to remain a member of the IPA. Eventually, they succumbed, and he left (Roudinesco, 1999, pp. 201–205). In 1964, Lacan founded his school  The IPA is an association that exists to advance the practices of psychoanalysis at an international level. It was founded in 1910 by Sigmund Freud. 3

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independent of the IPA called the École Freudienne de Paris (EFP) (Žižek, 2009, p. 66; Hall et al., 2009, p. 22). He continued his teaching at the École Normale Supérieure until 1969, when he was transferred to the Law Faculty at Place du Panthéon due to the chaos and political upheaval of 1968 and its effects on universities (SE, XVII:9). Lacan’s final seminar was given in 1980 and is known as the Caracas seminar (Lacan, 2011, pp. 17–20). Before giving this final seminar, he dissolved his school, the École Freudienne de Paris, on the premise that there were too many Lacanians and insufficient Freudians (Lacan, 2011, pp. 17–20). In each of these contexts, scholars such as Lorenzo Chiesa trace the development of his work as broadly falling into the theoretical categories—first the imaginary, then the symbolic and finally the real. So from the 1950s, there was a focus on phenomenology, and then from the 1960s, there was a focus on language and semiotics. Finally, in the 1970s, there was a focus on the irreducible, antagonistic unpresentable aspect of the psyche through topology and set theory (Chiesa, 2007, pp. 104–140). Against this prevailing interpretation of Lacan, Tom Eyers argues for a more nuanced approach claiming one cannot argue for a linear evolution of these three categories and that all three elements were always already present in each phase of his intellectual development (Eyers, 2012, pp. 1–14). I follow this argument but argue that this antagonism, as the real, comes from Lacan’s exposure to Juanist mystical theological strands via the work of Baruzi and Bataille.

Brief Overview of Lacan’s Work Approaching Lacan Clinically There are generally three theoretical positions which can be utilised to understand the reception of Lacan’s work in the Anglophone world: The Philosophical Lacan: This is the reception of Lacan we find handed to us through the French intellectual tradition. Moreover, many western academics come to his work through contact with the ideas of Derrida, Foucault, and Althusser. This was associated with cultural

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theory and continental philosophy in the Anglophone world. This position generally focuses on the theoretical import of Lacan for philosophy and radical politics while somewhat downplaying that he was a practising clinician (Eyers, 2012). There is more of a focus on comparative readings with other renowned philosophers and thinkers. The Clinical Lacan: These scholars are interested in his work for its clinical import and treatment in mental health. Hence, they balance focusing on the minutia of his texts and move to explicate the clinical implications of his work regarding treating patients. There is a focus on tradition in this approach and integrating the ideas and practice of Freudian theory. Because of the nature of this practice, there is less of a focus on how his theory relates to politics and philosophy. Generally, the purely clinical practice of Lacan in the UK is rarer than in other parts of the world. The main schools in the UK that focus on the training of analysis are CFAR and the NLS.4 That all said, the clinical reception of Lacan is more prevalent in France and Latin America. Bruce Fink, Jacques Alain Miller, Ellie Ragland and Dany Nobus are to be located in this tradition (Nobus, 2000; Fink, 2013). The Clinical-Philosophical Lacan: This is the more modern approach to Lacan. The work of Lacan is approached simultaneously p ­ hilosophically and clinically. It is typified by grounding philosophical concepts directly in his clinical practice and vice versa. Unlike the previous philosophical model, it does not downplay the clinical aspect of Lacan to focus solely on Lacan’s philosophical influences. Furthermore, unlike  The Centre for Freudian Analysis and Research (CFAR) is an organization in London, UK that offers training and supervision in psychoanalysis based on the work of Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan. CFAR is known for its emphasis on the importance of clinical work and its commitment to maintaining the integrity of psychoanalysis as a practice, while also acknowledging the contributions of other theoretical models. CFAR offers a four-year training program for psychoanalytic psychotherapy, as well as a shorter, foundation-level course for those who are interested in learning about psychoanalysis but do not wish to pursue training as a practitioner. Another organization in the UK that promotes Lacanian psychoanalysis is the New Lacanian School (NLS). The NLS is an international organization that provides a platform for the exchange of ideas and the discussion of Lacanian theory and practice. It aims to bring together practitioners and scholars who are interested in the Lacanian approach to psychoanalysis, with a focus on the clinical implications of Lacanian theory. The NLS holds annual congresses, which bring together members from around the world to discuss the latest developments in Lacanian psychoanalysis. The NLS also offers a training program for those who wish to become practitioners in the field. Both CFAR and the NLS represent important institutions for the study and practice of psychoanalysis in the UK, offering a range of resources and support for those who are interested in this field. 4

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the purely clinical school, it does not sidestep philosophical issues to focus purely on pragmatic application. Instead, it focuses on both. Among others, the work of Slavoj Žižek, Ian Parker, Tom Eyers, Lorenzo Chiesa, and Marcus Pound is located here. I say this because they are not clinicians per-se but do not negate the clinical from their philosophical writings. My argument uses the third methodology, as one must approach Lacan both clinically and philosophically to truly get to grips with him. Certainly, if one looks at the clinical development of Lacan, one can argue that the philosophical elements of his work directly contributed to his practical outlook. Marcus Pound has done work in demonstrating that the philosophical and pragmatic elements of his work cannot be divorced from their implicit theological moorings, which run right through his oeuvre (Pound, 2007, pp. 1–28, 2012, pp. 440–456). I will argue that this theological foundation can further be attested to via the tradition of spiritual direction and mystical theology, which is also implicit in Lacan’s writings regarding content and its performative nature. Before exploring this connection, it is important to explain some of the fundamentals of Lacan’s work.

The Three Registers At this point, I will discuss some of the main theoretical ideas of Lacan before moving straight into the concepts grounding its practice. I do not want to give an extended explanation of these concepts, and so I only sketch them out with pragmatic application in mind. For a more expanded discussion of these ideas, I recommend Tom Eyers’s Lacan and the Concept of the Real (2012). After this, I will discuss psychoanalysis’s specific function and practice before expanding on Lacan’s ideas concerning spiritual direction and mystical theology from a Juanist perspective. For Lacan, psychoanalysis differentiates itself from other disciplines because it starts and ends with speech. Hence, the science of psychoanalysis should not be based on biology or neurology. Instead, it should start with the science of linguistics (E: 260–261). Lacan further argues that the science of linguistics is the only science proper to psychoanalysis

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because the unconscious, in his formulation, is linguistic in nature. His famous statement that the unconscious is structured like a language and later ‘the unconscious is a language’ can be seen as a formulation of this idea (Fink, 2013, p. 22). It is easy to think of Lacan as a philosopher of language and miss the clinical import of his work, especially given the complexity of his arguments. He was, after all, a devout Freudian and, consequently, a clinician. Hence, it is crucial to locate his arguments at the level of clinical experience, something that grounds all his writings. His grasp of the importance of linguistics was formed first and foremost in the clinic, where communication takes on a quite different role than what we usually experience daily. The various neuroses, tics, and delusions in language one can assume Lacan encountered were not seen as objects which hindered communication. Instead, they were perceived as part of communication (Leader, 2011, pp. 18–19). Consequently, in re-conceptualising the unconscious as a language, it becomes less like a hidden part of the self-tucked away in a box somewhere and is instead found directly in our speech, on its surface, so to speak (SE, I: 267). Reflecting on this in their 1957 paper Psychoanalysis and its Teaching, Lacan tells us that the unconscious is not so deep as inaccessible to the scrutiny of egoistic, conscious discourse (E: 364). Instead, the unconscious speaks because we speak; it is found right there in the very fabric of speech itself, as one is actively speaking. Hence, the work of the psychoanalyst is a task which focuses on how the unconscious has redacted conscious speech itself. Lacan uses the image of a palimpsest, an old text which has been scraped off and then replaced with a new one, through which we can still detect the traces of the old text as a metaphor for the unconscious (E: 381). Lacan’s pupil, Serge Leclaire, elaborates on this portrayal of the unconscious. He presents an analogy where the unconscious is compared to tuning into a radio to appreciate an orchestral composition but experiencing intermittent snippets of jazz from a different station that disrupts the melody you are focused on. Additionally, Leclaire emphasises that the unconscious should not be misinterpreted as a cryptic message. Rather, it should be seen as an entirely separate narrative interwoven within the original text, interfering with the initial reading. He further tells us that one can only grasp what this blurred text is by illuminating it from behind with the help of a developer

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(quoted in Lemaire, 2014, pp. 137–138). The only way one can find evidence of the existence of the unconscious is through the slips, smudges and strangeness that exist as traces in what is spoken. If the previous linguistic approach, which is highlighted in my previous chapter, focuses on the performative aspect of language, Lacan brings another element to the discussion. Indeed we may perform language at the level of conscious activity, but at the level of the unconscious, it performs us. Lacan focused on the absolute centrality of language in his formulation of psychoanalysis at all stages of his intellectual development (see Eyers, 2012). However, although Lacan understood the psyche as being created through language, he also explained that to understand the psyche’s creation in language, one had to approach it through three separate but interlinked elements (Eyers, 2012, pp. 1–10). These three elements are the imaginary, the symbolic and the real. These three registers make up the triadic bedrock of Lacan’s conception of the self. This is a formulation that underlies nearly all of his theoretical writings and seminars (SE, I: 86). The imaginary applies to our phenomenological perception of the world as meaningful. In contrast, the symbolic applies to the linguistic process by which we make meaning, and the real applies to that which antagonises meaning. For example, if the imaginary is the ego, then the symbolic is the unconscious process of becoming that creates the ego. Moreover, the real is the antagonistic point constantly threatening both the imaginary and the symbolic.

The Imaginary This is the psychological register of our first formative experience as we see ourselves in the mirror. It is associated mainly with Lacan’s work in the 1950s. According to this theory, young children cope with their physical fragility by ‘introjecting’ a mirror image back onto their primal bodies. The child sees the image and assumes it is the same as themselves. This gives the child a precarious sense of wholeness, allowing the infant to imagine being separate from the mother. In more detail, Lacan confirms the function of the Ego in these terms. Lacan tells his audience that the fragmented body of the child finds its unity in this specular image. He describes the child’s image as synonymous with the Ego and

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ultimately false. Moreover, Lacan identifies this false ‘I’ with the fallacious subject of the history of philosophy that modern western academia has concerned itself with. Finally, he posits that his own theory of the subject escapes this form of egoistic idolatry: The body in pieces finds its unity in the image of the other, which is its own anticipated image—a dual situation in which a polar, but non-symmetrical relation, is sketched out. This asymmetry already tells us that the theory of the ego in psychoanalysis has nothing in common with the learned conception of the ego, which on the contrary partakes of a kind of naive understanding which I told you was peculiar to the historically datable psychology of modern man. I brought you up short at the moment when I was showing you that this subject, really, is no one. The subject is no one. It is decomposed, in pieces. And it is rammed, sucked in by the image, the deceiving and realised image, of the other, or equally by its own specular image. That is where it finds its unity. Laying hold of a reference taken from the most modern of these mechanistic problems, which have such importance in the development of science and of thought, I’ll show you this stage of development of the subject by using a model whose utility is that it doesn’t in any way idolise the subject (SE, II: 54). (Translated by Sylvana Tomaselli)5  ‘Ce corps morcelé trouve son unité dans cette image de l’autre qui est sa propre image anticipée. C’est une situation duelle dans laquelle nous voyons s’ébaucher une relation polaire, non-­ symétrique, certes, et dont la dissymétrie nous indique déjà en quel sens la théorie du Moi, telle que la psychanalyse nous la donne, ne permet d’aucune façon de rejoindre la conception dite scientifique ou philosophique du Moi telle qu’elle rejoint une certaine appréhension naïve dont je vous ai dit qu’elle était le propre de la psychologie, d’une certaine psychologie qui est datable historiquement, qui est ce que nous appellerons la psychologie de l’homme moderne. Je vous ai arrêté en somme, au moment où vous montrant ce sujet, que j’ai aussi bien appelé la dernière fois, et non pas simplement hier soir, au moment où nous nous sommes arrêtés sur cette question du sujet de Leclaire, que je n’ai pas appelé Seulement hier soir, mais aussi à la fin de ma dernière conférence : personne. Je ne l’ai peut-être pas très bien accentué ni souligné, mais c’était bien la personne dont nous parlions hier soir. Que ce sujet, qui est personne, et qui est décomposé, morcelé, ce bloc, trouve son unité, est en quelque sorte aspiré, d’une façon anticipant, par cette image à la fois trompeuse et réalisée, qui est cette certaine unité du sujet qui lui est donnée dans l’image de l’autre, qui lui est aussi bien donnée dans son image spéculaire, la possibilité de la fonction, à cette occasion de l’image spéculaire, aussi bien à la place de l’image de l’autre, montrant bien le caractère fondamentalement imaginaire de cette relation; et, m’emparant d’une référence prise au plus moderne de nos exercices machinistes, qui ont tellement d’importance dans le développement, non Seulement de la science, mais de la pensée humaine, je vous représentai, en somme, cette étape du développement du sujet comme quelque chose qui pouvait s’incarner dans un modèle, je vous ai fait un modèle. Je vous ai fait un modèle qui a le propre de ne nulle part idolifier ce sujet’ (SE, II : 70–71). 5

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Lacan argues that the ego is a type of illusion in which children are thus caught from birth, and modern psychological and philosophical thought has been captivated by this image in assuming that it is the true subject or self. It can be said that much of the Lacanian psychoanalytic project is about understanding how one can give up this false sense of self in favour of what he calls the subject. In more detail, Lacan writes that the analyst must interrogate the historical evolution of this false ‘I’ which has captivated modern western culture: Who, if not us, will call back into question the objective status of this ‘I,’ which a historical evolution peculiar to our culture tends to confuse with the subject.6 (E: 96) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

This phase, which becomes a permanent feature of later psychological life as the ego, is typified by instability, aggressiveness, a search for wholeness, sameness, certainty and emotional gratification. Lacan called this drive for satisfaction demand (E: 190). However, even at this stage, Lacan carefully argues that a minimal grasp of language is necessary for this phase to occur (E: 76). This pre-oedipal imaginary use of language is entirely different from its post-oedipal manifestation, as the latter allows for the use of metaphor in language. The use of metaphor entails that meaning is never final. This introduction of metaphoric uncertainty is what allows a space to be created between the child and the overabundance of meaning emanating from the mother’s body. This is a toxic flow of meaning (jouissance) that cannot be adequately defended against through the register of the imaginary (SE, III: 319). Consequently, there is always doubt and uncertainty in our linguistic formulations as the basis of desire. Hence, Lacan posits that the certainty of demand, in the imaginary stage of existence, is to be opposed to a post-oedipal desire of the subject grounded in uncertainty and doubt.

 ‘Qui, sinon nous, remettra en question le statut objectif de ce « je », qu’une évolution historique propre à notre culture tend à confondre avec le sujet ?’ (E :118) (Seuil Edition) 6

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The Symbolic This phase can broadly be associated with language, law, desire and the instantiation of the signifier. Moreover, it is identified as the use of language proper through the use of metaphor and metonymy.7 It appeared around the end of the 1950s when he became interested in the linguistic theory of Saussure and structuralism. Very broadly, Lacan believed that the imaginary phase ends when we become properly speaking beings. At this point, the imaginary dyadic relationship of the mirror phase is broken up with the third point of the linguistic register of the signifier. This is the first metaphor, the master signifier, that becomes the basis of our speech. Explaining this further, Lacan teaches us in Seminar III that the child’s entry into the symbolic order is paid for by giving up their primordial being and coming to utilise the currency of signifiers in place of a mythic enjoyment: We are on the way to seeing how and at what moment this comes into play for the child, how the child’s entry into the relation to the symbolic[…] comes about, insofar as the [signifier] is its major currency.8 (SE, III: 174) (Translated by Russell Grigg)

The symbolic register is fundamentally different from the imaginary register due to its defining feature of difference as opposed to sameness (SE, III: 9). Moreover, the illusory similarity of the imaginary is broken up by the linguistic register of the symbolic (S: IV:318). It allows difference to  According to Lacan, the child is initially caught in a dyadic relationship, which is first mediated with through the valences of the imaginary, along with a shallow grasp of language, to the mother. There is nothing outside of this dyadic relationship. The child wants the mother but also realises that the mother wants her. It is only by way of the proper introduction into language, which allows the child to understand this desire of the mother by way of the paternal metaphor (the first signifier The Name-of-the-Father) which triangulates this enigmatic traumatic encounter and creates the conditions of a properly speaking, thinking, desiring subject (SE, VIII: 240). 8  ‘Nous sommes sur le chemin de voir comment et à quel moment ceci est pris par l’enfant, comment aussi ceci entre en jeu dans l’entrée de l’enfant lui-même dans cette relation à l’objet symbolique, en tant que c’est le phallus qui en est la monnaie majeure.’ (SE, IV: 159). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version) (in the above quote I have replaced the term phallus with signifier for ease of translation. Phallus, in this context means the paternal metaphor, the first signifier.) 7

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exist as mediated through this singular point of paternal authority. This authority prohibits the child from the mother’s body and naming the child as having a place within our intersubjective system of language (E: 317–319; SE, VIII: 240). Since the imaginary register aims at objects of satisfaction, the symbolic aims beyond this. This constant drive toward the infinite is what Lacan called desire and is caused by the continual, metaphorical slipping of the signifier.9 The signifier is opposed to what Lacan called the signified. The signifier is the structure of meaning, while the signified is the content of meaning (E: 414). Every single signifier only generates meaning by connecting to other signifiers locked to the master signifier. Lacan states that meaning is only retroactively imposed on a given signifying chain at the end of a given sentence (SE, III: 263). This means that the symbolic is represented by the various meanings a given flow of speech can have before we retroactively impose meaning on it after we finish speaking. The function of a neurotic disposition is to limit the multiplicity of meanings from a set of signifying chains. This means that, unlike traditional linguistics, the relation between signifier and signified operates by the ego imposing a fixed meaning on chains of signifiers. The signified appears when we suppress this infinitely sliding web of signifiers from consciousness to focus solely on the meaning of things rather than the intractable multiplicity of the signifier (E: 414–415). It is helpful to contrast this with a psychotic disposition where the ability to limit meaning is fragile. Hence their subjectivity is constantly assailed by the flux of meaning from the multiplicity of ungrounded signifying chains (Leader, 2011, pp. 1–10). However, in a neurotic disposition, this structure of meaning, or what generates it, is largely ignored in conscious discourse as we come to focus on meaning itself in the operation of discourse. Lacan calls this a quilting

 The creation of the unconscious starts with the Name-of-the-Father which represents nothing other than its own authority, however, through this authority, it transforms into the function of absolute authority (the symbolic phallus) which is defined by its function in the signifying chain that names, prohibits and replaces the Desire-of-the-Mother which allows signification as the creation and operation of secondary signifiers. This is represented by the matheme S1 and S2. 9

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point (Point de Capiton) (SE, III: 267).10 Hence, as an example, I can tell a story about myself to you and ignore all the other interconnecting words and narratives that serve as the foundation and backdrop of this specific signifying chain I am communicating to you. A distance is created between the battery of signifiers that make up my psychic economy’s raw material and myself as a subject. To communicate my conscious story to you, my unconscious, as the engine of my speech, must occur on another scene, out of view. Put differently, in the post-­ oedipal subject, the realm of the imaginary is signified. At the same time, the unconscious is the realm of the signifier, the infinite sliding chain of intersecting signifying chains. With the proper introduction of language through the master signifier, Lacan argued that humans become split between the ego and the unconscious. The unconscious becomes the repressed shared intersubjective language structure that allows us to formulate our perception of our inner and outer realities. Again, this repression results in the post-oedipal imaginary register and designates meaning as a whole (E: 414–415). This led to Lacan arguing that the unconscious formulates consciousness, or in other words, language is formative of our reality as the intersection of both imaginary and symbolic processes. So, a transformation in the register of the signifier alters the signified as changes in the unconscious result in a change in the ego (SE, IV: 356–357). This entails that the mere sounds of words, as the raw material of the unconscious, have just as much of an effect in the makeup of signification in creating our interior self, our relation to others and the world (SE, III: 119). Consequently, a major part of psychoanalytic training involves listening to the sounds and patterns of words as separate from egoic meaning and how they resonate with words in a patient’s speech; I will describe this in detail shortly. However, this developmental process between the  Jacques Lacan’s psychoanalytic theory employs the French word “Point de Capiton.” This phrase alludes to the “quilting point” or anchoring point that gives language and discourse meaning. In other words, it serves as a metaphorical anchor or point of focus that connects many signifiers and avoids “slippage” or meaning loss inside language. Lacan thought maintaining social order and producing symbolic structures like language depended on the Point de Capiton. Despite the intrinsic instability and fluidity of language and discourse, it aids in creating a sense of stability and coherence in the symbolic order. Language and meaning would be in perpetual flux without the Point de Capiton. 10

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imaginary and the symbolic is imperfect. For Lacan, the imaginary and the symbolic, even in their sharp opposition, have one thing in common, they are both imposed on the primal body. However, this imposition of both the imaginary and the symbolic never fully captures the real of the body. Hence, this remainder of the body is always antagonistically on the scene of our mental life in the form of a traumatic kernel that cannot be integrated.

The Real The real is the final aspect of the three Lacanian registers and comes to take precedence in the work of Lacan at the end of the 1960s. At this point, he moves away from his interest in linguistics and focuses on mathematics to give alternative representations of psychic life and therapeutic goals. Nevertheless, the imaginary and the symbolic still play a crucial role in this period. This is the body in its primal state before the imposition of the symbolic and the imaginary. It is the remaining ‘scrap’ which interrupts both registers within clinical experience (SE, X: 284).11 The real presents itself as a negative point that remains perpetually outside the reaches of both the symbolic and the imaginary while paradoxically also being the very foundation of the subject (SE, VII: 118). It appears as the supreme object of our desire as it signifies the primordial state of the body before the imposition of the symbolic and the imaginary. On the other hand, it also describes their destruction since to draw close to it entails that both the symbolic and the imaginary registers would fall apart. To illustrate the psyche’s workings across these registers, Žižek employs a chessboard as an analogy. He proposes that the imaginary can be compared to the visual symbols of the pieces, such as Pawns, Kings, and Queens. However, these pieces and their associated imagery have no  In Seminar VII he first identified this with the Freudian Thing (das Ding) and later to what he called object a: the small object. In both conceptions it is the indivisible remainder, the hard antagonistic point which causes perpetual disruption in the field of the imaginary and the symbolic: ‘the a that we’ve defined as the remainder left over from the constitution of the subject in the locus of the Other in so far as the subject has to be constituted as a barred subject’ (SE, X: 284).

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inherent reality beyond the linguistic rules and conventions that dictate how they move around the board. Simply put, if the laws of chess were to be disregarded, the images linked to the pieces would cease to exist (Žižek, 2011, pp.  8–9). According to Lacanian theory, the law of the unconscious determines the formation of consciousness, also called the signified slipping under the signifier. The third register, the real, is situated beyond the imaginary and symbolic domains. To clarify, the real emerges when— to continue the analogy—during the chess game, a colossal boot kicks over the chessboard, leaving no choice but to pick up the pieces and begin anew. (Žižek, 2011, pp. 8–9).12 Extending the chessboard analogy, neurotic psychological symptoms can be likened to a game that remains in a state of perpetual check.13 In this scenario, the player is compelled to repeat the same moves repeatedly as the law of their desire becomes hopelessly tangled. Lacan maintained that relying on experience as a means of therapy would be akin to trying to escape perpetual check by replacing the king or queen with a fancier piece. Everyone understands that merely introducing a new piece fails to address the perpetual check problem. The nature of the game is not grounded in the representative aspects of the pieces but rather in the governing principles and regulations that structure the game. Lacan argued that changes to a subjective position’s parameters could only be made by supporting the patient in facing the harsh reality of their issue, essentially amounting to a reset of the metaphorical chess match. Consequently, the  Language warps the real, but the real also warps language. Lacan states this when he says the following in Seminar VII: ‘The real, the primordial real, I will say, suffers from the signifier—and you should understand that it is a real that we do not yet have to limit, the real in its totality, both the real of the subject and the real he has to deal with as exterior to him ‘(SE, VII: 118). The real Lacan is referring to is the primordial state of our existence before the genesis of the signifier, the suffering is a reference to the original trauma of symbolic castration by the signifier, the loss of the imaginary phallus. Since the signifier’s existence is always tenuous, stretched out over the body, figuratively speaking, this real, which Lacan refers to as being internal and external to the subject, is always seen as a perpetual existential threat to the subject. The signifier always risks being pushed out in the face of the real, hence the suggestive and paradoxical language that it is the real that suffers in the signifier and not the other way around since the real is just as much a part of the subject as is the signifier. 13  To clarify in chess, a perpetual check is a situation in which one player can continually place the opponent’s king in check, in such a way that it is impossible for the game to progress. Essentially, it is a sequence of moves that repeatedly threatens the opponent’s king, forcing the player to move or defend against the check on each turn. 12

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analyst’s task is not to aid the patient in avoiding the symptom by supplying more meaning via the signified register. Rather, it involves extracting the real from the symptom by dismantling the signifiers that have led to the particular configuration in the patient. This occurs by helping the patient recognise that their symptom’s mode of subjectivity is entirely contingent and that other methods of articulating their distress are accessible. It is important to note that Lacan was radical not merely because of his re-reading of Freud that filtered his ideas through structuralist linguistic and existentialist thought. Rather it was radical due to its clinical aims. His conception of clinical practice made him a problematic figure for many analysts at the time (Fink, 2013, pp. 1–10; Nobus, 2000, pp. xi–5). He argued that his conception of analysis differed sharply from the prevailing model at the time.14 In trying to formulate and systematise Freud, he believed these other traditions ultimately grossly misrepresented him. To put Lacan’s argument succinctly, he argued that the main difference between their understanding and his own was that he wished to help develop the subject’s desire. At the same time, Lacan believed Ego Psychologists wanted to repress and tame desire (see Pound, 2007). Consequently, one can argue that the question of desire, what it is and where it leads made Lacan so problematic to others. I will argue that this conception of desire, although undoubtedly Freudian, was also influenced by his reading of mystical writers like John of the Cross, whom he knew of from an early age through the work of Baruzi.

 Lacan called this prevailing model of psychoanalysis Ego psychology. Ego psychology is a school of psychoanalysis that emerged in the mid-twentieth century, building on the work of Sigmund Freud and his followers. The theory was first formulated by Anna Freud and other analysts associated with the Anna Freud Centre in London, Heinz Hartmann, Erik Erikson, and other New York Psychoanalytic Society members. In this school, the ego is seen as a self-contained, autonomous entity capable of manipulating reality through defence mechanisms. Lacan rejected the ego as a self-contained entity. Instead, he claimed that the ego is essentially organised by the symbolic order and intimately related to language (see Pound, 2012). 14

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What Desire is Not To grasp the basics of Lacanian theory, it is essential to understand what desire is and is not for Lacan.

Desire Is Not Reducible to a Feeling or an Emotion For Lacan, feelings—what he calls the affective—are located on the side of the ego and thus demand.15 For Lacan, desire is unconscious and thus located on the side of the obscured linguistic structures that create our worldview. Desire is access to the Other via the lost object (SE, X: 179). As desire is entangled in these predominantly elusive structures, it only surfaces when our misguided self-perception fleetingly dissolves, and our ego-driven defences are lowered. For Lacan, desire spans the entire spectrum of the self—in its fragmented state—given its involvement in the psychological structures that construct our perception of reality and self-­identity. Asserting that the unconscious is structured like a language implies that desire is organised like a language, not as an emotional depth of the individual. In more detail, Parker explains that we should not substantialise the subject and that the Lacanian analytic method entails a vastly different way of speaking about desire to the extent that it is antithetical to the affective tendency in psychology. He further argues that this psychologisation of human experience turns the ‘I am’ into an experiential depth resulting in ideologies focusing on positivity, well-being, and adaptation to societal norms. This is precisely the opposite of what Lacanian analysis aims for in its conception of human desire (2011, pp.  81–82). To approach desire as if it is some kind of mysterious, affective energy is to misinterpret its nature. Reflecting on this, Chiesa notes that Lacan showed a profound contempt for such essentialist conceptions that proceeded to conceptualise  It is important to note that for Lacan, anxiety is the only affect that cannot be manipulated. It emerges when the subject confronts the Real non-negotiable limit of human experience as such. As anxiety arises from a confrontation with the Real, it cannot be falsified or influenced by cultural norms or language. For Lacan, anxiety is the only authentic emotion that arises from the subject’s most fundamental encounter with the limits of their existence (see Harari, 2013). 15

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the operation of desire in terms of libidinal energy. He further argues that Lacan associates this process with Jungianism. Lacan saw the teachings of Jung as a reiteration of a mythological tendency to reach some fallacious, harmonised, oceanic state of existence (Chiesa, 2016, p. 45). Lacan positions desire at the junction of intellectual comprehension and affective experience. He suggests that desire is intertwined with these facets in its association with the signifier. Yet, he posits that desire both surpasses and antagonises its observable manifestation in its relation to the real.

 orking with Desire Means That It Cannot be Based Purely W in the Field of Experience Lacan argued that basing any clinical practice on experientialism was ultimately misguided. Instead, Lacan argued that working with the unconscious means looking toward what structures experience rather than getting caught up in the result of these structures. It works on the premise that what is fundamentally closest to us in formulating our experiences is ultimately obscured from us and only appears momentarily within the analytic situation. It is a moment in analysis where our slip in speech reveals the raw, structuring signifiers which create our worldview.

It Is Not Concerned with Meaning The ego, or the imaginary register of our existence, creates narratives of meaning that can stabilise its existence’s fragility. Meaning for Lacan, it is a type of defensive formation. The ego uses it to disguise the truth of its desire. Lacan argued that the goal of analysis is to punch holes in the continuity of this narrative (E: 678).16 By punching holes in meaning, or dissolving the solidity of its formulations, the analyst allows different perspectives to arise.  It is extremely important to note that this method of analysis must not be used with those who have a psychotic subjective structure. In the latter case, an analyst must help those with a psychotic disposition to bolster the imaginary register since the symbolic aspect of their existence has not properly been formulated and recourse to the imaginary is the only defence they have against the terrifying presence of the real of the body. 16

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Lacanian Analysis Is Not Adaptive Lacan formulated his conception of analysis in opposition to forms of psychotherapy premised on re-adapting the subject to societal norms (Parker, 2011, p. 7). On the contrary, Lacan argued precisely the opposite. He believed that to face the truth of one’s desire entails that an analysand goes against prevailing ideas of the good. Lacan claimed that these ideals are caused by the projections of the egoistic imaginary register (SE, VII: 303). The notion of being against adaptation culminates in his writings on the subject in Seminar VII, where he traduces concepts of happiness, affectation, and utilitarianism in general (SE, VII: 300). The analyst does not and cannot give happiness. Moreover, to give well-being, or at least to promise it, is to destroy the logic of desire. These four points are crucial for understanding the practical importance of Lacan’s conception of desire. For Lacan, desire must first be understood in the context of the fragmented subject that is alienated and created in language. Hence, the subject must be understood regarding lack, brokenness, complexity, and the inherent ambiguity resulting in our speech. For desire to be desire, it must always hide as once it is in full view; it cannot properly be understood as desire any longer. These points also need to be held in contrast to what I will term a phenomenological approach to desire. Desire, in this sense, is divorced from its inherent connection to language. Instead, it locates it on the level of experientialism or ‘yearning.’ To interpret Lacan in these terms is to conflate an experientialist perspective of desire with his anti-phenomenological approach. In other words, one must understand Lacan in terms of D2 and not D1b: 1. D1b: this is desire as being understood from an emotive experientialist perspective. 2. D2: this is desire as a product of language and lack. It is not directly experienced and only appears momentarily. However, before going any further, I wish to focus on the clinical practice of Lacanian psychoanalysis and how it focuses on language to work with desire.

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 he Performative Practice T of Lacanian Psychoanalysis Punching Through Meaning What I offer here is a performative model of Lacanian analysis as I understand it functionally through my own readings and experience in analysis over several years. I have tended to eschew the minutia of the analytic process developments in his seminars to focus on a functional idea of the discipline. This is so I can relate it to a Juanist concept of spiritual direction mapped out in later chapters. From presenting this model, I will explore its developments in the following chapters. Nevertheless, it is important to remind readers that my argument focuses on exploring a coherent clinical practice of Lacanian analysis and its relevance for an aspect of pastoral theology. Part of the difficulty in approaching Lacan’s work is its evolving and inconsistent nature. If one is not careful, one can get caught up in ironing out the various contradictory statements in his writings. Hence, it is important to note that my understanding of analysis is grounded in my own personal insight, readings, and explorations, and they are by no means exhaustive. Lacan argued that the analyst’s role is to appear as a blank screen on which the analysand can project the structure of their desire (SE, IV:130). The analyst’s work is to constantly frustrate the analysand by never letting the analysand know what is wanted from him (Evans, 1996, p.  40). Through this, the structure of the analysand’s desire reveals itself in its most fundamental fashion. This means that in all the desires related to the analyst, an underlying structural pattern will emerge, one which the analyst must reconstruct in the course of analysis and then, in the end, help the analysand confront it. This is the Lacanian understanding of transference (SE, XI: 273). It is important to point out that Lacan is not interested in the role of the ego. Rather he is only interested in helping the analysand reveal their own subjectivity as that which exists beyond the ego. The subject appears when a hole punches its way through the links between what is being said in the process of speaking. What is ‘said’ lies on the side of the ego, while

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the process of ‘saying’ lies on the side of subjectivity. The analyst’s work lies in listening for the latter. Lacan called this split the subject of the enunciated and the subject of the enunciation (E: 556). So, one should see awkward sentence constructions, slips and slurs as a way of seeing the operations of the unconscious at play. What follows is a diagram to help explain the process. This is a simplification and re-interpretation of what takes place in what is known as the analytic discourse. I will give a further discussion on this later. Please see the appendix for a more extended description of Lacan’s concept of the unconscious. Below (See Fig. 4.1) we can see the formula of listening to the unconscious beyond the ego. First, we see the master signifier (S1), which is the foundation of the split subject ($). Then, behind the subject, we can see the unconscious as meaning in potential (chains of signifiers as S2). The unconscious comprises metaphoric and metonymic intersecting chains of signifiers organised to create signification in relation to the real. The drive for communication in free association occurs through the lost object (the small a on the left), which is pushed out of the body via symbolic castration by the master signifier. This is then projected onto the analyst (the curved arrow over the top, which aims at the small a on the right), which acts as the engine of desire in communication. The cross means any direct communication is barred by language itself: The shift to meaning comes from the divided subject repressing the unconscious as it produces analytic speech. The operation of the chains of signifiers (S2), which create the unconscious as meaning in potential, is masked in this speech by the imaginary function of the psyche. Thus,

a/S1

Unconscious as meaning in potentia

S2

$

Free association containing signifier and signified.

Fig. 4.1  Depiction of the unconscious and free association

A/a

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the right hand of the long straight arrow represents analytic communication as containing both signifier and signified (See Fig. 4.2): Communication with the analyst is thus made of both meaning (the signified) and the form of meaning, the signifier. The analyst’s work is to listen for the signifier in the utterance of the signified (listening for the unconscious). With their sensitivity to listening without imposing meaning on what is heard, they can detect the signifiers in speech that leads to the master signifier (SE, VIII: 193). They listen for non-sense in sense, as nonsense (the multiplicity of chains of signifiers) represents desire. The smaller, curved arrow represents the return of this speech in the form of knowledge to the divided subject (See Fig. 4.3): In other words, the analyst needs to pierce the ego’s defences, which leads to the eventual assumption of desire by the analysand in what Lacan calls full speech (E: 213). In more detail, Chiesa writes that analysis aims to transition the analysand from empty to full speech. Empty speech is a discourse replete with imaginary objectification and illusions of autonomy. Beyond this speech, there is the register of the unconscious. This repressed speech is the locus of desire as the Other—the symbolic order. Moreover, the assumption of this desire, generally ignored in conscious everyday speech, is precisely what full speech consists of. Full speech is thus inseparable from intersubjectivity to the extent that it can only be uncovered between two people at the minimum. It cannot be uncovered simply through singular reflection (2007, p. 40). Within this intersubjective analytic situation, a person could say, ‘I have never felt farther in my goals,’ when at another point he has said, ‘I have never felt further from my goals.’ At first glance, the sentence sounds like a slip of a preposition. However, the slip of the preposition should highlight the signifier next to it, ‘farther.’ The fact that he chose to utilise a signifier which is a homonym with the word Father, should be questioned. Hence, it becomes, ‘I have never felt (my) father in my goals.’ As the analysand tries to narrate his sense of self into an objective closed narrative, a break takes place in this intended narrative that was supposed

$

A/a

Fig. 4.2  Analytic discourse as made up of signifier and signified

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$

A/a

Fig. 4.3  The return of unconscious knowledge to the analysand

to fuse itself to the ‘I’ of the statement in the sentence. With the above slip, another signifier creates a discontinuity in the narrative. At this point, the subject of the enunciation comes into view (E: 707). The truth of analysis lies in locating the gap between the signifiers ‘ Father and farther.’ At this point, the analyst could offer an interpretation that concerns the connection between the hypothetical analysand’s goals and the prohibitive function of his own Father. The subject appears when the analysand realises that he always knew of his Father’s role in creating the specificity of his own goals and how the analysand unconsciously thwarts them. The point is that the analyst allows the analysand to find new ways of relating to desire in their very own speech.

The Textual Nature of the Unconscious The almost textual-exegetical nature of psychoanalysis is highlighted by Lacan, who teaches us that the analyst must always start from the text (the unconscious) and that we must treat this text like ‘holy writing.’ He explains that the author of the text (the ego) is just a pen pusher and that they come second. He also tells his audience that one must always give focus on the text (the unconscious) as opposed to the supposed psychology of the author: You must start from the text, start by treating it, as Freud does and as he recommends, as Holy Writ. The author, the scribe, is only a pen-pusher, and he comes second. The commentaries on the Scriptures were irremediably lost the day when people wanted to get at the psychology of Jeremiah, of Isaiah, of even Jesus Christ. Similarly, when it comes to our patients, please give more attention to the text than to the psychology of the

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author—the entire orientation of my teaching is that. (Translated by Sylvana Tomaselli)

17

177

(SE, II: 153)

However, one must be careful here to interpret Lacan’s focus on the text. It is misguided to conceive Lacan as merely reducing people solely to the flow of language. In Seminar X, which is his seminar on the place of anxiety and its relation to desire, he warns that one must not wander off into the infinite network of the signifier (SE, X: 247). This is to say that Lacan’s concept of desire and its relationship to language must always be grounded in the real rather than the constant interplay of language. This differentiates it from the narrative linguistic approach of Lindbeck mentioned earlier. Although narrative and meaning are crucial elements, it is also about the interruptive meaningless element that fractures stories and how this is related to the production of desire within the very disjunction of hidden narratives in the subject. Said differently, the Lacanian focus on language rejects methods that attribute the perception of reality solely to the performative nature of language and how it coheres in various language games and pictures. Instead, the Lacanian focus on language is based on the necessary performative change in language that takes place on another scene in the subject. This is an unconscious activity, which takes place in the register of the symbolic, that produces desirative signification relating to the real. Changing our perspective in life is tricky as it is not just a process of selecting a new language game to frame our lives. The necessary change in our picture of the world comes about from the hard work of confronting the subjective coordinates, which stems from our initial immersion in language in a way that shakes up our lifeworld. So, what are the defining features of Lacanian theory within the practice of treating patients? In other words, how does one work as a Lacanian Psychoanalyst? Schneiderman teaches us that one of the main features of Lacanian analysis is to act ‘strange and weird.’ He argues that the analyst  ‘La question est ceci. Il faut d’abord partir du texte, et en partir comme Freud le conseille lui-­ même, montre qu’il le fait, comme d’un texte sacré. L’auteur, le scribe n’était qu’un scribouillard, et il vient en second. Les commentaires des écritures ont été irrémédiablement perdus le jour où on a voulu nous faire la psychologie de Jérémie, Isaïe, voire Jésus-Christ. C’est du même ordre que ce que je suis en train de vous raconter. Quand il s’agit de nos patients, je vous demande de porter plus d’attention au texte qu’à la psychologie de l’auteur. C’est tout le sens et l’orientation de mon enseignement’ (SE, II: 250). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 17

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must not let the analysand become comfortable and must be led to actively interpret and analyse their own unconscious. He says the analyst’s work is to help the analysand see what is happening outside of himself. Consequently, one must not merely present to them a mirror image (1988, p. 33). This is an ethical practice of maintaining desire by showing the analysand the ambiguity of the signifiers that shape him. Lacan is entirely clear in Seminar VII that this is the ethical duty of the psychoanalyst (SE, VII: 319). This duty is about understanding the tragic formation of the subject between the registers of the imaginary, the symbolic and the real. It concerns how we triangulate between these registers, formulating our subjective position as Neurotic, Perverted or Psychotic.18 It is important to note that Lacan is not interested in reducing these categories into a list of symptoms as we get in the DSMV. Instead, they are depictions of a structural stance of the subject in relation to the Other of language (Fink, 1997; Loose, 2002). Thus, Lacanian analysis tackles how we cover up our true desires with a plethora of fake demands that jam up desire’s operation. For the neurotic, their fundamental relationship to the signifier entails a sense of anxiety arising from its operation on the body (SE, X: 131). As neurotics become speaking beings, they become aware of the signifier’s failure to adequately address questions of being. This means that their very existence as speaking, thinking beings entails that speech and thinking never adequately address questions of existence. In other words, language and thought never really fill a void in a person’s heart. As Lacan teaches us, the question haunting neurotic obsession is one of death (SE, III: 180). This essentially means that the neurotic becomes aware of the signifier’s tendency to never deliver what was fundamentally stripped from him at the resolution of the Oedipus complex (symbolic castration). Consequently, presenting a fundamental question of being to the master-signifier can only produce an inadequate secondary signifier unable to fill the void within the neurotic (SE, III: 179–180). What takes place in neurosis is a retreat into imaginary nostalgia as a defence against uncertainty. The neurotic becomes aware of the infinite  To explore other subjective positions beyond neurotic would require another volume of work and beyond the scope of this book. I hope to be able to continue this after this work is complete. 18

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slide of the signifier. A constant slippage causes intense pain through the signifier’s inability to answer this post-Oedipal question adequately. In response, the neurotic guards himself against this infinite desire of the Other by retreating into the activity of primary narcissism. There is a flight from the Desire-of-the-Other through a withdrawal into repetitive thought structures that torment the afflicted neurotic (Fink, 1997, pp. 112–164). This essentially means that for the neurotic, their dependency on the Other is repressed. Repression is the fundamental logic at play in the formation of the neurotic. The ethics of psychoanalysis is an ethics concerned with thwarting this imaginary defence. It continually reminds the subject that the signifier splits them and can never be whole. This entails a type of short-circuiting of the very operation of the structure of speech that brings about pain and suffering within the neurotic. The symptom of the neurotic is to seek out meaning and understanding continually. He will come to the analyst with expectations that they will give him the new knowledge or experience to alleviate the symptom of his anguish (SE, VII: 292). Consequently, from a Lacanian perspective, one can only exacerbate their suffering if one continually gives into the demand for meaning from the analysand. By giving in to their demand, the analyst can never reveal to them their position as a desiring subject in relation to the Other of language. This is why Lacan argues that one should never seek to understand the patient. He argues that understanding is precisely the mechanism by which desire is closed down (SE, VIII: 193). This might sound cruel, but that is only because our current paradigm places a great deal of emphasis on the process of understanding (see Fink, 2013). Truth is located on the side of the real as it is that which disrupts meaning rather than furnishes it. Thus, the Lacanian analyst must not be overly concerned with fleeting affects and emotions and their connection to meaning as such (Fink, 1997, p. 57). In more detail, Lacan explains that recourse to ‘affectivity’ traps analysis within the dyadic of the imaginary register. However, he qualifies this statement by saying that one should not dismiss affects wholesale and instead conceive them in their proper place in relation to the symbolic and the real. He states:

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I don’t need to do more than remind you of the confused nature of the recourse to affectivity; it reaches a point where, even when the reference is made within analysis, it always leads us toward an impasse, toward something that we feel is not the direction in which our research can really make progress. Of course, it is not a matter of denying the importance of affects. But it is important not to confuse them with the substance of that which we are seeking in the Real-Ich, beyond signifying articulation of the kind we artists of analytical speech are capable of handling. (SE, VII: 102).19 (Translated by Dennis Porter)

This is because fleeting feelings disguise one’s relationship to the real of existence and its relationship to the Law of language that shape it (SE, XIX: 177). Lacan argued that analysts are always in danger of filling in the spaces of the analysand’s discourse (E: 206). The problem of analysts rushing to create meaning has been touched upon by James Hillman, who argued that modern therapy has become overly concerned with its affective dimension and connection to meaning. He says that the practice of depth psychology has become too entangled in the problem of language to the extent that it has resorted to a pietistic retreat into a practice of psychology where the ‘inchoate sound of feeling is all’ (Hillman, 1977, p. 214). Psychoanalysis locates itself at the intersection of the affect and intellect and straddles this uncomfortable interstice. Analysis does not equate meaning with feeling to the extent that the creation of meaning must be seen in regard to the signifier rather than the signified. One cannot approach the affect without analysis of its intellectual, structural element. Lacan claims in Seminar I that psychoanalysis needs to escape the notorious opposition of the intellectus to the affectus. The affective is not some kind of ‘strange colouration’ or ‘ineffable’ depth of the subject. Moreover,  ‘Je n’ai pas besoin de faire plus que de vous rappeler le caractère confus de ces références, de ces recours à l’affectivité, c’est-à-dire au registre, à la catégorie la plus confuse, au point que, même quand c’est à l’intérieur de l’analyse que cette référence est faite, c’est toujours à quelque chose de l’ordre de l’impasse qu’elle nous mène, à quelque chose dont nous sentons que ce n’est pas la ligne dans laquelle effectivement notre recherche peut vraiment progresser. En fait, bien sûr, il ne s’agit point ici de nier l’importance des affects. Il s’agit de ne pas les confondre avec le point, la substance de ce que nous cherchons dans le Real-Ich, au-delà de cette articulation signifiante, tel que nous pouvons, nous, artistes de la parole analytique, le manipuler’ (SE, VII : 154-155). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 19

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it is impossible not to give an intellectual accounting of the affective within psychoanalytic practice. There is no ‘mythical beyond’ that precedes discursive formulation. It is only by starting from this conception can one move to facilitate the assumption of full speech. He states: By the same token, it allows us to criticise the ambiguity that always dogs us concerning the notorious opposition between the intellectual and the affective—as if the affective were a sort of colouration, a kind of ineffable quality which must be sought out in itself, independently of the eviscerated skin which the purely intellectual realisation of a subject’s relationship would consist in. This conception, which urges analysis down strange paths, is puerile. The slightest peculiar, even strange, feeling that the subject professes to in the text of the session is taken to be a spectacular success. That is what follows from this fundamental misunderstanding. The affective is not like a special density which would escape an intellectual accounting. It is not to be found in a mythical beyond of the production of the symbol which would precede the discursive formulation. Only this can allow us from the start, I won’t say to locate, but to apprehend what the full realisation of speech consists in.20 (SE, I: 57). (Translated by Bruce Fink)

This criticism of the over-emphasis on the affective is further reflected by James Hillman, where he declares that the split between the affective and the intellect is a result of us losing the language of the soul. Hillman believes this language to be associated with the old devices of rhetoric.  ‘Et je crois que, du même coup ceci nous permet de critiquer au premier plan cette sorte d’ambiguïté toujours entretenue autour de la fameuse opposition intellectuelle—affective, comme si en quelque sorte l’affectivité était une sorte de coloration, de qualité ineffable, si on peut dire, qui serait ce qui doit être cherché en lui-même, et en quelque sorte d’une façon indépendante de cette sorte de « peau vidée » que serait la réalisation purement intellectuelle d’une relation du sujet. Je crois que cette notion qui pousse l’analyse dans des voies paradoxales, singulières, est à proprement parler puérile… Sorte de connotation de succès sensationnel le moindre sentiment accusé par le sujet avec un caractère de singularité, voire d’étrangeté, dans le texte de la séance à proprement parler, est ce qui découle de ce malentendu fondamental. L’affectif n’est pas quelque chose comme une densité spéciale qui manquerait à l’élaboration intellectuelle, et un autre niveau de la production du symbole, l’ouverture, si on peut dire, du sujet à la création symbolique est quelque chose qui est dans le registre où nous le disions au début cet… qui est mythique, dans ce registre, et antérieur à la formulation discursive. Vous entendez bien ? Et ceci Seuil peut nous permettre, je ne dis pas d’emblée de situer, mais de discuter, d’appréhender ce en quoi consiste ce que j’appelle cette réalisation pleine de la parole’ (SE, I :112). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 20

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This is a language which is forceful, seductive, and convincing until pulled apart by the masculinist, non-rhetorical discursive practices of theology or science. The unconscious is a rhetoric full of pleading and complaining, a language synonymous with the symptom or the dream work (Hillman, 1977, p. 214). Although writing from the tradition of depth psychology, which is very different from Lacan’s tradition, one can immediately see that Lacan was saying something similar to Hillman: This is why an exhaustion of the defence mechanisms [ …] turns out to be the other side of unconscious mechanisms […] Periphrasis, hyperbaton, elipses, suspension, anticipation, retraction, negation, digression, and irony, these are the figures of style (Quintilian’s figurae sententimarum). Just as catachresis, litotes, antonomasia, and hypotyposis are the tropes whose names strike me as the most appropriate ones with which to label these mechanisms. Can one see here mere manners of speaking, when it is the figures themselves that are at work in the rhetoric of the discourse the analysand actually utters?21(E: 521) (Fink, 2004, p.  72) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

He wrote this in 1957  in the text The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious, which was delivered to Liberal Arts students at the Sorbonne. This is the work where Lacan expands on his theory of the subject. It represents a moment in Lacan’s work where he aligns himself firmly with the structuralist movement, demonstrating the clear value of a linguistic approach to interpreting the unconscious (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 268). At the very outset, he states that this work should be approached between ‘speech’ and ‘writing.’ The implication is that the unconscious’s rhetorical  ‘C’est là la raison pour laquelle une exhaustion des mécanismes de défense, aussi sensible que nous la fait un Fenichel dans ses problèmes de technique parce qu’il est un praticien (alors que toute sa réduction théorique des névroses ou des psychoses à des anomalies génétiques du développement libidinal est la platitude même), se manifeste, sans qu’il en rende compte ni même qu’il s’en rende compte, comme l’envers dont les mécanismes de l’inconscient serait l’endroit. La périphrase, l’hyperbate, l’ellipse, la suspension, l’anticipation, la rétractation, la dénégation, la digression, l’ironie, ce sont les figures de style (figurae sententiarum de Quintilien), comme la catachrèse, la litote, l’antonomase, l’hypotypose sont les tropes, dont les termes s’imposent à la plume comme les plus propres à étiqueter ces mécanismes. Peut-on n’y voir qu’une simple manière de dire, quand ce sont les figures mêmes qui sont en acte dans la rhétorique du discours effectivement prononcé par l’analysé ?’ (E : 521). (Seuil Edition). 21

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work locates itself between these two aspects (E: 412). In this work, Lacan also believed that reading the unconscious’s writing (in the most literal sense) was an important part of the analyst’s work. Similarly, one can say that doing analysis is like commenting and reading a text insofar as the text in question is the language of the soul. Hence, to read the unconscious, one must utilise the same strategies by which one should read a text (Fink, 2004, pp. 43, 63–105). The point here is that by listening to an analysand’s discourse and detecting these rhetorical devices through which the analysand represses their desire, the analyst can show them just how little they know about their own formation in language (Fink, 2004, pp. 43, 63–105). The analysand uses these rhetorical devices of defence to close up ambiguity and to shut down the truth of desire. They are ways of not wanting to know. I will give examples from Bruce Fink’s work Lacan to the Letter (2004) to demonstrate how, through rhetorical strategies of not knowing, an analysand’s unconscious desire reveals itself (Fink, 2004, p.  72). I will also expand upon these rhetorical strategies since they are incomplete in Fink’s work. It must be remembered that this is only one aspect of Lacan’s teaching on the methodology of Lacanian psychoanalysis. There is much more to the discipline than what the scope of this work will allow.

P  eriphrasis Periphrasis, a concept from classical rhetoric, involves using additional words to express the meaning usually conveyed by prefixes, suffixes, or verbs, among others, even when fewer words would suffice. For instance, a person might say, “I was deliberately singled out for blame for an accident,” instead of simply stating, “I was blamed for an accident.” From a psychoanalytic viewpoint, adding extraneous words might signal that there is more to the matter than meets the eye. The analyst should remember the adage, “If something can be stated, it can be articulated clearly; if it cannot be put across lucidly, it is likely nonsense.” To this, one should append that if clarity of expression is unattainable, it might suggest the unconscious is at work (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

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Hyperbaton Originally, this figure of speech involved the disruption of a phrase by the insertion of additional words. Modern usage typically refers to figures of speech rearranging the customary word order in sentences. To simplify, it is akin to how the character Yoda communicates in Star Wars. Thus, an analysand might attempt to express, ‘I do love my father’ when what they actually say is, ‘My father, love him, I do.’ The reshuffling of words infuses a different meaning compared to the initial statement (Fink, 2004, pp.  72–73). An analyst might further deconstruct the words, treating each as an individual declaration: My Father. Love him! (A command) I do. (Complying with the command)

In this interpretation, the father emerges as an authoritative figure demanding universal love, to which the subject dutifully conforms. The critical insight is that another narrative is evident in the array of signifiers presented in the analysand’s discourse. The analyst’s role is merely to expose the contours of this embedded narrative within the analysand’s speech.

Prolepsis, or Rhetorical Anticipation In classical rhetorical training, this is where someone gives possible objections to something they have just said. It allows the subject to answer objections before anyone actually raises them. This would be a standard defensive device used in analysis. One can imagine an analysand telling the analyst something they unconsciously assume is worthy of condemnation. The analysand anticipates what they think is the analyst’s judgement. They defend themselves from a judgment they, in essence, have made upon themselves (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73). It would be a mistake to be drawn into an imaginary dyadic by attempting to defend against such accusations. Preferably, the questions that should be raised here are as follows:

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1. Who do they envision as the one meting out condemnation? 2. Why have they imagined the analyst responding in such a manner? 3. What sort of knowledge are they attributing to the analyst? 4. What position is the analyst playing in this scenario? 5. Have there been other patterns of speech like this in an earlier analysis?

S  uspension This mechanism deflects the analyst’s focus by introducing an entirely different subject. If an analysand declares their intent to discuss something important but barely addresses it or avoids it entirely during the session, the analyst should pay attention (Fink, 2004, pp.  72–73). Sensitivity is needed here because although it is most certainly an unconscious defence, it could also bring up interesting material for analysis. Hence, an analyst should not necessarily stop the analysand from speaking in order to bring them back to their diversion. Instead, one should take note and bring it up when there is a lack of material being produced. It is important to remember that although it is the analyst’s job to get the analysand to talk, it is also vital not to get them talking about things that ultimately hinder analysis. In other words, free association is where the unconscious resides, not in forced association.

C  atachresis Fink illustrates this concept using the example of a mixed metaphor. This is where someone blends two familiar idioms. For instance, if someone refers to ‘beating around the issue.’ The two idioms combined here are ‘skirting around the issue’ and ‘beating around the bush.’ This might imply that an alternate line of thought intrudes on the analysand’s present thought process. By echoing this mixed metaphor back to the analysand, the analyst can underscore that something has been circumvented (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

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Litotes Litotes are known as understatements. According to Fink, they are continuously used by analysands in sessions and are usually preceded by a short pause. So, if an analysand is about to say, ‘I really lust after my best friend’s wife,’ but instead says, ‘I don’t find her unattractive,’ then the double negative and the short pause suggest something is going unsaid. The implication is that a thought has been suppressed because it has negative connotations. The analyst can highlight this by asking why they used a double negative to express such a statement (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Ellipses Fink describes that an ellipsis occurs when part of a phrase or a description has been omitted to achieve a more compact statement. In the context of analysis, this is used by an analysand to circumvent a thought that might otherwise be too revealing. For example, Fink gives the case of when an analysand of his, the director of a company, described that most of his actions at work were designed to avoid being controlled by fools. However, instead of saying this, he said, ‘avoid control by fools.’ The analysis of the statement revealed he was condemning himself as a fool since he was the one who was in control of the company (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Antonomasia This is a type of metonymy where a phrase takes the place of a proper name. The switch from this phrase to using a proper name usually indicates something is being unsaid. For instance, just say an analysand calls her partner a derogatory pet name like ‘the idiot’ but then switches to calling him by his proper name, the analyst must not discount this switch as if both terms are equivalent and can stand in for each other. Moreover, what is the significance of this phrase in the context of the analysand’s life? Who else does she refer to through this substitute for a name? As a

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personal example, I could always tell that my father was angry with someone if he referred to them as ‘the other fella.’ If he used this term, I knew he was so angry with them that he did not want to use their name (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

D  igression Fink states that digression is used a lot in the clinic. My analyst made me aware of this even within my own analysis. This is like a smooth, sneaky version of suspension. It is where one attempts to change the subject as smoothly as possible. In analytic terms, it trades one chain of signifiers for another rather than suddenly breaking the chain. I was skilled at moving from one train of thought to another while trying to keep the joining seams of the thought as smooth as possible. Ultimately, it is a way of talking while not saying anything insofar as you avoid speaking about anything worthwhile. It is crucial that a good analyst can distinguish from linguistic digressions the trains of thought that are important for analysis (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

R  etraction This is where an analysand makes a statement only then to retract it immediately. Fink gives the example of an analysand saying, ‘my mother sorely neglected me,’ only then to follow the statement with, ‘but I am sure she was doing the best a mother could.’ An analyst should not let a retraction negate the power of an initial statement. An analyst should always take the mistake more seriously than the following correction (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

N  egation Negation is a grammatical device that aims to contradict or negate a statement or word’s meaning (all or part). Usually, this can happen after a statement is given in analysis:

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My Father asked if I liked the new coffee he bought. I told him I do not *pause* ‘Love my dad! He always buys me new things when I see him.

At first glance, it looks like two separate statements; however, if the analyst negates the full stop between the statements, one can see that there is a hidden negation: ‘My father asked me if I liked the new coffee he bought, I told him I do not love my dad.’ The analyst needs to be aware of these hidden negations. This can be seen as a more subtle version of litotes (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73). Another form of negation in classical rhetoric is apophasis; again, this is where one unsays something. So, it would be utilised in statements such as ‘look, I am not saying X, Y or Z, but……’

Hypotyposis This is a moment in analysis where a preceding description of an event suddenly becomes present. So, an analysand could be describing something painful in the past and attempts to conclude the description with, ‘it was very painful for me,’ but instead says, ‘it is very painful for me.’ In this example, this slip reveals that the event is still happening and has not reached a conclusion for the analysand (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Irony This is an exemplary linguistic device of unknowing. This is where irony disguises the truth of a statement. For example, an analyst could say, ‘of course, I hate my father! Freud says we all do, right?’ In this statement, one can see that irony can be used as a front to repress the importance of linguistic expressions (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73). Thus, the analyst should not let the analysand off the hook with such statements and press them to continue their thoughts on this matter.

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S  lip (Parapraxis) There is, of course, the classic Freudian slip. All of the above can be considered a form of parapraxis, but it is important to note that sometimes its manifestation goes beyond these rhetorical devices. Moreover, the point of listening out for parapraxis is about listening for the strangeness and uncanny in discourse above all else. It is about listening to how things are said and having a good memory for patterns of speech. For example, from my own treatment, I once said, ‘God is good’ in reference to what I had been taught by my late spiritual director, who had recently passed away. I was talking about how he had taught me the very foundation of my theological training and how I held him in high esteem. However, while saying, ‘God is good,’ I pulled off a gold ring my parents bought for me as a gift and placed it in my pocket. I later became aware of this unconscious action within the session when thinking about it afterwards. Essentially, I was saying, ‘my God is gold’ while placing the ring in my pocket as if I was ashamed.’ I became horrified at what was basically a revelation about how I approached my profession. Moreover, it was not something as basic as a concern with earning money. Instead, it was an unconscious comment on how I earn a living through my work as a religious education teacher and my sense that something about the value of God in my life had been lost through this process. As time passed, it became apparent that this reflected my basic psychological structure as a neurotic. The basic premise, as we have outlined above, is that there is mourning for something that has been lost. What is important to note here is how the truth of my psychological structure was revealed within the analytic session. There was a slippage of the affect onto another signifier through metaphor and metonymy: God→Gold  =  Go(l)d.22 Through this confrontation with what Lacan would call a master signifier, through its presentation of a symptom (my tendency to fidget with coins and jewellery in this instance), I could examine my relationship to the production of signifiers within the  This is my own interpretation, not my analysts. Important to note that the space of reflection after and during is a proper part of the analytic process by which one comes to and makes interpretation. The analyst intervenes, and usually with their own unconscious at times. This is the imperative of the third point in the analytic situation or setting; the symbolic. 22

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economy of my psyche. Furthermore, I could examine how ‘religion’ and ‘career’ as libidinally invested concepts came into conflict with each other due to my profession as a teacher. However, how my analyst helped me discover this self-truth was novel. During one session, at the very moment, I revealed the conflict between my work and faith—a topic which I had been speaking about for a long time prior to this in a sort of mindless way—the session ended earlier than expected, or at least I thought it did. Now, this might not actually be reflective of the reality of my experience—there is some doubt on my behalf that the session ended early in my mind—but in Lacanian practice, there is a method that is controversially known as Scansion (Fink, 2011, pp. 47–57). Lacan believed that the set time in the Freudian analytic session often hindered progress in analysis. He argued that the set session meant that the analysand could feel secure to engage in empty talk and so create resistance to the analyst. Lacan argued that if the threat of ending the session was always looming, then the analyst would not waste time with material that was not significant. Lacan also argued that the method of scansion should not be merely ‘punitive.’ Instead, he suggested an analyst should sometimes end the session when something particularly noteworthy has been said. He argued that this action would help the analyst to engage in analysis and interpretation themselves (Fink, 2011, pp.  47–57). In my own example, by ostensibly cutting the analysis short, it was clear what had occurred to me. They allowed me to go away and think about why they ended the session. Instead of giving me a direct interpretation, I was offered the space to interpret what was said. The most striking and most fundamental element of Lacanian practice is to be found in the training of the analyst, who is trained to listen carefully to how the analysand is using language. Fink explains that this training is challenging as our normal process of listening is to try to find the meaning behind what is being said over and against trying to detect the structural position that gives rise to the very process of meaning-making within the analysand (2011, pp. 1–23). The analyst’s work is to reveal the analysand’s structural position in language by highlighting slips of the tongue, repeated phrases, the return of certain signifiers, etc. It is also to understand that recourse to an overt focus on experience is usually used as a defensive strategy to hide our own desires, which we know of but do not want to know much about.

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As a neurotic with obsessive and hysterical tendencies, I tend to intellectualise and rationalise to create a distance from the ambiguous desire of the Other, which I interrogate abstractly. This explains my propensity to hyperfixate on projects. Even within an analysis, I used to explain my own symptoms. The structure was one of linguistic mastery. Against this perspective of linguistic mastery, it must always be remembered that language, as far as it is the Desire-of-the-Other, always performs us, and the neurotic always wishes to understand himself as the master. One can perceive this in the obsessional’s tendency to think that their rituals actually protect people: ‘If I do not do X, Y or Z, something bad will happen to so and so.’ The analyst’s work is about holding up a mirror, metaphorically speaking, so the analysand can catch glimpses of this attempt at self-mastery. At this point in my work, I want to demonstrate how this mode of practice is inherently spiritual. It will challenge the current tendency to equate spirituality with emotional and experiential certainty. I have stated that pre-modern forms of spirituality were radical discourses of uncertainty akin to Lacan’s conception of psychoanalysis that challenged the discursive theological formulations at the time. I will show how Lacan was aware of this by closely reading a paragraph in one of Lacan’s key texts, where he directly references the connection between his formulation of psychoanalysis and pre-modern forms of spiritual direction. The main point of the following section is to demonstrate how Lacan believed that the methodologies of pre-modern forms of spiritual direction were concerned directly with suspending certainty in the subject to open up a radical desire within them.

Summary This chapter has served to outline some of the context of Lacan’s Life. It then gave an outline of the main theoretical and philosophical foundations of his theory of psychoanalysis. After this, I mapped out the general practice of psychoanalysis and its linguistic focus within a clinical setting. The following chapter will focus on relating this to the practice of spiritual direction.

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References Baruzi, J. (1924). Saint Jean de La Croix et el Problème de l’Expérience Mystique. Felix Alcan. Bennett, J. (1984). A Study of Spinoza’s ‘Ethics.’ CUP Archive. Carrette, J., & King, R. (2004). Selling Spirituality: The Silent Takeover of Religion. Routledge. Chiesa, L. (2007). Subjectivity and Otherness. MIT Press. Chiesa, L. (2016). The Not-Two: Logic and God in Lacan. MIT Press. Evans, D. (1996). An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis, 2nd edn. Routledge, East Sussex. Eyers, T. (2012). Lacan and the Concept of the Real. Palgrave Macmillan. Fink, B. (1997). A Clinical Introduction to Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Theory and Technique. Harvard University Press. Fink, B. (2004). Lacan to the Letter: Reading Écrits Closely. University of Minnesota Press. Fink, B. (2011). Fundamentals of Psychoanalytic Technique: A Lacanian Approach for Practitioners. W. W. Norton & Company. Fink, B. (2013). Against Understanding, Volume 2: Cases and Commentary in a Lacanian Key. Routledge. Hall, G., Hivernel, F., & Morgan, S. (2009). Theory and Practice in Child Psychoanalysis: An Introduction to the Work of Françoise Dolto. Karnac Books. Harari, R. (2013). Lacan’s Seminar On Anxiety: An Introduction. Other Press, LLC. Hillman, J. (1977). Re-Visioning Psychology. HarperCollins. James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature. Longmans, Green and Co. Lacan, J. (1953). Écrits techniques de Freud Séminaire I 1953–1954. l’Association freudienne internationale, Paris. Lacan, J. (1955). Le Moi dans la théorie de Freud et dans la technique de la psychanalyse Séminaire II 1954–1955 (1st ed.). l’Association freudienne internationale. Lacan, J. (1957). La relation d’objet et les structures freudiennes Seminare IV 1956–1957 (1st ed.). l’Association freudienne internationale. Lacan, J. (1960). L’éthique de la psychanalyse Séminaire VII 1959–1960. l’Association Freudienne Internationale.

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Lacan, J. (1961). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Transference. 1960–1961, Seminar VIII. [online] Translated by C. Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1962). L’angoisse Séminaire X 1962–1963. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1966). Écrits. Du Seuil. Lacan, J. (1969). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Other Side of Psychoanalysis. 1969–1970. Seminar XVII., 1st edn. Lacan in Ireland, Ireland. Lacan, J. (1971). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan….Ou Pire/…or Worse. 1971–1972. Seminar XIX. (Part 1). [online] Translated by C.  Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1988a). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book I: Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (J. Forrester, Trans.). W.W Norton. Lacan, J. (1988b). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book II: The Ego in Freud’s Theory and in the Technique of Psychoanalysis 1954–1955 (S.  Tomaselli, Trans.). W.W Norton. Lacan, J. (1993). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book III The Psychoses 1955–1956 (R. Grigg, Trans.). Routledge. Lacan, J. (1994). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan Book IV: The Object Relation and Freudian Structures 1956–1957 (L. Roche, Trans.). Unpublished Manuscript. Lacan, J. (1998). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI) (1st ed.). W.W. Norton. Lacan, J. (2006). Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (B. Fink, Trans.). W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Lacan, J. (2007). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis 1959–1960 (D. Porter, Trans.). : Routledge. Lacan, J. (2011). Overture to the First International Encounter of the Freudian Field (A. Price, Trans.). Hurly Burly, 6, 17–20. Lacan, J. (2014). Anxiety: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan (Seminar X) (A. Price, Trans.). Wiley. Leader, D. (2011). What Is Madness? Hamish Hamilton. Lemaire, A. (2014). Jacques Lacan. Routledge. Lindbeck, G. (1984). The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a post-­ liberal age. John Knox Press. Loose, R. (2002). The Subject of Addiction: Psychoanalysis and The Administration of Enjoyment. Karnac Books. Nadler, S. (2006). Spinoza’s ‘Ethics’: An Introduction. Cambridge University Press.

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Nobus, D. (2000). Jacques Lacan and the Freudian Practice of Psychoanalysis. Brunner-Routledge. Parker, I. (2011). Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Revolutions in Subjectivity. Routledge. Pound, M. (2007). Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma. SCM Press. Pound, M. (2012). In G. Flynn & P. D. Murray (Eds.), Lacan’s Return to Freud: A Case of Theological Ressourcement? (pp. 440–456). Oxford University Press. Roudinesco, E. (1997). Jacques Lacan, 1st edn. Polity Press, Cambridge. Roudinesco, E. (1999). Jacques Lacan: Outline of a Life, History of a System of Thought: An Outline of a Life and History of a System of Thought. Polity Press. Schneiderman, S. (1988). Affects. [Online Journal] The Symptom. Retrieved January 30, 2018, from http://www.lacan.com/symptom6_articles/schneiderman.html Stein, S. E. (2002). The Science of the Cross: The Collected Works of Edith Stein (Vol. 6). ICS Publications. Tyler, P. (2011). The Return to the Mystical: Ludwig Wittgenstein, Teresa of Avila, and the Christian Mystical Tradition. Continuum. Žižek, S. (2009). The Sublime Object of Ideology. Verso. Žižek, S. (2011). How to Read Lacan. Granta Books.

5 Lacan and Spiritual Direction

L acan and Spiritual Direction: Between Speech and Writing The Mirage of a Spiritual Director in Lacan’s Work Lacan and the explicit connection to spiritual direction in modern scholarship starts with a strange misrecognition, a mirage of a monk in the desert. A number of scholars have said that Lacan argued that the work of the analyst is much ‘like that solitary being [a monk] who in past times ventured into the desert’ (Roazen, 2001, p. 328; Parker, 2011, p. 158; Pound, 2007, p. 24). However, this is a misunderstanding as the statement is actually made by Lacan’s student Michel De Certeau who is comparing the work of the monk with the figure of the artist. This is taken from a quote given by Lacan in a paper from his Autre Écrit entitled Hommage fait à Marguerite Duras (De Certeau, 1986, pp. 53–54). In this paper, Lacan says that Freud reminds us that in his work, the artist always precedes him:

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_5

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It is to remember with Freud, that in [this] matter, the artist always precedes him and that he does not have to do psychology where the artist [shows] the way.1 (Lacan, 2001, pp. 192–193) (My modified translation)

De Certeau says that the artist’s work paving the way for the psychologist is akin to the monk in the desert who ventures into the desert before others. Obviously, this could simply be interpreted as a mistake (the mistake comes from misreading de Certeau’s idiosyncratic use of quotation marks), but we can also read this misrecognition as a symptom; what is at stake is a truth of desire. Where did the desire to see Lacan as a monk in the desert stem from? From a particular perspective, the monk’s vision in the desert represents a certain deficit in tackling the issue of spirituality regarding the work of Lacan. As I have shown, Lacan is perceived as relating to a certain systematic theological overemphasis, while his relevance for spiritual direction and pastoral theology is somewhat neglected. In a way, the vision of the monk is a symptom, the return of the repressed, the phantasm of something which should be. It represents the missed encounter of a pastoral theological reception of Lacan. I will argue that we can detect the repressed symptom of Juanist mystical theology and spiritual direction throughout Lacan’s work. For my argument, Lacanian-Juanist spiritual direction is the antagonistic theo-poetic element of a practice of speech and listening that lies at the core of Lacanian clinical practice.

Performative Texts As I have shown, John was a Carmelite Friar and also an artist-poet of desirative desolation who combined artistic poetry with theological prose in his teachings. Moreover, one can argue that Lacan did the same with

 ‘C’est de se rappeler avec Freud qu’en [ce] matière, l’artiste toujours le précède et qu’il n’a donc pas à faire le psychologue là où l’artiste lui fraie la voie’ (Lacan, 2001, pp. 192–193). 1

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his unorthodox teaching (De Certeau, 1995, pp.  6–9).2 However, one cannot separate his performative discourse from the pedagogical method by which Lacan transmitted his teachings. This refers to how his text changes, intervenes, and shakes up a reader’s worldview rather than merely just transmitting knowledge. The most well-known Lacanian scholar Slavoj Žižek claims that to understand Lacan’s writings, one must conceive them as being performative pedagogical texts. Žižek notes that—leaving aside his short texts—the body of his work can be separated into two categories. The first are his seminars which Lacan conducted to a growing public audience every week from the 1950s until his death. The second are the Écrits which are his theoretical texts. Žižek suggests Lacan developed his ideas through these performative seminars, formulated in his Écrits as compressed cyphers (2011, p. 128). So, Lacan’s writings are split between his exact formulations found in the Écrits and the free-flowing language of the seminars. It is important to highlight here that psychoanalysis is a performative practice predicated on first listening and speaking. The transformation to the written presentation of the seminar and Écrits come after this fact. Lacan blended listening, speaking, and writing in his practice along with his teaching. Žižek states that Lacan acts as the analysand in the free-flowing discourse of the seminars. He further argues that Lacan skips, jumps, and improvises while addressing his public in these seminars, which functions as the collective analyst. Moreover, the Écrits are akin to the analyst’s interventions. They are dense, oracular, and ultimately designed to put the analysand, which is the reader in this case, to work by not providing a ready-made, easy-to-­ swallow, fully formulated idea. Between these two aspects of Lacan’s work  Michel De Certeau has also argued that mystical theology and psychoanalysis have many aspects in common concerning how they both challenged and subverted the prevailing discourses out of which they emerged (De Certeau, 1995, pp. 6–9). One cannot think of the work of Lacan apart from the turbulent context which contributed to forming his ideas. Lacan was a renegade who fought against the established discourse of the International Psychoanalytic Association. In much of his writings, he sees this institution and the Freudian traditions within it as the subject of his polemic. There are points within his writings where he refers to the International Psychoanalytic Association as a Church, and his position is much like a radical theologian, like John, who has challenged its teachings (SE, XI:2–3). De Certeau also makes the salient point that this radical intervention, or break, is not merely found in the content of Lacan’s teachings; instead, it is found in the very form; in its pedagogical methods (De Certeau, 1995, pp. 6–9). 2

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are the theoretical foundations of analytic training (2011, p. 128). So, through this analytic training, the analyst is trained to listen to the poetry of the unconscious in the prose of everyday speech. Reflecting on this, De Certeau explains that this training is to help the analyst listen to the ‘murmurs and games of language.’ It is to train oneself to become sensitive to the ‘hidden poetic which is present in every discourse.’ These are voices that become lost when one becomes too focused on pragmatics. He tells us that to the trained ear, one becomes sensitive to the ‘dance of signifiers’ within the unconscious as they become ‘loosened from the signified’ and multiply in the ‘gaps of meaning.’ Thus, the analyst’s work is locating these dancing signifiers through analytic discourse (1986, p. 53). This split between the condensed cyphers of Lacan’s Écrits and the exposition and exploration we find in his seminars are remarkably similar to the pedagogical style of John of the Cross, whose writings can be split between poetry and prose, which, again, cannot be separated from their mode of speech. Like Lacan’s seminars, McGinn notes that John’s prose was an outgrowth of pastoral practice. For example, John shared his poems in prison with fellow monks and nuns. He did this when serving in the convent of Beas when he worked as a spiritual director and confessor. Moreover, it was from these nuns’ asking questions about his poems that he began writing his theoretical texts. This eventually became The Ascent of Mount Carmel (2017, p. 236). Thus, Lacan and John’s theoretical work is a direct outgrowth of their pastoral work: Lacan, an analyst, and John, a spiritual director. It is possible to suggest that the mystical performative aspect of Lacan’s work was partly influenced by the work of Jean Baruzi, who introduced Lacan to the writings of John of the Cross at a very young age (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 11). Lacan would have possibly noticed this split between prose and poetry in the work of John and valued its formative pedagogical power. Moreover, his training as an analyst would have allowed him to understand John’s writings regarding speech, listening, reading and writing. This is corroborated by the fact that Lacan states in Seminar XX, which I will give a reading of later, that one should locate his Écrits in the same order as the poems of John of the Cross (SE, XX: 76). interestingly, he does not include his seminars in this statement. The implication is that if the poetic element of John is to be associated with the Écrits, then his

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explanatory seminars are associated with John’s prose. Again, these are not two separate things as John’s prose is an exposition of his poetry, but his poetry also antagonises the tendency to totalise his work. It is essential to understand that the mystical, in this sense, is not some sort of extranoetic substance beyond the text. Rather, as I have demonstrated, these were performative texts created to disturb the linguistic fabric of a directees life-world in their dual manifestation as speech and writing.3 I argue that Lacan was aware of Juanist spiritual direction and its performative-­textual presence in his own discourse. However, like his appropriation of the surrealists, Lacan could only present this mystical element obliquely to an audience that was suspicious of anything associated with something as archaic as mystical theology and spiritual direction. In the unpublished The Knowledge of the Psychoanalyst—which is Seminar XIX—he makes fun of the audience for being a bit sniffy about the writings of the mystics and their focus on what he calls non-knowledge. He then tells them that they are only interested in the mystical because the writings of Bataille have made them fashionable. Lacan then tells the audience that his conception of truth, as it functions in psychoanalysis, is to be directly associated with the function of non-knowledge as it is found in the writings of the mystics (SE, XIX: 13–43). Lacan directly tells the audience that his writings are connected to theologia mistica insofar as non-knowledge is inherently linked to the mystical

 As a side note, apophasis is by definition a classical rhetorical technique, also known as paralipsis. To remind readers, in classical rhetoric, this involves denying something while at the same time affirming or alluding to it. It is a form of irony that is often used to draw attention to a sensitive or taboo topic without explicitly mentioning it. In other words, it is a way of talking about something by saying that you won’t talk about it. Moreover, and again, as we have already shown, it is also the core of mysticism stemming back from pseudo-Dionysus. As we know, the unconscious is made up of rhetoric—or rather rhetorical statements in analysis signal the unconscious—according to Lacan in the Écrits. He states, “Can one see here mere manners of speaking, when it is the figures themselves that are at work in the rhetoric of the discourse the analysand actually utters?” (E: 433). These mechanisms involve the use of familiar rhetorical devices and can be seen as linguistic subtleties, which can convey important information (see Fink, 2004, p. 72). It follows that the unconscious is ‘mystical’ not by reference to its depth but because it is a poetical grammar that apophatically erupts into our everyday speech as a form of rhetoric. 3

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concept of unknowing.4 As pointed out earlier, even as early as Seminar I, he states that everyone has read John of the Cross, but nobody understands him. He then implies that the goal of psychoanalysis is akin to that of the Dark Night of the Soul (SE, I: 232–234). He further states in Seminar XIV that the Dark Night is important because it teaches us about the contradictions, messiness, and deadlocks one faces in an analysand’s discourse. Finally, he states that precisely this contradictory, messy performative discourse makes these mystics ‘less stupid’ than philosophers (SE, XIV: 195).

 Lacan’s interest in the mystical can also be found in his referencing Nicholas of Cusa in his seminar, The Knowledge of the Psychoanalyst: (SE XIX: 12): 4

It is a way of establishing it, making it an established knowledge. For example, when one wanted to be a doctor in a time that, of course, was the end of an era, it is normal to have wanted to benefit from, show, and manifest a consolidated ignorance, if I may say so. That being said, after what I have just told you about ignorance, you will not be surprised that I point out that the “learned ignorance,” as expressed by a certain cardinal at a time when this title was not a certificate of ignorance, a certain cardinal called the highest knowledge “learned ignorance.” It was Nicolas de Cues, to remind you in passing. Therefore, the correlation between ignorance and knowledge is something that we must essentially start with and see that after all, if ignorance, in a certain moment, in a certain zone, brings knowledge to its lowest level, it is not the fault of ignorance, it is even the opposite.” Nicholas of Cusa was a fifteenth-century German philosopher, theologian, and astronomer known for his contributions to philosophy, mathematics, and science and his work in the history of Christian mysticism. The works of Pseudo-Dionysius heavily influenced him. In particular, Nicholas of Cusa was interested in Pseudo-Dionysius’ concept of the “Divine Darkness,” which emphasized that God is ultimately unknowable to humans and that pursuing knowledge about God involves a journey into darkness and mystery. This idea is reflected in Nicholas of Cusa’s own works, which often explore the limits of human knowledge and the relationship between reason and faith via the concept of ignorance. In this quote from his seminar “The Knowledge of Psychoanalysis,” Lacan explores the relationship between ignorance and knowledge. He notes that in the past, people seeking to establish themselves as authorities or experts in a particular field often displayed a certain level of ignorance to demonstrate their expertise. For example, aspiring doctors would sometimes display their ignorance of certain topics to demonstrate their knowledge of other areas. However, Lacan explains that this “learned ignorance” is not necessarily negative and sometimes can benefit acquiring knowledge. In his exploration of the relationship between ignorance and knowledge, Lacan’s concept of “learned ignorance” can be seen as a reflection of Nicholas of Cusa’s interest in the limits of human knowledge and the pursuit of knowledge into the unknown. Lacan uses this concept as a psychoanalyst in creating the analyst’s position, emphasizing the importance of acknowledging one’s own ignorance in the face of a patient’s unconscious desires. Rather than claiming all the answers, the analyst should approach the patient’s unconscious with curiosity and openness by suspending one’s knowing.

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So, just as it would be a mistake to separate John’s writings from the performative work of spiritual direction, so we must not separate Lacan’s seminars and Écrits from their performative clinical nature. Just as Tyler argues that we should not narrowly approach the work of John, it would also be misguided to approach Lacan’s writings as dry academic texts that merely convey the teachings of Freud. Instead, one should argue that Lacan believed the preservation of the Freudian method lay in a radical pedagogical transmission of his theories. Thus—arguably—Lacan’s writings are split between the analysand discourse (his seminars), where the reader and audience are treated as the analyst. In contrast, his Écrits are treated as the analyst’s discourse that intervenes and shakes up our reception of Lacan.5 To summarise—and for the purpose of my argument— John and Lacan’s work should be understood as operating between speech and writing (E: 231). Juanist spiritual direction is a practice of listening and speaking, while its mystical theology is a form of reading and writing. Both operate to disturb the institutional norms and worldviews and cannot be fully separated. Likewise, Lacan’s work is located between the formative power of listening and speech in the psychoanalytic act while supplemented by writing and reading. I will come back to an extended exposition of John’s influence on Lacan via Baruzi later, but for now, I wish to explore the texts where Lacan mentions spiritual direction directly.

Lacan’s Writing on Spiritual Direction Lacan seems to mention the importance of spiritual direction as a practice separate from mystical theology in three separate writings in his Écrits and Autres Écrits: 1. In the appendix of The Situation of Psychoanalysis and the Training of Psychoanalysts, which was a talk given in 1956  in PommersfeldenGuitrancourt.  The term analysand refers to Lacan’s name for the patient. He used this term to make sure that the patient is not understood as being a mere passive recipient of treatment. In other words, the term highlights the importance of approaching a patient as a subject and not merely an object (see Fink, 1997). 5

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2. Psychoanalysis and Its Teaching: a talk given at the French Philosophical Society during the session held on February 23, 1957. 3. The Direction of the Treatment and the Principles of its Power which was a report to the Colloque de Royaumont on July 10–13, 1958. In Fink’s English translation of the 1956 text, Lacan seemed to suggest that psychoanalysis was heading in a spiritual direction (as in heading toward an erroneous spiritual place). In 1957, he seemed to suggest that psychoanalysis is similar to the discipline of spiritual direction due to its methods. Whereas in 1958, he contradicted this by claiming that spiritual direction is the antithesis of psychoanalysis in terms of analysis not being reducible to moral guidance. For the purposes of my argument, I will briefly expound points 1 and 3 as not being representative of a true engagement of the concept of spiritual direction due to mistranslation. I will then analyse point 2 as it is Lacan’s most relevant exposition on the place of spiritual direction in the practice of psychoanalysis. The quotes are located in the mid to late 1950s, so they are generally understood as being in the symbolic era of his teaching. In other words, they focus on the primacy of language rather than the real. Following Eyer’s argument, I claim that all three elements of his teaching (imaginary, real, and symbolic) are latent at all points in his work (Eyers, 2012, pp. 1–3). Moreover, my method of reading Lacan here is one that is psychoanalytic in nature. This means that Delphic, dense statements untangle when read in the light of later or earlier statements articulated by Lacan. I do this because Lacan regularly returns to his teachings and ideas in later seminars and writings rather than leaving them behind.

 piritual Direction in The Situation of Psychoanalysis S and the Training of Psychoanalysts In the appendix of The Situation of Psychoanalysis and the Training of Psychoanalysts, which was given in 1956 at Pommersfelden-Guitrancourt, he states the following about spiritual direction:

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We find here the point at which psychoanalysis is deflected toward a form of behaviourism, which is ever more dominant in psychoanalysis’ ‘current tendencies.’ This movement is supported, as we see, by sociological conditions that go far beyond analytic knowledge as such. What one cannot fail to say here is that Freud, in foreseeing this collusion with behaviorism, denounced it in advance as diametrically opposed to his pathway. Whatever the outcome must be of the odd spiritual direction in which psychoanalysis thus seems to be heading, its promoters must retain full responsibility for the subjects they take into their charge.6 (E: 410–411) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

In the context of this quote, Lacan is bemoaning the place where psychoanalysis is heading concerning its obedience to principles of ego psychology and behaviourism (E: 408–411). He speaks about spiritual direction in the negative insofar as it is a place where he does not want psychoanalysis to head. Fink has translated this as, ‘odd spiritual direction.’ However, in the French text, Lacan says ‘singulière régie spirituelle.’ This should be translated as singular spiritual rule. Although the term singular does have connotations of ‘oddness,’ the term régie has connotations of being governed rather than a direction one is heading toward. I assume Fink is working on the premise that in saying ‘spiritual rule,’ Lacan is referencing the monastic tradition, and so—Fink believes—is the same as saying ‘direction spirituelle.’ However, although spiritual direction is attached to a monastic Rule, it is not reducible to it.7 Lacan argued that the endless stipulations and rules created to preserve Freud’s method were

 ‘On trouve là le joint par où la psychanalyse s’infléchit vers un behaviourisme, toujours plus dominant dans ses « tendances actuelles.” Ce mouvement est supporté, on le voit, par des conditions sociologiques qui débordent la connaissance analytique comme telle. Ce qu’on ne peut manquer de dire ici, c’est que Freud, en prévoyant nommément cette collusion avec le behaviourisme, l’a dénoncée à l’avance comme la plus contraire à sa voie Quelle que doive être pour l’analyse l’issue de la singulière régie spirituelle où elle paraît ainsi s’engager, la responsabilité de ses tenants reste entière à l’endroit des sujets dont ils prennent la charge.’ (E : 490). 7  The history of monastic rules dates back to when ascetics—the desert fathers and mothers—began to retreat to the wilderness to live a life of contemplation. As monasticism grew, communities of Religious began to develop their own rules and regulations to guide their lives of prayer and service. One of the most influential monastic rules is the Rule of Saint Benedict, written in the sixth century, which became the basis for Western monasticism. 6

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destroying the teaching at the heart of Freud’s writings.8 Furthermore, this quote was part of a series of conversations and talks about the direction and training of analysts along with the status of knowledge. Lacan was polemical toward what he thinks is the reduction of analysis to the perpetuation of the dyadic imaginary register.

Spiritual Direction in The Direction of the Treatment On the other hand, in The Direction of the Treatment and the Principles of its Power: A Report to the Colloque de Royaumont 10–13 July 1958, Lacan seems to state the following: Certainly, the psychoanalyst directs the treatment. The first principle of this treatment, the one that is spelt out to him before all else, and which he meets with throughout his training, to the extent that he becomes utterly imbued with it, is that he must not direct the patient. Spiritual direction, in the sense of the moral guidance that a Catholic might find in it, is radically excluded here. If psychoanalysis poses problems for moral theology, they are not those of spiritual direction, speaking of which I would add that spiritual direction itself poses some [for moral theology]. The direction

 For an excellent piece of work focusing Lacan’s complicated relationship to monastic thought, I recommend the work of Padusniak C (2022) ‘Jacques Lacan’s Benedict Option.’ In this piece Padusniak explores how key medieval texts and figures, including Peter Abelard and Bernard of Clairvaux, were influential to Lacan. He states how Catholicism as such was important in Lacan’s reflections: 8

Late in his life Lacan gave an interview in Rome, in which he claimed that “the Roman religion is the true one … There is one true religion and that is the Christian religion. By this comment, he meant that Christianity could best help people find meaning as science further explored the world, that is, de-natured nature (ironically, it seems that he felt it could attribute meaning precisely because of its consciousness of lack). Such an understanding cannot be the one found in his doctoral dedication; neither can this “religion” be psychoanalysis itself, which, when asked if it would become a religion, Lacan jeered, “Psychoanalysis? No. At least I hope not.” Instead, the fraternal religion of which the Parisian psychoanalyst speaks is, I contend, the religion that recognizes the Unconsciousness of God in contemporary society. (2022)

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of the treatment is something quite different [from spiritual direction as moral guidance].9 (Lacan, 1958, pp. 1–2) (Translated by Cormac Gallagher)

Firstly, as in Bruce Fink’s translation, Lacan does not say ‘spiritual direction.’ He says, ‘direction of conscience.’ Cormac Gallagher has decided to interpret this as spiritual direction. Hence, the connotation is to position spiritual direction (as mere moral guidance) as being the antithesis of psychoanalysis. He posits that psychoanalysis does not direct the person concerning directing their conscience. Instead, it directs the course of treatment by creating the conditions for the possibility of transference. It is noteworthy that during an interview given in 1957, Lacan talks of the relationship of Confession and its related discipline, the direction of conscience, to psychoanalysis. The interviewer asks Lacan whether these disciplines are similar to psychoanalysis. It is important to note here that they are most certainly speaking about Confession in this context. Lacan articulates that although they are two very different disciplines, the director of conscience can benefit from learning something from psychoanalysis. He argues that this is because they are both concerned with truth. Moreover, he claims that both the confessor and the analyst know that repressing truth can lead to devastating consequences. Lacan also suggests that a good confessor intuitively understands that prohibition can worsen spiritual problems. He also suggests that a skilled confessor can circumvent this issue. Finally, Lacan goes on to say that both the analyst and the confessor both encounter the difficulty of the obsessional and that giving in to their demands is precisely what one should not do in either discipline (Lacan, 2011).10  ‘Le psychanalyste assurément dirige la cure. Le premier principe, de cette cure, celui qu’on lui épelle d’abord, qu’il retrouve partout dans sa formation au point qu’il s’en imprègne, c’est qu’il ne doit point diriger le patient. La direction de conscience, au sens du guide moral qu’un fidèle du catholicisme peut y trouver, est ici exclue radicalement. Si la psychanalyse pose des problèmes à la théologie morale, ce ne sont pas ceux de la direction de conscience, en quoi nous rappelons que la direction de conscience en pose aussi. La direction de la cure est autre chose’ (Lacan, 1961, p. 1). 10  It is important to note, that although director of conscience and spiritual direction are related, they are not the same. Director of conscience is a structural role and has more of a relationship to the sacrament of confession. Spiritual direction, although related, has more of a relationship to mystical theology and its pastoral application in daily life rather than having the overtly moralistic connotations of confession and direction of conscience (see Larkin, 1969). I assume Lacan knows the difference between these two linked but different traditions, as this accounts for the difference in his positions on the matter. 9

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Spiritual Direction in Psychoanalysis and Its Teaching Consequently, in these previous encounters with the conception of spiritual direction, it is arguable that Lacan was not dealing with the subject of spiritual at all. A monastic rule is not reducible to spiritual direction, nor is the direction of conscience reducible to it either. Nevertheless, Lacan properly deals with spiritual direction in Psychoanalysis and Its Teaching, a talk given at the French Philosophical Society during the session on February 23, 1957. In this paper, he states categorically that psychoanalysis needs to evolve in the area of spiritual direction as a discipline that psychology has only considered from afar (E: 381). I will now give a close reading of this paragraph. It is a dense passage loaded with references to the theoretical structure he developed beforehand and latent ideas to be developed later. I will break down the paragraph, explain its theoretical content and link it back to traditional forms of spiritual direction. I will do this by taking the analyst’s discourse of Écrits and linking it back to the analysand’s discourse of the seminars. Furthermore, it must be kept in mind that this reading of Lacan’s concept of spiritual direction is practically and clinically focused. Although it may engage in philosophical exposition, it does this with the goal of unearthing the practical elements of value for a contemporary conception of Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction to address the problem of positive affective experientialism. After this, the following chapter will explicate in more detail how Lacan’s spiritual direction is distinctly Juanist by exploring the influence of Jean Baruzi and Bataille. Again, it is important to note that Lacan references spiritual direction qua spiritual direction in this quote. However, he does not call it a spiritual rule, or direction of conscience; he calls it direction spirituelle: The perplexities of spiritual direction which have been elaborated over the centuries along the path of a demand for truth—a demand linked to no doubt a cruel personification of this Other, but which did a fairly good job of sounding the folds in striving to clear out every other affection from people’s loins and hearts. This suffices to force the Psychoanalyst to evolve

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in a region that academic Psychology has never considered except through a spy-glass.11 (E: 381) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

The primary thrust of this paper concerns itself with demonstrating the linguistic basis of psychoanalysis. Lacan takes to task the dyadic operations that he believed were problematic in psychoanalysis. He takes to task the reduction of the analytic situation to a dyadic relation that places the analyst’s strong autonomous ego in relation to the patient’s underdeveloped ego. Lacan claims this goes against the symbolic intervention necessary for a successful analysis (E: 365–366). Nevertheless, the fact that he mentions spiritual direction in the context of such a critical text means that we should not overlook its formative importance.

Spiritual Direction and Truth Demand for Truth Lacan first clearly states that spiritual direction was a demand for truth. It is telling that he does not equate it with a demand for knowledge or meaning. Lacan’s concept of truth is complex and becomes more layered over the evolution of his teachings. However, even in the 1950s, he understood the concept of truth not as some fixed immediate reality of meaning that must be uncovered. Instead, he understood it as a dialectical process where the analyst reveals the truth of their desire (E: 118). In later writings, Lacan approached truth as an interruption into one’s field of imaginary meaning-making, as opposed to being just another object of meaning and knowledge to be located and scrutinised within it. He states in Television (1974) that:

 ‘Il sera donc jeté, quoi qu’il en ait, au cœur de ces perplexités de la direction spirituelle qui se sont élaborées depuis des siècles dans la voie d’une exigence de vérité, exigence liée à une personnification sans doute cruelle de cet Autre, mais qui, pour s’efforcer à faire place nette de toute autre affection dans les reins ou dans les cœurs, n’en avait pas trop mal sondé les replis. Et ceci suffit à faire évoluer le psychanalyste dans une région que la psychologie de faculté n’a jamais considérée qu’à la lorgnette’ (E : 456). 11

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I always speak the truth. Not the whole truth, because there’s no way, to say it all. Saying it all is literally impossible: words fail. Yet it’s through this very impossibility that the truth holds onto the real.12 (Lacan, 1990, p.  1) (Translated by Denis Hollier)

For Lacan, the truth is to be associated with impossibility. This is an impossibility, inseparable from the real. The analyst is to reveal antagonistic points of impossibility. These are disjunctive, unconscious spots where the intersection between imaginary and symbolic fail. In other words, if Lacan approached truth through the symbolic and imaginary in the 1950s, he understood it as relating to the real in later years.

Knowledge and Truth However, even at this stage in 1950, one can suggest that Lacan locates knowledge, meaning and certainty in what he called the register of the imaginary (the ego). He calls this type of false knowledge Connaissance (E: 306). Hence, in his 1953 paper The Function and Field of Speech and Language in Psychoanalysis, Lacan argues that the analyst’s role is to shatter the imaginary illusions that plague desire by confronting the analysand with their own truth. More precisely, Lacan teaches us that the art of analysis must involve suspending the analysand’s certainties until the final mirages of the imaginary register have been consumed: The analyst’s art must, on the contrary, involve suspending the subject’s certainties until their final mirages have been consumed. And it is in the subject’s discourse that their dissolution must be punctuated.13 (E: 209) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

 ‘Je dis toujours la vérité : pas tout, parce que toute la dire, on n’y arrive pas. La dire toute, c’est impossible, matériellement : les mots y manquent. C’est même par cet impossible que la vérité teinte au réel’ (Lacan, 1974, p. 1). 13  ‘Tout au contraire l’art de l’analyste doit être de suspendre les certitudes du sujet, jusqu’à ce que s’en consument les derniers mirages. Et c’est dans le discours que doit se scander leur résolution’ (E : 251). 12

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One can suggest that Lacan conceives older forms of spiritual direction not as a search for religious certainty but as an interruption to these symbolic and imaginary coordinates. He explains in his paper On a Purpose (1953) that the work of the analyst is to render a ‘hole’ in the system of knowledge within the symbolic fabric of the analysand: This makes it necessary [for the analyst to] render present a hole which can no longer be situated in the […] nature of knowledge [connaissance].14 (E: 306). (Translated by Bruce Fink)

The mystical nature of this ‘hole’ is presented in the seminar The Logic of Phantasy (1966b). Here he shows that his interest in the mystics was not concerned with some mythical, blissful experience but with the ‘holes’ in their ‘knowledge.’ Moreover, he states that this is why he is interested in the Dark Night as a pre-modern representation of this ‘hole’ insofar as it undermines anything that might aim toward mythical unity: When I speak about mystics, I am speaking simply about the holes that they encounter. I am speaking about the Dark Night, for example, which proves that, as regards what may be unitive in the relations of the creature to anything whatsoever.15 (SE, XIV: 195) (Translated by Cormac Gallagher)

Thus, one locates the value of the Dark Night of the Soul for truth as it relates to knowledge gaps rather than knowledge itself. In other words, truth is an interruption into knowing and, in this sense, is related to unknowing. Lacan’s conception of psychoanalytic truth is contradictory, antagonistic, and ambiguous rather than unitive and holistic. For Lacan, truth paradoxically aims at the object-of-desire that causes the subject to face the contradictions and difficulties of its own existence. Truth is related to  ‘Il en résulte la présentification nécessaire d’un trou qui n’est plus à situer dans le transcendantal de la connaissance, lieu en somme fort bien venu à le transposer d’un recul, mais à une place plus proche à nous presser de l’oublier’ (E : 365). 15  ‘Quand je parle des mystiques, je parle simplement des trous qu’ils rencontrent. Je parle de La Nuit obscure par exemple, qui prouve que, quant à ce qu’il peut y avoir d’unitif dans les rapports de la créature à quoi que ce soit’ (SE, XIV : 346). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 14

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the realisation that any such object of existential fulfilment is revealed to be impossible. In more detail, one can suggest that Lacan understands the function of truth—in pre-modern forms of spiritual direction—as going beyond the psychologism and experientialism later attributed to it. This is why he rather arrogantly says that nobody understands John in Seminar I (SE, I: 233). One can say that Lacan was interested in the hole-iness (the encountering of gaps and antagonisms) of pre-modern mysticism rather than experiences of ‘wholeness’ and plenitude associated with modern variations. In other words, he associates the demand for truth with what I have termed D2 as opposed to the modalities of desire I have termed D1b and D1a, both of which would result in the production of meaning on an affective and intellectual level.

Spiritual Directors and the Other The Cruel Other In the earlier paragraph, Lacan goes on to equate spiritual direction with what he calls a cruel personification of the Other. When Lacan uses the term Other at this stage in his teaching, it directly connects to the unconscious, the symbolic order. He is commenting on how spiritual direction stood as a roughly hewn version of the psychoanalytic method regarding reading the palimpsest of the unconscious. However, the term personification can also bring up another reading. Here, a comparison could be drawn between the analyst and the pre-modern spiritual director of the desert. Although Lacan never said psychoanalysis was like pre-modern spiritual direction, Michel De Certeau claims this. He declares that Lacan’s concept of analysis was like that of a pre-modern spiritual director. Lacan’s school of psychoanalysis was like that of a monastery in a desert that labelled all else outside of it ‘worldly.’ Moreover, Lacan gathered directees into his desert abode to ‘liberate those alienated from their identity’ through a system of speech and listening (1986, p. 56). De Certeau is aware of the similarities between pre-­ modern conceptions of spiritual direction and the practice of Lacanian

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psychoanalysis as a discipline focusing on an ethics of speech and listening that sets itself apart from the ideological forces of the world. For de Certeau, psychoanalysis, like pre-modern spiritual direction, was a practice of Otherness.

The Otherness of the Desert In writing about pre-modern desert spirituality, Ward suggests that in the fourth century, with Christianity becoming the religion of the Roman Empire through Constantine, early Christians found themselves alienated from the perceived original message of Christianity (Ward, 2003, p. 9). Christians who once believed they were waiting for the end of this world with the Parousia found themselves being pulled back into a society that held no conflict between the world they lived in and the world to come (Louth, 2003, pp. 54–55). Thus, early believers felt their spirituality was divided between promises of the coming Kingdom and a state-­ accepted Christianity contradicting this message. This conflict affected them so much that they felt a call to retreat to deserts. These desolate locations resonated with the earlier eschatological interpretation of the world as a ‘way’ (Ward, 2003, pp. 9–10). They were ‘returning’ to what they understood as the true message of Christianity. Thomas Merton (1915–1968) argues that the desolate landscapes of places such as Palestine, Arabia and especially Egypt became destinations where the ascetic came to contemplate their relationship to the divine. These desert-­ dwelling spiritual directors were then sought out by other believers (Merton, 1960, pp. 5–6). Merton also suggests that seeking a spiritual director was to seek out someone who embodied this cruel landscape. In more detail, Merton explains that what the Desert Mothers and Fathers sought was a form of subjectivity as it existed in the simplicity of Christ. To do this, they had to reject the false self-formed in the world’s social text. Hence, exploration for God started in a place that was off the beaten track and uncharted. This was a journey to find a lost God who was free from the desires and ideas part and parcel of the world. These directors looked for a God free of ideology. This rejection took the shape of questioning dogmatic reduction and theological controversy. Thus,

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they went into the desert to find an absolute simplicity away from technical verbiage, philosophy, and concepts. Pre-modern spiritual directors of the desert sought a simple relation between themselves and God (1960, pp. 5–6). Lane also argues that the idea of seeking out, internalising and transforming a desolate landscape of otherness is a theme stretching all the way from early fourth-century ascetics right up into the twentieth century with figures like Carlo Carretto (1910–1988). Carretto claims, ‘if you cannot go into the desert, you must nonetheless make some desert in your life’ (Lane, 1998, pp. 49–50).16 The desert becomes a signifier for Otherness.

The Otherness of the Signifier Lacan has also implied that the work of the analyst is to embody the Other and so, in a word, death. He states this in 1955 on his paper The Freudian Thing: This means that the analyst concretely intervenes in the dialectic of analysis by playing dead [as the Chinese say] either by his silence, where he is the Other with a capital O, or by cancelling out his own resistance where he is the other with a lowercase o. In both cases, and via symbolic and imaginary effects, respectively, he makes death present.17 (E: 357) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

Here he declares that the analyst engages in the dialect of the analysand not merely by speaking but also through his silence. The analyst intervenes in the analysand’s speech by playing ‘dead.’ By doing this, the analyst cancels out imaginary projection by reflecting the ultimate ambiguity  Carlo Carretto (1910–1988) was a member of the Catholic Congregation of the Little Brothers of the Gospel. He lived for ten years in the Sahara Desert pursuing an eremitical life. The experience was written as Letters from the Desert (see Lane, 1998). 17  ‘Ceci veut dire que l’analyste intervient concrètement dans la dialectique de l’analyse en faisant le mort, en cadavérisant sa position comme disent les Chinois, soit par son silence là où il est l’Autre avec un grand A, soit en annulant sa propre résistance là où il est l’autre avec un petit a. Dans les deux cas et sous les incidences respectives du symbolique et de l’imaginaire, il présentifie la mort’ (E : 430). It seems as though Fink has left out the statement, ‘as the Chinese say,’ in this translation, so I have included it. 16

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of the symbolic order. In other words, he reflects silence and death by not reacting to transference provocation, thereby creating resistance through their own ego. He can also do this by creating desire in the analysand by listening but not responding directly to their demands. By doing this, the analyst creates the conditions where the analysand starts to ask questions about the nature of their desire. Said differently, Lacan argues that through listening, the analyst makes death present by embodying the big Other (the symbolic order) and cancelling himself out as the small other (the ego, the imaginary). This is another way of stating that the analyst embodies the endless indeterminate ambiguity and desire of the analysand’s signifier rather than imaginary certainty. However, although silent listening embodies indeterminacy, so does the analyst’s speech, which also intervenes in the analysand’s discourse. Relating these findings to pre-modern spiritual direction, De Certeau suggests that in the quietness of analysis, akin to the ancient desert, the analyst’s strange words pierce the hearts of those who sought them out (1986, p. 59). Through this process, the analyst comes to represent a truth that decimates their own being since it is now caught up with the indeterminate nature of the symbolic order. Likewise, the ancient director pays for their being through their interpolation with sparse surroundings (De Certeau, 1986, p. 59). In both cases, sparsely spoken words—a mixture of silence and speech—broke apart the false certainty operative in the egoistic register of both directee and analysand. Richard Boothby notes this desert-­ like logic in the work of the analyst. Like John of the Cross in his sketch of Mount Carmel, Boothby explains that no way is the correct way for the flourishing of analytic desire. More precisely, he tells us that genuine discourse must allow space for getting lost; it must allow for uncertainty. This is essential for the operation of the signifier as it is only by accepting the certain-uncertainty of the signifier that one can allow desire to flourish. In this sense, it reflects death which is the ultimate certain-­uncertainty. Only by understanding ourselves in the shadow of death’s opacity can we come to live authentically. In response to death, we make decisions, grow, and take charge of our life precisely because it is ever on the horizon. Likewise, as it is always uncertain, the signifier presses us to take charge of its uncertainty as the locus of our desire (2015, p. 157).

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Thus, one can argue that the pre-modern spiritual director who dwelled in the desert came to terms with and internalised the radical otherness of their abode. It was a spirituality of disorientation rather than orientation. Thus, one cannot separate this form of spiritual direction from a topography of anxiety, ambiguity, and disorientation. To forget or ignore this was to become swallowed up by desolation. The threat of death was always tied up with this landscape and how it could destroy subjectivity at any moment.

The Analyst as Cruel Other For Lacan, the analyst must never forget that they are surrounded by the desert of the analysand’s signifier. Like the desert, language presents us with false hopes of mirages. In The Field and Function of Speech and Language in Psychoanalysis (1953), Lacan argues that language plagues us with mirages of determination and wholeness. He argues that it is the work of the analyst to relegate these mirages to the status of the imaginary register: Let me simply say that this, in my view, constitutes an objection to any reference to totality in the individual, since the subject introduces division therein, as well as in the collectively that is the equivalent of the individual. Psychoanalysis is what clearly relegates both the one and the other to the status of mirages.18 (E: 242). (Translated by Bruce Fink)

Earlier in the same paper, he suggests that the analyst must resist the urge to turn the analysand’s language into something precise, technical, and stable. Like the desert father and mothers who retreated from the multiplication of technical verbiage, the analyst must not fill the void of the desert of the signifier with the false plenum of the signified. Lacan teaches us that if the psychoanalyst is unaware of how speech functions, he will feel the mirage-like pull of the imaginary even more strongly. He warns  ‘Disons seulement que c’est là ce qui objecte pour nous à toute référence à la totalité dans l’individu, puisque le sujet y introduit la division, aussi bien que dans le collectif qui en est l’équivalent. La psychanalyse est proprement ce qui renvoie l’un et l’autre à leur position de mirage’ (E : 292). 18

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us that the analyst will feel the need to fill in these uncomfortable silences in analysis with empty speech, which shuts down the transference: If the psychoanalyst is not aware that this is how speech functions, he will experience its call [appel] all the more strongly; and if emptiness is the first thing to make itself heard in analysis, he will feel it in himself, and he will seek a reality beyond speech to fill the emptiness.19 (E: 206) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

In other words, to fill this void with meaning is, in essence, to shut down the operations of desire in the modality of D2 and to shift the analysand back into the register of the imaginary (D1b). It would close up the unconscious in the false certainty of the ego and push the analysand out of the desert. In his later formulation of what he called the analyst’s discourse, the analyst’s role was to take the place of what he called object a (SE, XVII). Again, this entails that the analyst’s personage vanishes in the analytical cure process. Likewise, the closer the analysand draws to this object, the more it interrupts the linguistic coordinates of their subjectivity. In other words, within treatment, the analyst becomes a cruel personification of the Other to reveal the truth of the analysand’s desire. As I have mapped out, this process occurs by never letting the analysand draw out certainty from the analyst’s position. This is what is possibly meant when Lacan suggests that the spiritual director embodied the cruel Other.

Spiritual Direction and the Affections Clearing out the Emotional Returning to the earlier paragraph, Lacan states that these early spiritual directors did a good job of clearing out ‘affections.’ This is striking as when we think of modern spiritual directors today, we usually think of  ‘Mais si le psychanalyste ignore qu’il en va ainsi de la fonction de la parole, il n’en subira que plus fortement l’appel, et si c’est le vide qui d’abord s’y fait entendre, c’est en lui-même qu’il l’éprouvera et c’est au-delà de la parole qu’il cherchera une réalité qui comble ce vide’ (E 247–248). 19

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the practice as being focused directly on feelings and affections (Barry & Connolly, 2009, pp.  134–135). However, Lacan is saying the absolute opposite. As stated earlier, in stark contrast to the discourse of modern practitioners, the language of the early spiritual directors was marked by an austere oracular linguistic tradition. As noted, Thomas Merton argues that they were rooted in an oral, oracular tradition that valued the concise, the immediate, and the provocative. Merton explains that the apothegmata or ‘sayings’ of the Fathers are a testament to the simplicity and power of their spiritual direction. Directees travelled for miles through the desert to hear a single word or piece of advice. This single word summed up the directee’s desire and their relation to God. The power of these words did not reside in their content but in the evocative power of the Holy Spirit to work within the directee. In this sense, he argues that this practice was distinctly pneumatological (2013, p. 13). Merton highlights that these words were not to be understood by their ‘meaning’ but by their interruptive quality. In contrast to the oracular a pothegmata, we have what is known as the logismoi. According to Hierotheos Vlachos, the latter means images with thoughts. He claims that when these directors of the desert spoke of the logosmoi, they did not mean simple discursive thoughts. They were less discursive manifestations and instead had more to do with images and their mirage-like representation (Vlachos, 1994, p.  33).20 Hence, the logosmoi can be understood as the tendency to become trapped in meaning. It is to be locked in a certain way of seeing things that causes suffering. Thus, the logismoi beleaguered the desert fathers during their isolation in the wilderness. The continuous chain of compulsive thought distracted them from their desire (Vlachos, 1994, pp. 1–50). On the other hand, the apothegmatha were aphoristic words designed to break the obsession with certainty and meaning that arose through the logismoi. ‘Give us a word Father’ was the formula used to introduce the apophthegmata or sayings of these pre-modern spiritual directors (Lane, 1998, p. 167).  Hierotheos (Vlachos) of Nafpaktos serves the Metropolis of Nafpaktos and Agios Vlasios in the Church of Greece. He has written articles and books on the Church Fathers and his book Orthodox Psychotherapy articulates a connection between modern therapy and the healing power of the Desert Fathers (see Vlachos, 1994). 20

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Oracular Speech and Grace The speech of the Desert Father was little more than a single word, a teaching rich in ambiguity and suggestiveness, serving to disturb as frequently to inspire (Lane, 1998, p. 167). As stated earlier in this book, and to recap, it is only by a sparse linguistic intervention which almost punctuates the novice’s discourse through which the directee can realise that the answer to the truth of their desire lies not in some knowledge of the Abba. Nor does it lie within some internal emotional object. Instead, it lay in the fragmented connection between their intentions, thoughts, and sense of self (Brown, 1998, pp. 213–240). Desire is related to an untameable, excessive Grace that cannot be understood as certainty and meaning (Wortley, 2012, pp.  138–139). God’s Grace for these desert-dwelling mystics was monstrous, ambiguous, and challenging. Lane writes that God’s Grace, as presence, is found in brokenness, weakness, renunciation, and despair. These are signifiers associated with the desert. He further states that this Grace exposes our fear of vulnerability stemming from a society that only focuses on utility and pragmatics. Consequently, there is always a temptation coded within us, as an aspect of ideology, to flee the excess of our own deformity that Grace reveals. However, he continues, if we tarry with this monstrous Grace, we can flourish within a spirituality of woundedness. He believes this spiritual direction flies in the face of a society that reduces most elements of life to a reductive concept of happiness and well-being. Lane advocates for an interruptive desert spiritual direction that keeps death and indeterminacy in focus (1998, p. 32). Preempting these reflections in the late 1960s, Lacan describes in Seminar XVI the role of Grace in these austere uncertain terms. He explains what is of interest to psychoanalytic practice is the role given to Grace in theology. First, he states that Grace has nothing to do with the imaginary aspect of existence. It has nothing to do with ‘effusions of the heart.’ He then goes on to state that Grace has the closest relationship to the operation of the symbolic insofar as it is ‘the Desire-of-the-Other’: The measure in which Christianity interests us, I mean at the level of theory, can be measured precisely by the role given to Grace. Who does not see

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that Grace has the closest relationship with the fact that I, starting from theoretical functions that certainly have nothing to do with the effusions of the heart, designate as[…]the Desire of the Other?21 (SE, XVI:138–139). (Translated by Cormac Gallagher)

This desire is always interruptive of whatever epistemological framework we place before it. Hence, it is a desire that is always excessive. This would be represented as the analyst’s desire in the analytic situation. Moreover, there is no word that can placate the analyst’s desire, no way of probing the analyst into giving us the answer or key that we think will solve all our problems. There is no way to coax him into giving into to our demands (Davis et al., 2015, pp. 232–249).22 Grace, as a metaphor for the Desire-­ of-­the-Other, entails that it is purgative and apophatic rather than unitive and cataphatic. Its operation consists of breaking apart the vestiges of the false self as opposed to plugging them up (Davis et al., 2015, pp. 232–249). So, in the terms set out by this work—and in contrast to modern positions which attempt to understand Grace regarding an emotional object of certainty as relating to the logic of D1b—Lacan argues that Grace is to be located on the side of D2. Grace operates by clearing out the affections and not merely bolstering them.

Spiritual Direction and the Lorgnette Through a Spyglass? In the quote above, Lacan explains that this forces psychoanalysis to evolve in a region which psychology has only looked at through a spyglass. This last reference to the spyglass is interesting. Lacan opposes psychoanalysis and psychology in this sentence by implying that psychology  ‘La mesure dans laquelle le christianisme nous intéresse, j’entends au niveau de la théorie, se mesure précisément au rôle donné à la Grâce. Qui ne voit pas que la Grâce a le plus étroit rapport avec ce que moi, partant de fonctions théoriques qui n’ont certes rien à faire avec les effusions du cœur, je désigne comme d (A), désir de l’Autre’ (SE, XVI : 117). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version) 22  For an excellent exposition on the significance of Grace in Lacan’s work see: Theology after Lacan: The Passion for the Real (Davis et al., 2015, pp. 232–249). 21

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has not understood spiritual direction. However, in the French text, he does not say spy-glass; he says ‘lorgnette.’23 Spy-glass in French would be le verre grossissant. Furthermore, the noun lorgnette is feminine and has connotations of opera glasses rather than spy-glass (magnifying glass), as we see in Fink’s English translation: Et ceci suffit à faire évoluer le psychanalyste dans une région que la psychologie de faculté n’a jamais considérée qu’à la lorgnette And this is enough to make the psychoanalyst evolve in a region that faculty psychology has never considered except through opera glasses.24 (My modified translation) (E: 456)

According to Lacanian scholar Rennata Salecle, the opera singer of the past was to deliver her voice as an object of the sublime to the male listener. Moreover, she argues that if the singer failed in giving her detached voice as a sublime object to the audience, she became reviled as an object of ridicule (Salecle, 1998, pp.  175–196). Salecle is bringing to light a general attitude of perception and expanding on an argument first given by Michel Poizat, prevalent in the nineteenth century (1992, p. 35). The gaze of institutions, in the position of Master, demanded the production of symptoms and sublime objects for their consumption and scrutiny. Consequently, the opera singer was expected to deliver ‘pure feeling’ to the otherwise masculine audience (Poizat, 1992, p. 3). Lacan was acutely aware of this past tendency in academic practices and took them to task in articulating the four discourses, which I will expand upon later.

The Psychologisation of Spiritual Direction Taking this critique on board, one can suggest that Lacan argues that the framework by which psychologists approached the discipline of spiritual direction was useless, just as the lorgnette was otherwise useless. They were mainly utilised as a fashion statement at the end of the nineteenth century. Secondly, when reading through the argument of Salecle, Lacan’s 23 24

 The word lorgnette is derived from the French lorgner which has connotations of squinting.  This quote is from the original French 1966 Seuil edition.

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comment seems to suggest that the discipline of psychology approached spiritual direction in much the same way as one viewed the feminine opera singer of the past. This is because it separated the Holy from the symbolic contexts that once bore it and reduced it to pure feeling. This critique is further borne out in his later Seminar XX, which I will cover shortly. Finally, one can argue that this approach can be applied to the ‘psychologisation of religion’ we saw during the nineteenth century. During this time there was, as I have mapped out, a transition whereby the spiritual and mystical were taken up into the hands of psychology. As a psychological phenomenon, William James demonstrated that spiritual experience was the core of all religious institutions (James, 1902, p. 261). To recap, William James’ psychologisation of religious experience entails that liturgy, dogma, symbols, and rules were considered arbitrary secondary elements. The pure object of ‘experience’ was extracted from the discursive body of these institutions, which once bore it to transform it into an object of certainty and knowledge as opposed to Lacan’s conception of it as being associated with truth and uncertainty.

The Opposition of Psychoanalysis to Psychology Furthermore, by opposing psychology to psychoanalysis, Lacan articulates that psychoanalysis differs in its relation to this ‘experience.’ In On a Question Prior to Any Possible Treatment of Psychosis (1955–1956), Lacan argues that psychoanalysis should focus on those discursive structures which form an experience rather than the experience itself. Lacan writes that psychology retreats from the difficulty of tarrying with the symbolic by receding into the ineffability of ‘experience.’ By attempting to get to experience or associating the unconscious with an aspect of experience, it reduces the unconscious to a type of substance beyond speech. For Lacan, the unconscious speaks because we speak. It ‘is identical to what can be articulated,’ and it is only by staying at the level of what is articulated that the unconscious reveals itself as ‘structure’: We are familiar with the false modesties that are considered proper in [psychology] in this regard; they accompany pedantry’s false thoughts when it invokes the ineffability [of ] experience […] in order to disarm the effort it

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spares itself—namely, the effort that is required at the point at which it is not ineffable precisely because it speaks; at which lived experience, far from separating us, is communicated; and at which subjectivity surrenders its true structure, that structure in which what can be analysed is identical to what can be articulated.25 (E: 480) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

Said differently, Lacan repudiates academic discourses for focusing on experience to the extent it is posited as an ineffable object. He counters that this rarefication vanishes when we realise that language is what experience depends upon and so should be the starting point of analysis. He sums this up more succinctly in Seminar VII (1959–1960), where he explains that the arbitrary nature of words only seems arbitrary precisely because we have negated their formative aspect: The straw of words only appears to us as straw insofar as we have separated it from the grain of [experience], and it was first the straw which bore that grain.26 (SE, VII: 45) (Translated by Denis Potter)

As I have noted earlier, Lacan has clearly stated as early as 1951 that the affective cannot be accounted for without reference to the symbolic (SE, I: 57). The point here is that one cannot get directly to the ‘affect.’

Losing Sense of Participation in the Other Psychoanalysis concerns itself with how the coordinates of our language (what Lacan calls the intellect) shape our emotional dispositions. Moreover, Lacan understood the unconscious not just as a dark continent of emotion, drives or archetypes:  ‘Nous savons les fausses pudeurs qui sont de mise dans la science à cet endroit, elles sont compagnes des fausses pensées de la cuistrerie, quand elle argué de l’ineffable du vécu, voire de la « conscience morbide », pour désarmer l’effort dont elle se dispense, à savoir celui qui est requis au point où justement ce n’est pas ineffable puisque ça parle, où le vécu, loin de séparer, se communique, où la subjectivité livre sa structure véritable, celle où ce qui s’analyse est identique à ce qui s’articule’ (E: 576). 26  ‘La paille des mots ne nous apparaît comme paille que pour autant que nous en avons séparé le grain des choses, et que c’est d’abord cette paille qui a porté ce grain’ (SE, VII : 77). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 25

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These archetypes, these reified symbols which reside in a permanent manner in a basement of the human soul, how are they truer than what is allegedly at the surface? Is what is in the cellar always truer than what is in the attic?27 (SE, I: 267) (Translated by Bruce Forrester)

In this quote, he somewhat scornfully declares that analysis should not be distracted with archetypal reified experiential symbols that supposedly reside in the soul’s basement. Lacan asks his audience in the seminar, ‘is what in the cellar always more valid than what is in the attic?’ He thus repudiated the experiential focus of depth psychology. By closing the gap between experience and language, Lacan problematised the split between the affect and the intellect. The dividing line between them was not as robust as one would like to imagine. Lacan was at pains to articulate that we should always stay aware of the participatory reality of language and not allow the operations of the imaginary register to fool us into thinking otherwise. Lacan also suggests in The Subversion of the Subject and the Dialectic of Desire in the Freudian Unconscious (1960) that this logic of participation is found in medieval theological formulations. Lacan argues against psychologists who posit that the ego exists before the unconscious in the formation of the subject. He claims that such a conception is inadequate and that Thomas Aquinas, in a way, first noticed this problem. Like Lacan, who argues that the ego only exists because of participation in the unconscious, Aquinas believed that existence only has being because it participates in the supernatural (E: 676). Aquinas was arguing against other formulations of theology and philosophy that aimed to annul concepts of participation by creating strict separations, or univocal blending, between the created and creature, faith and reason, intellect and affect, nature, and Grace (Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456). As we have seen, the split and breakdown of the analogical worldview resulted in an ontological orientation toward affections and feelings or what I have called positive affective experientialism. Likewise, for Lacan, the ego only has its existence through participation in the greater linguistic field of the  ‘Ces archétypes, ces symboles substantifiés tels qu’il les fait résidant d’une façon permanente dans une espèce de soubassement de l’âme humaine ? Qu’ont-ils de plus vrai que ce qui est prétendument à la surface ? Est-ce, par cette métaphore, que ce qui est dans les caves est forcément plus vrai que ce qui est au grenier ?’ (SE, I : 443). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 27

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unconscious, the chain of signifiers. The ego—as the signified and not the signifier—is associated with the affect. Consequently, emotional dispositions are caused by the signifier rather than the signifier being caused by the emotions. Hence, one cannot postulate affect and the ego as the basis for subjectivity. The concept of subjectivity being grounded in participation is also articulated in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (1964): Psychoanalysis is neither a Weltanschauung nor a philosophy that claims to provide the key to the universe. It is governed by a particular aim, which is historically defined by the elaboration of the notion of the subject. It poses this notion in a new way, by leading the subject back to his signifying dependence.28 (SE, XI: 77) (Translated by Alan Sheridan)

Here Lacan writes that psychoanalysis is not a worldview nor a philosophy that can provide the key to a meaningful universe. Instead, the only aim of psychoanalysis is the elaboration of a subject that can trace itself back to a ‘signifying dependence’ The symbolic order determines our ‘existence,’ but it is at the very moment that one assumes responsibility for this dependency and participation that one experiences what Lacan calls a ‘scant freedom’—‘peu de liberté’: In psychoanalytic anamnesis, what is at stake is not reality, but truth[…]to reorder past contingencies by conferring on them the sense of necessities to come, such as they are constituted by the scant freedom [peu de liberté] through which the subject makes them present.29 (E: 206) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

 ‘La psychanalyse n’est ni une Weltanschauung, ni une philosophie qui prétend donner la clé de l’univers. Elle est commandée par une visée particulière, qui est historiquement définie par l’élaboration de la notion de sujet. Elle pose cette notion de façon nouvelle, en reconduisant le sujet à sa dépendance signifiante’ (SE, XI : 73). (Edited by Miller). I have used the Miller edited version as opposed to the unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version as this quote, which appears in the question and answers section, is not found within its pages. Also, the German term Weltanschauung translates to Worldview. 29  ‘Dans l’anamnèse psychanalytique de réalité, mais de vérité, parce que c’est l’effet d’une parole pleine de réordonner les contingences passées en leur donnant le sens des nécessités à venir, telles que les constitue le peu de liberté par où le sujet les fait présentes’ (E :256). (Seuil Version). 28

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This occurs when one realises how language has formulated our desires. This is the heart of Lacan’s concept of truth in the analytic situation. We are creations of the symbolic order, subjects generated by a specific set of signifiers that solidify to create our disorders. Hence, the only freedom analysis can offer is a truth that interrupts this reality in the form of ‘anamnesis’ (repetition of the past). This means that the analyst re-­presents partial narratives, slips and parapraxis in the analysand’s speech to repeat their history in a new way. Through this intervention, the analysand can re-read their life differently. They re-receive their past in the present to create a new future. The tracing of their dependence on the symbolic order entails its very ambiguity—its openness to reinterpretation through the slipping of the signifier. It thus entails new ways of speaking about suffering, opening up the possibility of new forms of subjectivity (E: 206). Again, Lacanian analysis should always include the third party of the Other that mediates all communication, even if this does lead to a tragic realisation that the signifier determines our desire. In bringing the affect and intellect back to their dependency on the Other, one can interpret Lacan as repeating the position of the pre-modern spiritual director and mystic who would not have understood the divide between them in the way we do today.30 For Lacan, this reuniting of the affect and intellect under the locus of the Other are the coordinates that lead to the generation of desire. It is closely connected to the linguistically fragmented nature of the human being, encompassing both the intellectus and the affectus. One can suggest that Lacan believed that psychoanalysis and pre-modern spiritual direction are/were concerned with making people aware of this fragmentary and paradoxical desire. This is a desire that starts with but ultimately reaches beyond the narrow confines of the affect and intellect. In this sense, Lacanian psychoanalysis, and pre-modern spiritual direction— from this given interpretation—are both discourses of radical uncertainty that help directees and analysands look at this unflinchingly to take responsibility for it.  For an extended exposition on the integrity on the mutual dependency between spirituality and theology please see; McIntosh, Mark A. Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (Challenges in Contemporary Theology). Edited by Lewis Ayers Jones and Gareth. 3rd ed. London: Wiley-Blackwell, 1998. 30

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One can assume that Lacan believed that psychologists and therapists need to approach the spiritual as praxis and a mode of speech rather than something to be studied or psychologised (De Certeau, 2015, pp. 3–21). The spiritual is not just a constant search for an ineffable experience of certainty: [Our aim is to assure that the self ] is admitted into analysis only as long as it is bracketed as an illusion, and speech is excluded from a search for lived experience that becomes its supreme aim.31 (E: 251) (Translated by Bruce Fink)

In this quote, Lacan writes as early as 1953 that the ego, or self, is only admitted into analysis to the extent that it is bracketed as an illusion. He further argues that one should thwart the experiential aim of speech. Moreover, if speech is left unattended, experientialism becomes its ‘principal aim.’ In summary, there is a tendency toward emotional essentialism when one separates emotional objects from their formative structures. This discursive tendency leads toward a spirituality that focuses on D1b as opposed to D2.

Summary In this chapter, I have demonstrated how psychoanalysis is linked to pre-­ modern forms of spiritual direction by closely reading a paragraph from Lacan’s Écrits. What emerged is that Lacan’s relationship to the spiritual is more nuanced than what Parker has suggested. He most certainly rejected ideas of spiritual direction regarding ‘spiritual conscience’ or a reduction to morality as ‘a spiritual rule,’ but he seems to have an openness to spiritual direction as an expression of mystical theology. To summarise some of the key findings from previous sections:

 ‘La subjectivité n’y est admise que dans la parenthèse de l’illusion et la parole y est mise à l’index d’une recherche du vécu qui en devient le but suprême’ (E : 304–305). (Seuil version). 31

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1 . Lacan had a Catholic Formation. 2. Lacan most probably had contact with the teachings of John of the Cross at an early age through the work of Jean Baruzi. 3. Lacan’s ideas, like John, were formed in a pastoral context where he regularly encountered the psychic suffering of patients. 4. He knew the connection between mystical theology, spiritual direction, and psychoanalysis. He believed psychoanalysis should seek to explore the methods of spiritual direction and mystical theology to evolve. He argued this precisely because he saw the rarefication of psychological methods in his own times. 5. These methods are partly, located in the performative aspect of his discourse concerning how they are split between the Écrits and the Seminars. They operate to introduce the reader into a discourse of radical uncertainty and desire instead of certainty and knowledge. In the following chapter, I will explore how Lacan’s form of spiritual direction is distinctly Juanist in flavour. Indeed, references to John of the Cross appear throughout his seminars. However, his most succinct exploration of Juanist Mystical theology is in Seminar XX. In this seminar, he clarifies the content of the mystical in such a way that articulates it regarding what I have called the modality of D2. This exploration will serve as the bedrock of the dialogue between John and Lacan. The final chapter will focus on creating a form of Lacanian Juanist spiritual direction.

References Barry, W.  A., & Connolly, W.  J. (2009). The Practice of Spiritual Direction. Harper One. Boothby, R. (2015). Freud as Philosopher: Metapsychology After Lacan. Routledge. Brown, P. (1998). The Body and Society. Faber and Faber. Davis, C., Pound, M., & Crockett, C. (Eds.). (2015). Theology after Lacan: The Passion for the Real. James Clarke & Co. De Certeau, M. (1986). Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. University of Minnesota Press. De Certeau, M. (1995). The Mystic Fable, Volume One: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (M. B. Smith, Trans.). University of Chicago Press.

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De Certeau, M. (2015). The Mystic Fable, Volume Two: The Sixteenth And Seventeenth Centuries. University of Chicago Press. Eyers, T. (2012). Lacan and the Concept of the Real. Palgrave Macmillan. Fink, B. (1997). A Clinical Introduction to Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Theory and Technique. Harvard University Press. Fink, B. (2004). Lacan to the Letter: Reading Écrits Closely. University of Minnesota Press. James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature. Longmans, Green and Co. Lacan, J. (1953). Écrits techniques de Freud: Séminaire I, 1953–1954. l’Association Freudienne Internationale, Paris. Lacan, J. (1958). The Direction of the Treatment and the Principles of Its Power (C. Gallagher, Trans.). [online] Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland. com/web/wp-­content/uploads/2010/06/The-­Direction-­of-­the-­Treatment-­ final-­version-­1.pdf Lacan, J. (1960). L’éthique de la psychanalyse: Séminaire VII, 1959–1960. l’Association Freudienne Internationale, Paris. Lacan, J. (1961). La direction de la cure et les principes de son pouvoir. La Psychanalyse, 6, 149–206. Lacan, J. (1964). Les problèmes cruciaux pour la psychanalyse: Séminaire XII, 1964-1965 (1st ed.). l’Association Freudienne Internationale, Paris. Lacan, J. (1966a). Écrits. Éditions Du Seuil, Paris. Lacan, J. (1966b). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Logic of Phantasy. 1966–1967. Seminar XIV. [online] Translated by C. Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1967). La Logique du fantasme Séminaire XIV 1966–1967. l’Association lacanienne internationale. Lacan, J. (1968). D’un Autre à l’autre Séminaire XVI 1968–1969. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1968). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan. From and Other to an Other, 1968–1969. Seminar XVI (1st ed.). Lacan in Ireland. Lacan, J. (1969). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Other Side of Psychoanalysis. 1969–1970. Seminar XVII. [Online] Translated by C. Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1972). Jacques Lacan Encore. Séminaire XX 1972–1973. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1974). Télévision. Du Seuil. Lacan, J. (1988). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book I: Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (J. Forrester, Trans.). W.W. Norton.

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Lacan, J. (1998). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-analysis (Seminar XI). (A. Sheridan, Trans.). W.W. Norton. Lacan, J. (1999). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan book XX: on Feminine Sexuality The Limits of Love and Knowledge 1972– 1973 (2nd ed.). W.W Norton & Company. Lacan, J. (2001). Autres écrits. du Seuil. Lacan, J. (2006). Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (B. Fink, Trans.). W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Lacan, J. (2007). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis 1959–1960 (D. Porter, Trans.). Routledge. Lacan, J. (2011). Interview with Jacques Lacan 1957. [online] Retrieved January 24, 2018, from http://braungardt.trialectics.com/projects/psychoanalysis/ lacans-­life/interview-­jacques-­lacan/ Lane, B.  C. (1998). The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality. Oxford University Press. Larkin, E. (1969). Spiritual Direction Today. The American Ecclesiastical Review, 161(3), 204–210. Louth, A. (2003). The Wilderness of God. Darton Longman & Todd. McGinn, B. (2017). Mysticism in the Golden Age of Spain. The Crossroad Publishing Company. McIntosh, M.  A. (1998). Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (Challenges in Contemporary Theology). Wiley-Blackwell. Merton, T. (1960). The Wisdom of the Desert. Sheldon Press. Merton, T. (2013). Thomas Merton—Spiritual Direction and Meditation. Read Books Ltd. Padusniak, C. (2022). Jacques Lacan’s Benedict Option. In: Church Life Journal. Retrieved February 20 2023, from https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/ jacques-­lacans-­benedict-­option/ Parker, I. (2011). Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Revolutions in Subjectivity. Routledge. Poizat, M. (1992). The Angel’s Cry: Beyond the Pleasure Principle in Opera. Cornell University Press. Pound, M. (2007). Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma. SCM Press. Pound, M. (2012). In G. Flynn & P. D. Murray (Eds.), Lacan’s Return to Freud: A Case of Theological Ressourcement? (pp. 440–456). Oxford University Press. Roazen, P. (2001). The Trauma of Freud: Controversies in Psychoanalysis. Transaction Publishers. Roudinesco, E. (1997). Jacques Lacan: Outline of a Life, History of a System of Thought: An Outline of a Life and History of a System of Thought. Polity Press.

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Salecle, R. (1998). The Silence of Feminine Jouissance. In Sic 2: Cogito and the Unconscious (pp. 175–196). Duke University Press. Vlachos, H. (1994). Orthodox Psychotherapy: The Science of the Fathers. St Vladimir’s Seminary Press. Ward, B. (2003). The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks. Penguin Books. Wortley, J. (2012). The Book of the Elders: Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Systematic Collection. Liturgical Press. Žižek, S. (2011). How to Read Lacan. Granta Books.

6 The Mystical Speech of Lacan

 aruzi’s and Bataille’s Influence on Lacan’s B Mystical Speech Experience of Darkness? The argument here is that where it is tempting to articulate the mysticism of John of the Cross as D1b—an excessive experience of darkness that can only be understood concerning experientialism—Lacan interprets this in a completely different way as what he calls the not-all (what I call D2). This understanding of the mystical as not-all requires a nuanced understanding of mysticism as a way of speaking that does not result in positive affective experientialism. I argue that Lacan takes the Juanist darkness mysticism of both Jean Baruzi and Georges Bataille and empties it of experientialist themes. For Lacan, the sociolinguistic aspect can never be ignored. This is why Lacan defended against accusations that John of the Cross was psychotic precisely because he knew his work was not solely on the side of the real (Pound, 2007, p. 10). To help readers, it will be beneficial to briefly outline the logic of D1 and D2 as presented in the introduction (See Fig. 6.1) © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_6

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D1a The logic of D1 is a desire which aims at formulations of satisfaction and wholeness. It splits God into the God of duty (D1a) and the God of religious affectivism (D1b). On the side of D1a, it concerns itself with hyperrationalism, doctrinal formalism, and ruledriven spiritual guidance. D1a abhors the realm of capricious affect and thus focuses on experiencing the absence of emotion as proof of the divine at work. It consequently functions by ‘negative affective experientialism,’ focusing on experiencing lack as a signifier for coming spiritual plenitude. It believes that through rational self-governance of the appetites, it will eventually achieve a moment of ecstatic oneness.

D1b The logic of D1b is the polar opposite of this discursive practice as it sees the process of the intellect as futile compared to the depths of the heart. It focuses on honing emotional intelligence and feeling as the place where the divine reveals itself. Like the logic of the D1a, it too awaits the coming experientialist whole, but now the fluctuations of the heart represent the coming wholeness. This discursive method functions by the logic of ‘positive affective experientialism.’

D2. The logic of D2 is a desire that empties itself of emotional and intellectual content and starts with both but ultimately problematises their boundary before transcending them. A practice of disruptive apophaticism defines such logic. So, where the logics of D1 aim at the fantasmatic object of experiential wholeness either through D1a’s rule-driven negative affective experientialism or through D1b's positive affective experientialism, the logic of D2 starts from non-affectological premises which overturn these methodologies. What is at stake is a desire that disrupts and subverts the epistemological frameworks that create experience. It does this by focusing on the medium via which experience itself operates; language. The logic of D2 becomes less a linguistic theory of correspondence and one of linguistic deformation and experiential disruption. What we have, is a desire which results not in an experience of fullness or the experience of darkness but one that celebrates the darkness of experience as spiritual direction.

Since both of these discourses aim at the same imaginary object either through the intellect or the affect, these processes can be said to be ‘affectological’ in their aims

Fig. 6.1  The difference between the logic of D1 and D2

This chapter is also a response to the work of Clinical Lacanian practitioner Raul Moncayo who argues that Lacan’s psychoanalysis can be seen as a continuation of the work of William James. Raul Moncayo’s erudite and elucidating work, The Signifier Pointing to the Moon, is the only other work that extensively addresses the clinical ideas of Lacan in relation to spiritual direction (Moncayo, 2012). That being said, it differs from my work as his argument has been developed in conjunction with Zen Buddhism as opposed to Juanist spiritual direction. However, what interests me is the framework through which Moncayo sets up his thesis.

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Moncayo writes that his interpretation of Lacanian psychoanalysis as applied to (Zen) spiritual direction converges with an intellectual tradition that accepts Freud’s theories insofar as they apply to the dogmatic and institutional aspects of religion but not as it is applied to its ‘experiential’ core. In this sense, he states directly that he follows in the tradition of William James to recover an authentic form of spirituality based on religious experience and its value for Lacanian psychoanalysis (2012, p. 7). My book challenges this interpretation. This section of my book is also a response and critique of Amy Hollywood’s essay on feminine sexuality and mysticism in her important work Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History (2002). This is an important book that spurred much of my research because her work highlights the implicit mystical theology in Seminar XX. In Chap. 6, she maps out the connection between Bataille and Lacan and how the latter expands on his concept of mystical theology within the field of psychoanalysis. This work is essential as she touches on the themes outlined in my argument concerning the value of mysticism, psychology, and its relation to spiritual direction. She argues that Bataille maps out two forms of mysticism: 1 . A mysticism of wholeness. 2. A mysticism of fragmentation (Hollywood, 2002, p. 148). She argues that these two forms of mystical experience have stemmed from a transformation in the epistemological value of knowledge in theology over the centuries. She follows de Certeau’s argument in postulating that mystical theology in the past had to be understood concerning what she calls symbolic and scholastic theology (Hollywood, 2002, p. 147). The first assumes that we are led to God through sensible things, and the second considers abstract concepts in the intellect. Finally, she states that the mystical approaches God via perfect contemplation of heavenly things (Hollywood, 2002, p. 147). According to Hollywood, however, with the birth of the Enlightenment, we find that the contextual framework in which mysticism was conceived began to fall apart, and the mystical became reduced to the affect. What is more, we find that the modern study of mysticism is then retroactively read back into these premodern frameworks (Hollywood, 2002,

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pp. 147–148). Her work traces this fragmentary form of ecstatic mystical experience and relates it to Lacan’s concept of the not-all, which I shall expand on shortly. However, Hollywood does not explain how the modern study of the mystical differs from its premodern incarnation. It appears premodern mystical theology and spiritual direction are still framed in the paradigm of the experiential (D1b) from the outset. Also, Hollywood does not talk about the psychologisation of mysticism and spiritual direction, as I have traced above, which I believe to be crucially important. This is vital, as Lacan frames his discussion of mysticism in Seminar XX between the approach of psychology and how he believes psychoanalysis should approach it. Hollywood is correct in claiming that Lacan and Bataille demonstrate the value of a mysticism and spiritual direction of fragmentation and how this serves as an amendment to the overt optimism of spiritualities of wholeness. The problem, however, in her interpretation lies in the fact that she places this second, more radical form of spirituality in the register of experience: Lacan here makes clear that the ultimate goal of psychoanalysis [in Seminar XX] is not scientific knowledge but an eruption of affect in and through language. (Hollywood, 2002, p. 162)

Furthermore, this framing creates the illusion that Lacan, in his later theory, is leaving his concept of the symbolic behind in favour of a rehashed version of experientialism but framed within the negative language of the real. In other words, she trades the experiential plenum of wholeness for the experientialism of the void.1 I argue that Lacan was trying to articulate the value of mystical theology and spiritual direction regarding the non-experiential logic of D2 instead of D1b. He wanted to locate it on the side of the real, which relates to the impossibility of experience.2 The real is not to be  This is not negative affective experientialism, which relates to the modality of desire I have termed D1a, but positive affective experientialism framed in the negative. In other words, it is a negative representation of the modality of desire I have termed D1b. My argument is that this is not the same as Lacan’s conception of the not all. This, I argue, is an expression of non-affective mystical negativism in the modality of desire I have termed D2. 2  This is one of the reasons Seminar XX is considered one of his more difficult seminars, precisely because of this inability to express this contradiction and impossibility. 1

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understood as a numinous beyond of language as William James would understand it. Instead, Lacan would argue that real of language as a type of speech is partially freed from the structuring power of the master-­signifier. It is a use of language freed from the structures of meaning, not a place beyond meaning. I will argue against such an experientialist appropriation of the real as articulated by Moncayo and Hollywood. I claim that although Lacan was influenced by such experientialism via the figures of Baruzi and Bataille, he also problematised and complicated it. I believe this puts him in a much more classical position apropos Juanist spiritual direction.

 aruzi’s Experiential Interpretation of John B of the Cross Roudinesco, Lacan’s biographer, writes that Baruzi was a contentious figure in theology at the time. Baruzi was a Catholic thinker who had much in common with the work of Etienne Gilson, Alexander Koyre and Henry Corbin. These were important French thinkers who all influenced Lacan. Baruzi maintained that it is impossible to understand a Christian mystic without attempting to live with him in the world of Grace. However, when he was debating with theologians, he declined to accept the dogma or doctrine of Grace as such (Roudinesco, 1997, pp.  11–12).3 Instead, Baruzi suggests here that the mystic needs to live in a world of religious experientialism. It is this focus on the experiential that other theologians took issue with. As I have noted, Baruzi was also Lacan’s teacher during his formative years. Roudinesco further writes that Baruzi’s teaching and the early discovery of Spinoza brought a considerable change in Lacan’s intellectual development. Instead of the rural and devout Catholicism practised by Lacan’s family, he was introduced to a scholarly, sophisticated presentation of it. She further suggests that this understanding of Catholicism served as a

 She continues by saying that all these thinkers belong to a French intellectual strain that started at 1886 in the Ecole pratique des hautes etudes (EPHE: a graduate school for advanced research). Later, there was an addition of a religious science section (section 5) of which Baruzi was a part (Roudinesco, 1997, pp. 11–12). 3

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foundation for critically examining the religious and spiritual themes that crop up in his texts (1997, p. 12). Baruzi’s John of the Cross thesis was entitled Saint Jean de La Croix et le Probleme de l’ Experience Mystique: John of the Cross and the Problem of Religious Experience (Baruzi, 1924). As stated earlier, Baruzi utilised William James’ methodology of placing religious experience at the heart of religious discourse but applied this directly to Juanist spiritual direction and mystical theology (Hollywood, 2002, p.  319).4 His work is noted for the rigour with which he sets about discarding all those foreign aspects of John’s work and sets about finding the core of originality in his oeuvre. To this extent, Baruzi opted for an ahistorical understanding of how the Spanish mystics utilised symbols within their work. He argued, in an almost Jungian fashion, that they created the symbols in their work independent of historical conditions: Perhaps thanks to an analysis of its symbols and images, and a direct vision of poetic themes and theoretical notions, we might retrieve this thought, always the same, which is the deepest secret of the philosopher or the poet and which conceals itself in multiform expressions.5 (Baruzi, 1924, p. 105) (My translation)

 Pattison states that ‘In a 1925 presentation to the French Philosophical society, entitled Saint John of the Cross and the Problem of Religious Experience, Baruzi described what he was doing as a phenomenology of mystical experience. Jean-Louis Viellard-Baron writes that what would later be called the phenomenological approach in French philosophy’(Pattison & Kirkpatrick, 2018, p. 111). The argument here is that Baruzi introduced via his engagement with experiential sources such as William James, the foundational ideas that led to the later French engagement with German phenomenology. However, unlike James who reduced mystical experience to an object of nature, Baruzi argued that mystical experience needed to be understood in reference to its own specific internal logic. Like phenomenology, which argued that the phenomena need to be understood qua the logic of phenomena, Baruzi argued that mystical experience needs to be articulated qua experience itself. This is probably what he meant by his dictum that it is not possible to understand a mystic without living with him in the world of Grace. The latter being religious experience, or rather the root of it. 5  Peut-être grâce à une analyse des symboles et des images, grâce à la directe vision de thèmes poétiques et de notions théoriques confondus, pourrons-nous retrouver cette pensée, toujours la même, qui est le plus profond secret du philosophe ou du poète et qui se dissimule sous des expressions multiformes. (Baruzi, 1924, p. 643) In this quote, we can see Baruzi use the word grâce which in French can mean ‘in movement,’ ‘dignity’ or thanks’ along with its obvious theological connotations we associate with the English term Grace. Obviously, these different meanings depend on semantic context, but Baruzi is engaging in French word play that implies that Grace is operative in the background. 4

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Many Catholic theologians rejected his work as the focus on John of the Cross’s religious experience was given a central place at the expense of everything else (Hollywood, 2002, p. 319). 6 We can see this when he states the following in giving a reading of John of the Cross’ significance of the Dark Night of the Soul: The purification of being is essentially metaphysical: we must reach the very root of our life, that is, the spirit.7 (Baruzi, 1924, p.  643) (My translation)

Here Baruzi is talking about the Dark Night and understands it as being a process of purification of being. Through this process of spiritual purification, one reaches the emotive essence or root of being. We can also see the indebtedness to William James, where he mentions him earlier in a chapter entitled The Synthesis of Doctrine. This is a chapter that aims to get to the experiential core of John’s work: The example given by William James shows at the least that a feeling of presence can be suggested by ‘something’ that is neither an ‘individual being’ nor a ‘person’ and that there can be an emotional adaption and drive comparable to that which would determine an hallucination of presence produced by a being less foreign to the forms of individuality.8 (Baruzi, 1924, p. 570) (My translation)  In a 1925 review of Baruzi’s aforementioned key work, Zimmerman explains that although Baruzi deals very beautifully up to a certain point in his exposition of the Dark Night, he accuses him of reducing the mystical theology of John of the Cross to pantheistic experientialism (1925a, pp. 547–549). The excess of experiential divine darkness divorced from the importance of community in Baruzi’s reading is telling. In more detail, Zimmerman states that Baruzi is more interested in the more extraordinary experiential aspects of his work in contrast to its more ordinary elements. Zimmerman contends that mystical contemplation only took up part of John’s Day and that there were daily experiences such as the celebration of Mass that play an essential part of John’s spiritual direction (1925b, pp. 547–549). 7  La purification de l’être est d’essence métaphysique : il faut atteindre la racine même de notre vie, ç’est-à-dire l’esprit. (Baruzi, 1924, p. 643) It is noteworthy that the word espirit also means ‘mind’ or ‘intellect’ in French. In this context, however, the word most likely means spirit qua spirit. 8  L’exemple, allégué par William James suffit du moins à montrer qu’un sentiment de présence peut être suggère par « quelque chose » qui n’est ni un « être individuel » ni une « personne » et que peut y correspondre une adaptation émotionnelle et motrice comparable à celle que déterminerait une hallucination de présence produite par un être moins étranger aux formes de l’individualité. (Baruzi, 1924, p. 570). 6

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This is in reference to a passage in William James’ Varieties of Religious Experience where he speaks of a friend who, during a supernatural hallucination, felt something of a presence extend beyond its apparent manifestation to a deeper reality. This strange presence went beyond anything his faculties of perception could accurately convey. He describes it as ‘stirring the roots of his being more than any ordinary perception could’ (James, 1902, p. 51). Baruzi says that a presence can be ‘produced by a being less foreign to the forms of individuality.’ So, although the external faculties can convey a sense of presence when we are hallucinating, the last part of the sentence (‘less foreign’) implies that certain hallucinatory experiences of presence are foreign to the external senses. According to Baruzi, these ineffable experiences can excite the roots of our being beyond what our faculties can present to us. So, one can feel something but cannot sense it in a manner of speaking. Baruzi describes this amorphous presence, which goes beyond the senses, as applying to John of the Cross and his Dark Night of the Soul. Ultimately, his expression of John’s confrontation with this divine presence beyond the darkness leads Baruzi to an intense solitary form of mystical knowing grounded in experimentalism or what I have termed as D1b (Baruzi, 1924, p. 741). In his later work, L’intelligence Mystique, Baruzi reflects on the singularity of mystic thought by stating, ‘Mystic thought satisfies itself in a silence, itself creative, to which the mystic in the depths of contemplation, is the lone witness’ (Baruzi, 1991, p. 56). Lacan directly takes to task the experientialist interpretation of Baruzi’s Juanism in Seminar III. Lacan demonstrates the difference between the famous Freudian Case of Judge Schreber and John of the Cross in this seminar.9 He argues that the former is psychotic while the latter is not. Lacan’s critique of Schreber—in this specific seminar—is clearly a continuation of the work of Baruzi, who dedicated an entire chapter of his major work, from an experientialist angle, to argue that John was not psychotic and instead, his experience should be considered theopathic (Baruzi, 1924, p.  308; Nelstrop & Onishi, 2016, p.  24). In addition, Lacan suggests that non-psychotic subjects can create a new psychological life-world by disrupting their old self by introducing poetry.  Daniel Paul Schreber (1842–1911) was a judge from Germany who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. He described the symptoms of his mental state in his Memoirs. Freud gave an extensive interpretation of his work, which Lacan also commented in his seminar (Dalzell, 2011). 9

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Through a metaphorical process, poetry represents a new symbolic transition in the subject. It is the subject shedding an old signifying set and adopting a ‘new order of symbolic relations to the world.’ Lacan claims that because of this disruption and re-invention, John is an authentic mystic (SE, III: 78). It seems as though Lacan argues that John’s experience is mystical precisely because it reshapes the shared field of semantic relations, which allows one to view the world and others differently, as opposed to having any experientialist quality or connotations. For Lacan, Judge Schreber’s experience is not mystical due to closing his writings to this intersubjective symbolic element. Lacan states that all the referents in the Judge’s writings seem to be an experientialist extension of himself and nothing more (SE, III: 78). We can see then that although the influence of Baruzi is apparent in Lacan’s work, he subverts his interpretation to empty it of experientialist connotations. The mystical is of value because it disrupts our lifeworld rather than experientially bolstering it. Furthermore, as I will show, these Juanist non-experientialist themes are taken up in a revised manner in seminar XX.

 ataille’s Baruzian Experiential Interpretation B of John of the Cross George Bataille was probably one of France’s most influential critical theorists and an associate of André Breton. He was also associated with prominent Catholic intellectuals of the ressourcement movement (Pound, 2012, pp.  440–456).10 I wish to suggest here that Bataille influenced Lacan’s concept of the real. While the real ultimately has its roots in the  As mentioned earlier these were Catholic intellectuals who wanted to break free of the dry, all-­ encompassing Thomism that had become the status quo in reaction to the modernist crises. They took the modern theories of the day and through them returned directly to the text of the Church Fathers to create new and usually anti-systematic ways of discussing theological issues (Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456). The relationship the ressourcement movement had with avant-garde atheistic French intellectuals was fluid and fruitful. It rightly understood that Catholicism must engage with the critical theories of the day and ultimately stop fetishising Thomas Aquinas (Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456). However, as Pound points out, the influence of this stream of Catholic thought seems to be underdeveloped in modern scholarship. Critical theorists are understood as being a significant influence on many of the theologians of the time, but the resulting theological influences on critical theorists are mostly underexplored (Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456). 10

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Freudian death drive, I will claim here that Lacan returned to it via the Juanist mysticism of George Bataille. Consequently, at the heart of Lacan’s concept of the real is a partially repressed appropriation of Catholic mystical theology (Hollywood, 2002, pp. 146–170). However, with Lacan’s re-imagining of psychoanalysis, he re-interpreted this to free it from psychological experientialist connotations. Bataille dabbled in mystical theology and Gnosticism in developing his ideas of excess during the 1940s (Roudinesco, 1997, p. 96). This concept centres on the default superabundance of life, which is the default mode of existence for all things. He ontologically conceives life concerning a surplus that has to be constrained by external systems (Bataille, 1988, p. 21). During the time of formulating these notions, it is recorded that he read the aforementioned thesis on John of the Cross by Jean Baruzi (Hollywood, 2002, p. 319). Bataille took the experientialist phenomenological mysticism of Jean Baruzi and took it to its furthest limit, emptying it of doctrinal content. He is like a much more extreme poetic version of Jean Baruzi. So, whereas Baruzi saw God as an experiential excess, Bataille explicated life itself in these terms. The influence of Baruzi and John of the Cross on Bataille is pointed out by Eugene Thacker, who explains that George Bataille evokes the strange, contradictory language used by mystics like John of the Cross. For Thacker, Bataille understands darkness as an impossible existential venture into the total alterity of existence. It was not merely the absence of light or sound (2011, p.  115).11 However, the problem with Bataille’s appropriation of the mystical element of Juanist spiritual direction results in a similar problem to that of William James. All other discursive practices and facets of religious life are considered inferior to what Bataille sees as a self-emptying, fragmenting ecstatic experience that plays the centre stage of his theory. He tells us that ‘experience is fever and anguish.’ It is an experience in ‘the absolute depths of the universe’ (1988, p. 4) This impossible  Thacker further claims that Bataille expresses this understanding of darkness as excess in his mystical poem L’Archangélique where he states that ‘the excess of darkness is the flash of a star.’ This is a theme that is clearly borrowed from John of the Cross who says that the excess of God is also a dark night to the soul in this life (2011, p. 115). 11

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excess is a non-recoverable part of our world that must be spent in non-­ utilitarian, non-servile, sovereign ways. It is defined by a constant catastrophic emptying out in moments of experientialist ecstasy that can be found in sacrifice and acts of self-giving. Acts that always threaten the given order of things (Bataille, 1988, pp.  103–110).12 So, although Bataille attempts something completely radical in his conception of mysticism, he becomes trapped in the same paradigm of experientialism that defined the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. However, what Lacan is attempting in his work is something that is distinctly different. He understood the theoretical importance of Bataille’s discovery but interpreted this excess in a very different manner. Lacan understood that this fragmentary excess (what he will call the not-all) could only be understood within its relationship to the imaginary and symbolic. In other words, one cannot ever approach the real or understand its importance without considering how the vicissitudes of the signifier formulate subjects. The real (or excess) can only ever be approached in the modality of desire known as D2 rather than D1b.

The Development of Lacan’s Mystical Speech Lacan’s Subversion of Baruzi’s and Bataille’s Juanism In this section, I wish to explore the texts where we see Lacan‘s subversive development of Bataille’s ideas concerning the mystical. I will examine how Lacan reinterprets Baruzi and Bataille in his conception of the not-­ all. What will emerge is a conception of mystical speech that is both non-­ experiential and central to his understanding of psychoanalytic treatment. Lacan did not conceive the real as being radically outside the operations of the signifier. For Lacan, this excess always reveals itself in speech rather  Moreover, during this mystical limit-experience, the subject cannot say ‘they have seen God for they are nothing if God is reduced to categories of understanding.’ In other words, by virtue of this experience, one realises that mysticism works beyond God. This is a mysticism that leads to atheism in life’s excess (Bataille, 1988, p. 4). One can see in this quote that religious experience is placed at the very centre of Bataille’s theory. For the latter, there is ‘something’ that exists in excess of our sensory apparatus and so is apprehended as a type of all-encompassing void. 12

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than being outside of it (SE, XX: 22).13 I suggest that Lacan takes the apophatic tendency in Catholic mysticism—along with its theological appropriation by Bataille—and applies it directly to his adoption of structuralism as relating to his idiosyncratic conception of the Freudian unconscious. In other words, Lacan wishes to develop a concept of the mystical which considers his idea that we, as human beings, can never step outside of language. As briefly said, unlike Bataille’s version, Lacan’s concept of excess must go through the signifier. Thus, Lacan resists the intuitive pull of the imaginary regarding experimentalism. In Seminar XIX, held in 1971, we can see Lacan’s engagement with Bataille’s concept of non-knowledge— another way of talking about excess—as he develops the theoretical strands that eventually crystallize into his concept of the not-all in Seminar XX. He tells us in Seminar XIX that although Bataille once did a conference on mystical non-knowing, he was wrongly sneered at for bringing up an allegedly archaic religious conception. Lacan then says that this non-knowledge is precisely the object of analytic discourse (SE, XIX (part 2): 12). Bataille understood non-knowledge as being the central core of mystical life. Again, this is a concept that stands against all other servile operations of the self in its absolute, ecstatic, emotional

 He tells us in Seminar XX that this excess ex-sists. This means its extimacy rather than intimacy defines excess. In other words, it is both radically outside of our phenomenological range and also its most self-same intimate core. Reflecting this non-experientialist conception of the real, Lacan tells us in Seminar XII that we must locate this lack must within our use of language. He teaches us that it is mistaken ‘to dwell in lack’ since we exist in language (SE, XII: 150). ‘On habite le langage […] mais on n’habite pas le manque. Le manque, lui par contre, peut habiter quelque part.’ (SE, XII: 150). (unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale edition) Roudinesco notes that Bataille certainly influenced Lacan, but questions whether he ever made a close study of his work. She suggests that Bataille’s reading of the mystics supplied Lacan with new material that allowed him to expound his theory of jouissance. She further writes that Bataille’s conception, excess and impossibility allowed Lacan to re-interpret the concept of the real that defined his work in the 60s and 70s. (1997, pp. 135–137). Here we can see the connection between an impossible residue and its connection to an immanent excess and how it directly influences Lacan. 13

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singularity (Bataille, 1988, p.  192).14 In regard to the aforementioned ­seminar where Lacan mentions Bataille, Lacan tells his audience that they are only interested in non-knowledge because it is now in ‘chic’ (SE, XIX (part 2): 12). This, at face value, was probably a sideswipe at the academic community he was addressing for only being interested in the concept because it was then in vogue. In another sense, Lacan was also probably using the term ‘chic’ for its etymological nuance (as he often does). According to an etymological dictionary, the term is related to German Schick, Geschick, which means ‘tact, skill, aptness.’ It is also related to the Middle Low German schikken, which means ‘arrange appropriately.’ Furthermore, the term skill originates from old Norse, which means discernment and to separate (2018, p. 1). I wish to suggest that Lacan is interested in the mystical role of non-knowledge as a psycho-linguistic performative non-servile ‘skill’ that must be harnessed and used within psychoanalysis rather than interpreting it as some external experiential limit.15 Nevertheless, because of the existence of human consciousness, the warping power of the pure real presents itself as an impossible point that reveals itself through a signifier representative of it. This is what Lacan called the Thing or object a.  The concept of Sovereignty hinges on understanding objects in the economy of our desire as being entirely free from concepts of utility and use. This understanding of sovereignty is the antithesis of the concept of servility which approaches objects as things to be valued for their use. Bataille then connects this moment to knowledge and introduces his idea of ‘unknowing.’ He teaches us that knowledge is ‘work’ and so is considered a servile operation within the psychic economy. For something to be sovereign, it would have to occur in a single ecstatic moment that remains outside the boundaries of knowledge. Moreover, it is only by cancelling out the operation of the mind this moment be attained. It operates through such a ‘strong emotion that it shuts off, interrupts, or override the flow of thought’ (1988, p. 202). For Bataille the value of the mystical concerning non-­ knowing or unknowing, is the power of experience to completely shut off the intellect and to drown out the self in the moment of nihilistic experientialist joy. 15  Furthermore, knowing Lacan’s propensity for wordplay—along with the connotations of separation in the word ‘chic’—Lacan most likely wished to ‘separate’ the experientialist connotations associated with non-knowledge or unknowing. Lacan understands the very concept of experientialism as being associated with the imaginary register. So, although Lacan accepts Bataille’s argument that we must conceive ‘impossibility’ as being outside the sphere of ‘servility’ and ‘utility,’ Lacan achieves this by taking the concept outside the experiential register altogether. For Lacan, ‘excess’ and ‘impossibility’ can only be adequately understood within the non-experiential (non-imaginary) methods of psychoanalysis insofar as its techniques hinge on the subversion of the reality and pleasure principles in the dialect of desire. In other words, the analyst concerns himself with how non-­ knowledge plays an integral role within the organisation of the analysand’s linguistic world of meaning and how this element continually disrupts it. 14

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The Mystical Is Structured like a Language Scholars see Seminar XX as Lacan’s most mystical theological engagement. The text is littered with references to Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Étienne Gilson, Anders Nygren, Thomas Aquinas, John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Charles Peguy Hadewijch of Antwerp, and Angelus Silesius to name a few. It is also the seminar where scholars have argued that we can see the indirect influence of Bataille (Hollywood, 2002, pp. 140–170). During this seminar, Lacan discusses mystical discourse next to his concept of jouissance and sexuation. In this seminar, Lacan states clearly that the works of mystics have long influenced his psychoanalytic texts. Lacan locates his own work in the same genre of writing: ‘Add to that list Jacques Lacan Écrits, because it is of the same order’ (SE, XX: 76). He also states, ‘Mysticism isn’t everything that isn’t politics. It is something serious.’ The implication is that affective reduction of mystical theology is unserious (SE, XX: 76). He also says John of the Cross has a lot to teach us about this serious business (SE, XX: 76). I will argue that this serious business is synonymous with Juanist spiritual direction in the modality of desire termed D2. Seminar XX is known for the famous statement, ‘there is no such thing as a sexual relationship’ (SE, XX: 9). The relevance of this odd statement for spiritual direction, and my book, is in its re-interpretation as ‘there is no such thing as a religious experience.’16 In other words, there is no way for the modality of D1a or D1b to achieve anything other than the imaginary register. In some sense, this seminar can be seen as a kind of anti-­ Hegelian culmination. So far, the non-relationship highlighted here is a direct critique of a received interpretation of Hegel that highlights the inherent antagonism at the heart of self-relating negativity. Eyer’s highlights this here where he states:

 Lacan’s dictum, ‘there is no such thing as sexual relationship,’ further implies the corollary that ‘there is no such thing as a fusional one.’ However, he later contends in his seminars that there exists ‘some of the one.’ This implies that we can infer aspects of the social bond through our engagement with the symptom. By mis-interpreting this, I suggest that to argue that ‘there is no such thing as a religious experience’ entails that this means there is something of our experience as such that is inherently religious. 16

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We might distinguish between [Hegelian] logic and Lacan’s logic here in terms of a distinction between dialectic and paradox. While the dialectician seeks an overcoming that retrospectively reconstitutes what it has superseded at a high level of becoming[…]the object of paradox discussed by Lacan represents an impasse in such a movement. (Eyers, 2012, p. 34)

One alternative interpretation of this enigmatic and suggestive seminar is that it directly challenges Freud‘s idea of Oceanic Experience as a defining characteristic of the spiritual. Lacan believed that Freud’s narrow conception of mysticism, limited to a search for unity and completeness, failed to capture its wider significance. In contrast, Lacan aimed to reveal a mysticism that subverted such simplistic interpretations. To briefly summarise some of the findings of Seminar XX, and in the terms laid out in my argument, Lacan repudiates the modalities of speech we have termed D1a and D1b as insufficient for conceiving mystical discourse (SE, 77, 44).17 Although emptied of biological content, Lacan splits these speech modalities between our ordinary conception of the sexes. He calls these modalities of speech the All since they aim at a false object of affectological, imaginary wholeness (SE, XX: 79–80).18 However, he also suggests in this seminar and in later teachings that one can transition from these imaginary modes of speech to the non-experientialist

 Lacan teaches us that All that is produced is the result of the signifier. Also, he explains that the ‘beyond’ of being is caused by what is ‘written.’ 18  As such, and in the terms of my argument, he defines the register of D1a as the closed masculine set of subjective speech with its constitutive exception and D1b as the feminine open set with no exception. What Lacan does in this seminar, is take our categories of mystical speech—D1a, D1b—and applies them to psychological categories of masculinity and femininity. The point is that although D1a and D1b both operate differently in their relation to incompleteness, they aim at the same imaginary object in their aims. Although D1b can transition to D2 as the not-all. It will do well to remind readers of the affectological reduction of the logic of D1a and D1b to help interpret some of the main teachings of his seminar. They both function on the idea of experiential unity, regarding coming together as one to make the fusional All (SE: XX: 8, 35, 85). In this sense, the strategy of the affectological aims at the imaginary object of ‘wholeness,’ either through D1a’s neurotic, rule-laden negative affective experientialism, or D1b’s positive affective experientialism correlating to Lacan’s concept of hysteria. It is not my intention in this book to give an extended discussion of this seminar. Instead, I simply wish to demonstrate the value of the core of these teachings. For an extended discussion on the value of this seminar for theology and mystical theology please see (Chiesa, 2016). 17

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mystical speech of the not-all (SE, XX: 76, 80).19 In our neo-Juanist terms, this is the transition from intellectual, legalistic conceptualisations of the divine to affective understandings and then toward a disruptive kenotic mode of desire transcending the two in the modality of D2.20 In other words, experientialism (the imaginary) must be avoided to nurture desire. In contrast, the modality of D2—the not-all in Lacan’s parlance— is non-affectological as it reconciles itself to the futility of these twin imaginary aspects of language. God (or truth) is thus found in the very failing and disruption of these categories of epistemology (SE, XX: 83). The basis for this argument is found within a quote in Seminar XX. Here Lacan declares that mystical writings are sacred insofar as they never stop repeating failure (SE, XX: 115).21 This repetition of failure is highlighted by De Certeau, who—and obviously commenting on this passage— explains that mystical discourse constitutes an indefinite repetition of failure. It is a constant tale of stating, ‘this is not it, this is not it, this is not it’ (2015, p. 44). The signifier ‘God’ is, therefore, present not as a teleological object but as an indefinite source that always introduces more  Lacan would call this hystericising the subject. For analysis to function one needs radically subvert neurotic subjectivity by moving it to a hysterical position, and then undermine this again within the analytic process. Lacan tells us succinctly that the analyst’s goal is the ‘hystericisation of discourse.’ In other words, ‘it is the structural introduction, under artificial conditions, of the hysteric’s discourse.’ ‘This is what the hysteric’s discourse means […] Many men get themselves analysed who, by this fact alone, are obliged to pass through the hysterics discourse, since this is the law’ (SE XVII: 33). He tells us that anyone can situate themselves on this side of speech. He also tells us that mystics like John do this too (SE, XX: 76). When linking this up to his comments on mysticism in Seminar XIX—his remarks on non-knowledge—then this makes sense (SE, XIX (part 2): 12). 20  In more philosophical detail, the non-relation between these egoic modalities of speech oscillate between negative affective experientialism and positive affective experientialism before transcending both in the non-affective mystical negativism of the not-all. Lacan understands the relevance of mysticism and spiritual direction as a discipline that approaches the very failure of religious experience itself as a source of creativity. 21  ‘I will, while there is still time, point out that God is manifested only in writings that are said to be sacred. Sacred in what respect? In that they don’t stop repeating the failure—read Salomon, the master of masters, the master of feeling (senti-maître), someone of my own ilk—the failure of the attempts made by a wisdom tradition to which being is supposed to testify’ (SE, XX: 115). (Translated by Bruce Fink). ‘Je pointerai quand même, pendant qu’il en est encore temps, que Dieu ne se manifeste que des écritures qui sont dites Saintes. Elles sont Saintes en quoi ? En ce qu’elles ne cessent pas de répéter l’échec, lisez Salomon, quand même, c’est le maître des maîtres, c’est le senti-maître un type dans mon genre ! l’échec des tentatives d’une sagesse dont l’être serait le témoignage’ (SE, XX: 146). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 19

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and more ‘dissatisfaction’ in the position of the subject. This is a linguistic strategy of kenotic yearning through failure beyond the intellect and affect (De Certeau, 2015, p. 44). Lacan reflects this elsewhere by saying that this truth can only be ‘half-spoken’ insofar as the not-all is found in the ‘saying’ as opposed to the ‘said’ (SE: XX: 80). From a Lacanian perspective, mystical texts are a way of repeating failure in terms of a purified desire as the modality of desire we have termed D2. For Lacan, there is no desire without failure. It is a speech that continues beyond the p ­ leasure principle—or, in our terms, the positive affective experientialist principle.

Strategies of the Not-All At this point, I wish to draw together the strands of this discussion by relating it broadly to the previously mentioned mystical strategies of unknowing, as outlined by Tyler. So, according to Lacan, what is it that the mystics like John of the Cross teach us through this manner of speech? I will suggest that we can link this to Tyler’s formulation of mystical speech I referred to earlier. To frame his ideas in Lacanian parlance, he argues that it would be incorrect to understand mystical speech as aiming at an All beyond language, nor is it correct to reduce mystical speech to pure deconstruction. Instead, there is an interplay of emptiness in its relation to speech—this emptiness causes it to stammer: By necessity, this ‘mystic speech’ will be broken, stammering, untheoretical, and contingent. There is an incompleteness to the ‘mystic speech act,’ which is a necessary part of its existence […] I have suggested that this ‘broken down nature’ is intrinsic to the very nature of mystic speech. In examining Christian mystical writings in this way, I hope to have demonstrated that we should not look for perfection and smoothness in those writings. The very coarseness and inconsistency is what makes them alive. (Tyler, 2011, pp. 232–233)

Tyler goes on to describe how this discourse as a mystical strategy of unknowing changes our ‘worldview’ (D2) rather than offering us a metaphysical explanation of that worldview (D1a). Mystical speech operates not by giving a metaphysical object (the-all) of what lies outside the

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world. Instead, it allows different perspectives of our world through this performative speech. This is reflected by Reinhard, who writes that the analyst’s knowledge of the not-all has direct implications in the direction of treatment. Instead of using a propositional language based on the dialectic of sense and nonsense, the analyst uses ‘apophantic’ language. This is a language that directly shows and intervenes rather than telling or proposing (in Badiou & Cassin, 2017, p. XX). Reinhard correctly states that the word apophantic means to ‘show.’ The definition is rooted in Aristotle’s philosophy and has connotations of coming to conclusions through what is shown or made evidently manifest in declarative statements (in Badiou & Cassin, 2017, p. XX). However, one can further argue that this does not capture the mystical nuance and disrupting power of the not-all. The analyst shows the analysand’s repressed narrative points, which fragments their life-world. In this sense, the not-all is ‘apophatic-apophansis’: disruptive-showing. The point is that through intervening strategies, the analyst changes the field of shared relations that form the unconscious. This is a disturbance in the field of our world-­ making—it disrupts the framework where objects of the intellect and the affect appear. Considering this seminar, Lacan’s whole point of the analytic cure is about moving people to this subjective position where they can engage in this form of mystical speech. The Psychoanalyst Brousse, in her book on feminine jouissance, reflects this directly where she states: Passing from analysand to analyst is to mobilise the logic of the not-all, a plunge into the unknown. Homophonic in the French, you may read this as you will: “un” or “One.” In fact, it is a matter of agreeing to occupy that place which J.-A Miller, in his 2007–2008 course, characterised as the place de plus personne—the place of no-one anymore. The void, the null…. Noting here that truth is related to Jouissance he proposed, “the truth says of itself je me demens, je demens, je me defile, je me defends—I’m ducking, I’m dodging, I’m flitting, I’m fending off. (Brousse, 2022, p. 66)

What is essential, for Lacan, in talking about this specific mode of mystical speech, is his claim that he has evaded the ‘botched job’ of William James and other psychologists (SE, XX: 56, 77). Again, the problem is

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the split between the intellectual and the affective. Lacan conceives of the mystical in a way that takes it the out of this binary. For Lacan, the Juanist-mystical is another relation to the signifier and not a relation beyond the signifier (SE, XX: 81).22 This is where I think Lacan took Baruzi and Bataille to task. Lacan was against the psychologization of the mystics and rectified this with a psychoanalytic understanding. These two positions are the positions I have outlined in my book: 1. D1a: an attempt to systematise John’s teaching under the guise of pure intellectual doctrine and ensuing dogmatic formalisation. 2. D1b: the attempt to understand his spirituality regarding positive affective experientialism. The third position is what I have termed D2. If D1a and D1b are modes of desire that are typified by the affective and intellectual demand to attain the whole, then D2 is the subversion of this affectological tendency. In other words, if the logic of D1 is located at the level of the pleasure principle, then D2 is to be understood as a desire that takes us beyond it—a desire beyond experientialism. This desire beyond the experiential shakes up and disrupts the shared relations with the world. This listening and speech technique is predicated on producing mystical discourse as free association. What I will demonstrate in the final chapters is how a Lacanian Juanist spiritual direction aims at moving those who practice D1 (A & B) into exercising the modality of speech I have termed D2 through this mode of listening. They do this by subverting the expectation of religious experience. By holding religious experience in abeyance, they create the conditions for the directee to continue to speak in a way that leads them to the truth of their desire. I will interpret the todo-­ nada, which John sees as the goal of spiritual direction, as being the not-­ all of Lacan. It is the non-affectological, theo-poetic register of human speech. More accurately, it demonstrates how a directee’s speech is always theo-poetic when removed from the register of affectological, imaginary processes to the extent they engage in a linguistic negative-capability as  He states that the mystical speaker has a relation to the signifier insofar as we remember that there is no such thing as the Other of the Other. There is no ‘beyond’ language. 22

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non-affective mystical negativism, which is the modality of desire, I have termed D2.23 As Lacan says in The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious in speaking on free association and its relation to the operation of metaphor: One word for another: this is the formula for metaphor, and if you are a poet [a subject], you will make it into a game and produce a continuous stream, nay, a dazzling weave of metaphors.24 (E: 422)

I will demonstrate this theo-poetic aspect of the subject by exploring Lacan’s concept of the four discourses in relation to what I have termed D2. Lacan saw John’s spiritual direction and mystical speech as the analyst’s properly theo-poetic discourse. Lacan’s understanding of the psycho-­ mystical operation of the analytic discourse is about demonstrating this new form of subjectivity as existing in everyone. When divested of imaginary attachments, each person’s language is theo-poetic insofar as it is the intersection between the signifier, the signified and its inherent antagonistic kernel. Just like the Juanist spiritual director who aimed to move people to the todo-nada, which existed at the top of Mount Carmel, Lacan wished to move people from the hysterical position to the analytic position of the not-all. Overall, Lacan is mapping out that how we approach the mystical speaker is crucially important for the existence of the mystic. Like the quantum observer effect, the observation or incorrect intervention into mystical discursive practice changes its dynamic. Lacan says that psychoanalysis differs from the practice of psychology precisely because observing those who practice it attempt not to confuse it with the imaginary aspect of existence (SE, XX: 83). Hence, Lacan seems to be suggesting between his comments on spiritual direction in the 1950s and his comments on mystics in Seminar XX  The term negative capability was coined by Keats it is ‘the capacity of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’ (Keller, 2014, p. 5). This is an excellent description of the not-all as a theo-poetic strategy in spiritual direction. Although I would add that one must apply this to the experientialist aspect of our existence also. 24  ‘Un mot pour un autre, telle est la formule de la métaphore, et si vous êtes poète, vous produirez, à vous en faire un jeu, un jet continu, voire un tissu éblouissant de métaphores’ (E: 507). (Seuil Edition). 23

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that one should approach mystical discourse and spiritual direction not concerning psychological ‘observation’ that would reduce it to the level of the imaginary. Instead, he suggests that we should approach it in a way to nurture its existence as a mode of listening and speaking akin to psychoanalysis. In summary, this section has aimed to demonstrate that the language of Juanist spiritual direction, in its relation to Lacanian analysis, is to be categorised as the language of the not-all as opposed to the All of the other types of discourse. The first part focused on the influence of Baruzi and Bataille. The former introduced Lacan to John of the Cross‘s work, while the latter helped reconceive mysticism in a much more radical sense of excess. These Juanist elements contributed to Lacan’s concept of mystical speech. First, however, I have argued that Lacan was directly aware of the experientialist tendencies in these methodologies and sought to recover a sense of mystical speech relating to his conception of the unconscious, symbolic castration and sexuation. I then demonstrated Lacan’s concept of mystical speech as a disruptive, discursive method transcending the affectological tendency to either reduce it to dry intellectualism or sentimental expressionism. What follows is an exposition on how one moves subjects from D1a and D1b to the discourse of D2 as outlined above—the goal of Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction.

Lacan’s Concept of Discourse Toward a Juanist-Lacanian Form of Spiritual Direction What I suggest in the following pages should only be considered one possible way of doing spiritual direction. Indeed, throughout this book, I may have argued against an experiential approach or a legalistic approach, but I only do this as a corrective to what I see is a prevalence of these models. Having said that, there are times when a director needs to focus on the experiential aspect of spirituality just as they may need to have recourse to rules and doctrine. I do not discount or intend to devalue these perspectives. Instead, I wish to offer another mode of spiritual direction. This one would work outside these coordinates in the realm of

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uncertainty. It was a realm articulated by John of the Cross in his writings and spiritual direction, and I believe Lacan also used it in his analytic practice. I hope to demonstrate that there are ways of practising spiritual direction that takes language seriously by allowing oneself to become attuned to how language operates. Consequently, language as a medium for exploring theological issues has remained at the level of systematic theology while virtually being ignored in the pragmatic approach of spiritual direction. In other words, pastoral theology has missed the linguistic turn. My book aims to correct that omission. Lacan is one of the few psychoanalysts who understood the formative power of language. Moreover, he did not just understand this at the level of academic theory; he utilised this guiding methodology in the living, breathing practice of his clinic. In these final two chapters, I will demonstrate an attempt to trace the practical outlines of a linguistic approach to spiritual direction informed by Lacan‘s psycho-linguistic analysis. However, I also want to ensure that this conception of a linguistically focused spiritual direction should not be approached through a post-structuralist methodology. This would be a method that reduces everything to language games. The consequence of this approach is that religion and spirituality become reduced to a merely private matter which is the product of an influx of discursive practices. Instead, my focus will be that although we perform language, language also performs us via the unconscious. This would be a spiritual direction that humbles itself regarding the autonomy of language and how it shapes us. Furthermore, it would understand that spiritual direction can interrupt these unconscious linguistic flows by introducing radical uncertainty. In Sophia Park’s book on Christian Spiritual direction entitled Border-­ Crossing Spirituality (2016), there is an excerpt that focuses on the first steps toward a Lacanian-focused Christian spiritual direction. She articulates that spiritual guidance should be a borderland space embracing ambiguity and uncertainty. She writes that in the ‘safe space’ of spiritual direction, three aspects exist of what she calls ‘the seeker.’ These are the three registers of Lacanian psychoanalysis, the real, the symbolic and the imaginary. She then states that the ‘psychologist’ [sic] believes these three elements are the intersecting aspects constituting human subjectivity. She goes on to explain that the real represents the unknowable experiential

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element. It is ‘an area of infinite negation and is a hidden dimension of truth.’ She then suggests that the real ‘can be God or any mystery of life.’ Moreover, the other two elements are explained as the registers through which the subject creates meaning. The symbolic becomes synonymous with culture, and the imaginary is an experience of liberation ‘from social norms.’ (2016, p.  75). The problem with this interpretation is that it again reduces the real to the level of wordless experience while also reducing the symbolic to cultural rules. It also reduces the imaginary to ‘experiences of liberation.’ She then argues that a Lacanian-informed spiritual direction operates by mediating a ‘balance’ between the symbolic and imaginary register as if the real is the halfway point between these two extremes (Park, 2016, p. 75). I argue that this interpretation is encapsulated within an imaginary understanding of the three registers. They seem to operate in a dialectical balance when what is at stake is a process of perpetual antagonism and breaking down of experience. In contrast, I claim that there is a way of understanding the work of Lacan without falling into a discourse of experientialism. I will do this by working through Lacan’s articulation of the Four Discourses. So far, I have demonstrated that Lacan and John have significant points of convergence as both emphasise the transformative power of human desire. Furthermore, I have argued that both spiritual direction and psychoanalysis aim at facilitating this desire without putting objects in its way. Indeed, as we have seen, people come to psychoanalysis expecting it to operate in a certain way. Some people come expecting it to function according to their language game. On the contrary, Lacan wanted to show the analysand the game of language itself and the tragic dimension of its autonomous, unconscious operation. Moreover, psychoanalysis is concerned with trading in demand for desire. If psychoanalysis is to let the unconscious speak—or, more precisely, to allow desire to speak—it must aim to subvert demand at every moment. Lacan wanted to underline the fact that human discourse was virtually an impossible task as we are, at every moment, barred by the real of human language. This ‘barring’ fragments our very being (into conscious, unconscious signifier and signified) and separates us from each other. In communicating, we essentially say more than what we are trying to say and sometimes less than what we want. Thus, language—at

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different times—is both an excess and a deficit (Fink, 2011). We experience this when trying to tell our partner that we love them or quickly attempting to correct ourselves at a business meeting after realising that a glib pun could be taken as drastically offensive because it was said out of context. Nevertheless, we find the unconscious comes into play at these moments of excess or deficit. Our language is essentially created from a battery of signifiers that we use at a given time to construct our meaning. However, the unconscious predetermines meaning, which limits meaning by selecting certain signifiers over others.

The Not-All and the Four Discourses Since the 1950s, Lacan stressed that the unconscious is intrasubjective, but it was only in the 1960s that Lacan began to speak of a discourse in the sense of a social bond (Evans, 1996, p. 45). In attempting to explain how this works, Lacan stated that four modes of discourse operate on a scheme of communication based on impossibility and impotence. He developed this theory in 1968  in Seminar XVII and also in his Autres Écrits: Radiophone (Schroeder, 2008, p.  1). Moreover, these four discourses are predicated on his formula of sexuation. Reinhard, in the introduction to the work There’s No Such Thing as a Sexual Relationship: Two Lessons on Lacan, writes that all of the discourses, ranging from the master discourse, the university discourse, the hysterical discourse and finally, the analytic discourse, are inscribed in mathemes that all operate on the empty space discovered in Lacan’s concept of the not-all—the absence of a sexual relationship (in Badiou & Cassin, 2017, p. xvi). Likewise, Lacan’s foremost interpreter Slavoj Žižek argues that the concept of sexuation frames these four discourses. We aim to move the analysand from the discourses of the master (the All) to the discourse of the not-all (1998, pp. 74–118). The analyst must move the analysand from masculine ways of speaking to feminine ways of speaking, which eventually results in the speech of mystics as defined by Lacan.

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Agent

Other

------Truth

255

------// Product/Loss

Fig. 6.2  The Lacanian discourse model

During this time, Lacan created a representation of communication to demonstrate the relationship between the analyst and analysand and how the real, symbolic, and imaginary come into play (See Fig. 6.2): In this representation, the agent in communicating with the other always loses something in the process of analysis (an impossibility) that falls irretrievably below the bar (SE, XVII: 93). This impossibility of relation is Lacan’s exposition on the lack of a sexual relation mapped out in Seminar XX. This product or loss then operates as an impotent, excessive truth that cannot be realised in conscious discourse (it cannot cross the bar above it). Within these four positions are also four modes of communication that are represented by algebraic symbols; they are as follows: (S1 master signifier) representative of the symbolic. The structuring point of all discourse. (S2 knowledge, which can only make sense of itself via its relation to the master signifier) representative of meaning (Object a: the object of Desire which allows us to speak from the outset) representative of the real ($ the split subject of the unconscious, which results from the impossibility and impotence of human language). The subject as the intersection of the real, symbolic, and imaginary. The following is a representation of the master discourse, which shows that these four symbols occupy the four positions:

Discourse of the Master In Fig. 6.3, we can see S1 (the master) is in the position of the agent who communicates to the other S2 (who is now in the position of the

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(Master) S1

S2 (Slave)

--------(Subject) $

--------//

a (Cause)

Fig. 6.3  The master discourse

subservient). The employee (Slave), in working for the master, creates surplus value that is utilised by the master (SE, XVII: 21). However, in this process, the slave attains new knowledge about the situation that the master does not and cannot care about at all (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). This product leads to the truth of the situation. This is basically the split subject of hegemony who knows the castration of the master but acts as if they should not or do not know. In analysis, this would be the process of the neurotic coming to the analyst and demanding that she give him jobs to do or rules to follow to order their lives. Moreover, it represents how neurotics ignore unconscious truth (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). This, however, naturally leads to the repetition of the symptom and ultimately disguises the analysand’s desire. The modality of desire here is linear insofar as it says, ‘fix me, I will work for you, and you will give me what I need.’

Discourse of the University In Fig.  6.4, we see in this discourse that the agent is occupied by S2, implying that knowledge now takes the place of the master (SE, XVII: 104). The Other is then occupied by the object of desire implying that scholars in universities work tirelessly in creating new objective truths to back up the position of that knowledge (Žižek, 1998, pp.  74–113). However, this knowledge is secretly backed by the authoritarian truth of S1. One can argue that the university discourse legitimises the master discourse through rational argument (SE, XVII: 104). The product of this process is the divided subject since the absolute focus on objective knowledge excludes subjective knowledge altogether. One can see this division between the humanities and the sciences (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). From an analytic perspective, this can be seen in the process

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whereby the analysand tries to intellectualise everything and places a demand on the analyst to do the same. Thereby what takes place is a type of neurotic retreat into the imaginary safety of the rational. It is defined by the hope that everything can be explained or explained away (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). Again, this logic is linear; it says I desire that you give me the (rational) truth of my symptom.

Discourse of the Hysteric In Fig. 6.5 we can see that the split subject operates as the agent who perpetually interrogates the master and their repressed weakness (SE, XVII: 94). The hysterical discourse is the opposite of the university discourse in that the master is asked to justify their knowledge in relation to their production of affects (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). The product of this discourse is a piece of limited satisfactory knowledge. However, since this knowledge operates at the level of S2, it must continuously reproduce other S2s. The analysand’s desire instigates this continuous process for the ‘real’ that sits in the left-hand corner. In analysis, this can be seen in the process whereby the analysand begins to challenge the analyst’s knowledge (Žižek, 1998, pp.  74–113). The analysand articulates new symptoms and demands that the analyst produce new knowledge in response. This represents the transition to feminine subjectivity because desire becomes reflexive. It is reflexive because it says to the other, I desire (Knowledge) S2

a (Surplus)

--------(Master Signifier) S1

------//

$ (Divided Subject)

Fig. 6.4  The university discourse

(Split Subject) $

S1 (Master)

------(Cause) a

-----//

Fig. 6.5  The hysterics discourse

S2 (Knowledge -Jouissance)

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you insofar as I am the source of your knowledge. I desire you insofar as you can objectify me. What is at stake in this discourse is not so much knowledge itself, but the affective enjoyment that knowledge brings (Fink, 1996, p. 133).

Discourse of the Analyst We see in this discourse (See Fig. 6.6) that the analyst plays the part of the pure desirative object of the analysand (XVII: 35). By taking this position, the analyst allows the unconscious to speak in the slipped words and bungled actions of the patient (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). By doing this, the analysand works to make new connections and eventually discovers the operating master signifiers in the symptoms of their life. S2 (knowledge) is in the place of truth in this discourse (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). However, one must not mistake this knowledge for the same knowledge produced in the university discourse, as it is the knowledge of the unconscious. The analysand produces this knowledge through being exposed to their own master signifiers that are then reintegrated into the historic, symbolic coordinates of their life (Žižek, 1998, pp. 74–113). The transition to the not-all occurs when they realise that the initial misrecognition of knowledge in the analyst was part of the analytic process itself in the assumption of their desire. To frame these four discourses in the parlance of this book. The first three discourses are in the discourses of D1, while the analyst discourse is framed in terms of D2 (See Fig. 6.7): The process of analysis can be understood as hystericizing the subject. Therefore, for analysis to be successful, there needs to be a process of moving the subject outside of the purview of the discourse of the master and university and into the hysterical discourse (SE, XVII: 33). From there, (Analyst) a

$ (Analysand)

-----(Knowledge) S2 Fig. 6.6  The analysts discourse

------//

S1 (New Master Signifier)

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Discourses of D1

259

Discourses of D2

Master discourse. (a) University discourse. (a) (b)Hysterical discourse

Analysts discourse

Fig. 6.7  Movement to the analyst’s discourse

one can utilise the methodologies of the analytic discourse. I wish to suggest that this communication model can demonstrate some of people’s prevailing attitudes toward spiritual direction. Moreover, by misreading Lacan through John, I want to tentatively suggest that the work of the spiritual director is also to subvert the prevailing discourse in which one is trapped in. Furthermore, it is only by shifting the directee to the ‘contemplative discourse’ that one can further the analysand’s desire.

A Fifth Discourse? It is important to note that Lacan spoke about the Capitalist Discourse also. However, Lacan said this was not a discourse (Lacan, 1990, p. 13). The idea is that whereas the other discourses offer a non-relation—an impossibility—for discourse to take place, the Capitalist discourse closes this down; it closes down the space necessary for discourse to operate. Isabel Millar has done excellent work in showing how the prevalence of the gadget and ‘lathouse’ works as a substitute for object-a in such a discourse (see Millar, 2018). However, to talk about this discourse apropos spirituality as such—and spiritual direction—would take my focus away from the conceptual focus of this work, which is on desire and constitutive negativity. To address the question properly, there would need to be a deeper focus on the concept of positivity and a shift in the conceptual apparatus of this book’s focus. I address these questions in a forthcoming edited volume with Duane Rousselle entitled Murphy MG (2023) Apophatic Psychoanalysis: The Plenitude and Ethics of the Negative. In: Rousselle D, Murphy MG (eds) Positivity & Negativity in Psychoanalysis Theory, Ethics & the Clinic, 1st ed. Routledge. It is sufficient to say that the fifth discourse—the Capitalist Discourse—operates as a conceptual

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background in which the transformation of spiritual direction into a digitally diffuse form of self-help coincident with digitality. As of writing, Google is debuting a new digital well-being experiment that regulates our online enjoyment. This initiative was built on their previous experiments with digital well-being: this was a showcase for developing tools that help create a better relationship between oneself and technology. Also, loan companies offer a ‘mobile meditation experience’ to encourage mindfulness among employees during the workday. Thrive Global is trying to end stress and burnout through positive content and resources distributed digitally to employees through apps. Alongside this, we see the proliferation of inspirational memes and self-­ help apps hawked through social media networks such as Facebook. It is common to see adverts telling us that a mental health professional is waiting to speak to us about our problems just a few taps away. And with the advent of OpenAI software, we will soon have our very own tailored spiritual director who can feed us inspirational digitally curated experiential wisdom amidst isolating brutality.25 Spiritual direction is now a part of screen capitalism. The smartphone is an extension of ourselves and seemingly an extension of the soul. The screen captures our attention and monetises us by creating the perpetual desire to write and, in turn, to be written for consumption by others.26

 he Four Contemplative Discourses T of Juanist-­Lacanian Spiritual Direction The Demand for Rules and Direction of Conscience In this discourse, we can see that there is a need to see the director as a rule-maker (See Fig. 6.8):  ‘Ask Eckhart is a Spiritual Artificial Intelligence chat program. It helps you find answers to spiritual, emotional, and philosophical questions’ (Ask Eckhart Team, 2023). 26  In later writing, I wish to argue that a reductive concept of experientialism-as-writing is at the core of these modern adaptive forms of spirituality. Furthermore, this truncated form of spirituality is now utilised to harvest data from subjects in their desperate search for experience. 25

6  The Mystical Speech of Lacan 

(Director as Master) S1

S2 (Unformed Directee)

--------(Alienated Subject) $

261

--------//

a (Mystical DesireD2)

Fig. 6.8  Dogmatic discourse D1a

Lacan’s master discourse naturally inspires this dogmatic discourse, but John’s writings also inspire it. There is a definite tendency for many to reduce spiritual direction to mere morality. As mentioned earlier, this took place in the seventeenth century with misinterpretations of John’s work at the hand of theologians who arguably reduced the radical message of Christian spiritual direction to one of crass moral integration (McGinn, 2017, p. 245). One of the reasons for this is due to the aforementioned interpretation of Grace as being beyond experience. Hence, the only signifiers that represented its presence were examples of revelation and moral doctrine leading to evocations of piety. It is easy to understand why many seeking out masters would be attracted to the monastic life in John’s time. One can easily imagine a zealous student seeking out the Carmelite monastic life, hankering for following austere life grounding rules. Furthermore, according to Lacan’s understanding of the master discourse, it is by following the rules of the master that one produces satisfaction that grounds them in a tentative certainty. However, as successful as this process is in creating an obedient Christian, something will always feel lacking for the directee; this is the unconscious realisation that spirituality cannot be reduced to mere moralism. Today this tendency is found in those who come to spiritual direction who mistake the discipline for catechetical training or see it as spiritual legalism. Following John and Lacan, one should resist this demand placed on a director to give rules to the directee. Indeed, it is only by frustrating these demands that one can allow them to detect the reality of their own desire. An example of this can be seen in the popularity of the “spiritual guidance” of the likes of Jordan Peterson and his 12 rules for life (Peterson, 2018). His work is seen as functioning as a spiritual direction in modern times. Drawing on a range of philosophical, religious, and psychological

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sources, Peterson offers a set of practical guidelines for individuals seeking to navigate the challenges of contemporary life. By emphasising the importance of personal responsibility, the pursuit of meaning, and the cultivation of virtues such as honesty, courage, and compassion, Peterson’s work can be seen as offering a kind of ethical guidance for individuals seeking to improve their lives and make a positive impact on the world. Peterson’s work often draws on theological, spiritual, and philosophical themes, which can be understood as offering guidance for individuals seeking to make sense of the world and their place in it. However, it is important to note that Peterson’s work has been criticised for its controversial and exclusionary views and tendency to reinforce traditional social structures and values.

The Demand for Knowledge Doctrinal discourse (See Fig. 6.9) roughly corresponds to Lacan’s notion of the university discourse. Within this scheme, knowledge takes the place of the master. Spiritual direction demonstrates that one has learned the specific theological implications of a particular teaching. This discourse usually takes place when people mistake academic knowledge for spirituality. Yet, writing from a personal perspective, I have seen many earnest students who embark upon a course in theology to strengthen their faith, only to leave the course as it does not bear the fruit they expected. Indeed, rather than strengthen their faith, the reduction to objective historical or philosophical knowledge subverts their expectations. McIntosh rightly points out that there should be a natural coherence between mystical theology and academic theology. Still, mystical theology’s specific role is to subvert academia’s tendency to totalise their knowledge (McIntosh, 1998, pp. 39–75). Again, the spiritual director would (Teacher as Guardian of Knowledge) S2

a (Directee who Produces D1a)

--------(Director still as Master) S1

Fig. 6.9  Doctrinal discourse D1a

------//

$ (Subject > Theological Knowledge)

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aim to frustrate these demands for knowledge. The spiritual director would do well to cast doubt on the certainty one attributes to such theological knowledge. One should question its place within the economy of the directee’s life. If the directee places this knowledge on a pedestal, then the director must throw such certainty into doubt.

The Demand to Fill the Affections This discourse is probably the most prevalent today. Its basic structure sees the director’s role as a purveyor and interpreter of spiritual goods (See Fig. 6.10): Demands are placed on the director to demonstrate his credentials, whether through past testimonies from other clients or prestigious awards. Here, there is a healthy disrespect for the director as a master in this discourse. Other demands are usually found as clarifications of experience: ‘if I do A, B and C will I experience X, Y and Z?’ Alternatively, it could be, ‘I have experienced X, what does X mean!? Tell me.’ Unlike the discourse of doctrine, the directee does not mistake spiritual direction for academic knowledge. Instead, spiritual direction is judged at the level of experience. It entails understanding mystical theology as superior to academic theology. But equally involves understanding ‘mysticism’ at a purely experiential level. This consists in equating the discipline with scholars like William James, who would base the institutional doctrinal element of religion on this noetic experience. This would go hand in hand with consistent interpretation and re-interpretation of these mystical experiences. One can also detect this in the writings of Friedrich von Hügel, who claimed that the mystical/experiential aspect of religion is the most important (Leonard, 1997). The problem here is that although the (Directee as Interrogator) $

S1 (Director as Interrogated)

------(Cause of our Desire) a

-----//

S2 (Producer of Experiential Content D1b)

Fig. 6.10  Experiential discourse in spiritual direction D1b

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director might supply the directee with objects of emotional certainty S2, they can never exist at the level of S1. The process will thus become a constant hysterical demand for these noetic objects. As stated earlier in this book, John of the Cross would not understand spiritual direction regarding searching for objects of emotional gratification. On the contrary, he would understand the discipline concerning disruption and the stripping away of emotional certainties for God’s Grace to work within us. The director is to resist this demand for emotional certainty. He is to understand the therapeutic value of the directee demanding that objects be offered and interpreted. Yet, by reflecting their own discourse back at them—and intervening carefully within their demands—the directee will transition to the contemplative discourse. Throughout this book, I might have sounded like I brushed feelings off as inconsequential. This is not what I intend. I hoped to demonstrate that an instant recourse to feelings can disguise the larger symbolic structure in which they are located (Fink, 2011, p. 1). Indeed, feelings can change from one minute to the next and can sometimes become a distraction. In the course of both Lacan’s and John’s writing, we have seen a suspicion of ‘affects’ and how they can distract us from our desire. Sometimes a directee can come to direction and produce feelings to appease the director. In giving these feelings to the director to inspect, the directee then expects feedback through confirmation, affirmation, and critique. In this process, we see a sort of mirror-like reflection in which feelings are bounced back and forth between the directee and director and the more profound truth of how these emotional objects function in the field of the directee’s larger linguistic alignment are ignored.

The Desire for Truth This discourse (See Fig. 6.11) roughly corresponds with Lacan’s notion of the Analyst Discourse. For this discourse to work, the directee must be hystericized. There must be demands put on the director if he is to subvert them after all. In other words, there has to be a point when the directee has come to look at the value of experientialism to move beyond it. One must look at the substance for the demand of experientialism. At the heart of this method is a demand for certainty and security.

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$ (Directee)

(Director) a

-----(New Ways of Speaking about God) S2

265

------//

S1 (New way of Relating to God)

Fig. 6.11  Contemplative discourse D2

Moreover, the only way to get desire to flourish is to counter this experientialist demand. The whole point of the Dark Night of the Soul is to drive through beyond this tendency. It must be said that this form of discourse is not about throwing aside experience altogether. Instead, it fundamentally questions the role of positive affective experientialism within the directee’s discourse. It is about placing the ambiguity of the signifier before the false plenum of experientialist certainty. So, whereas the directee questions the validity of a given master concerning a specific body of doctrinal knowledge, which also involves placing demands on him for emotional experience, the Contemplative Discourse would turn this questioning around, aiming it at the directee. By doing this, one would confront the directee with their desire as they begin to see the structure of their demands for experiential, emotional certainty. Learning about their speech about God shakes up their worldview and creates new ways of seeing themselves in relation to Him. In other words, by intervening in the symbolic register, we create disruptions in their imaginary. From a Lacanian perspective, this is part of the definition of desire insofar as it is not some metaphysical, emotional energy. Instead, it is a structure predicated on a linguistic relation in which we are located (Zupanĉiĉ, 2000, pp. 1–6). We can only see this desire fleetingly in how we speak when it is reflected back at us. It is also why Lacan talks about the Law and the desire to be the same. He even refers to Saint Paul by saying one desires through the law. This is because prohibition causes desire as castration in the symbolic is what causes object a to fall out of us and becomes the cause of desire (SE, VII: 83) (Evans, 1996, pp. 128–129).27 Having our desire revealed to us is a process of seeing the structure in which affects 27

 ‘We would not have known what sin was had it not been for the law’ [Romans: 7: 7, 8].

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and symptoms are located. Lacan believed that one does this not by getting rid of one’s fantasies but by identifying directly with that fantasy which structures our reality. The closer we see this fantasy and how it acts as an imaginary screen for object a, our relationship to this structure changes. Richard Boothby sums this up succinctly. He writes that traversing the fantasy is not the same as abandoning psychological illusions and somehow attaining a direct connection with objective reality. Instead, he argues that analysis is concerned with the total opposite. Through the analysand identifying with the fantasy of fantasies, they confront the very limit which creates conceptions of reality. This traversal consequently means confronting the subject with the structuring of symbolic coordinates, which allows them to tarry with the real. By bringing them face to face with this limit, one shakes up the set of signifiers coagulated around this object to facilitate subjective psychological reconstitution. One cannot destroy the fundamental fantasy but can destroy secondary fantasies by identifying with this primal fantasy (2015, p. 21). We are brought to see the pure structural relationship of the fundamental fantasy only by emptying it of aspects of the imaginary. From there, we can allow other symbolic coordinates to arise. This can only happen over a prolonged period by slowly reflecting the directee’s speech back at them until they see an underlying fundamental pattern where their subjective truth is revealed to them. Similarly, this is why John talks about the desire and love of God and the denudation of the affects and intellect. John notes that the active way of the spirit comprises an effect on the three faculties of the subject, the intellect, the memory, and the will. He argues that this occurs through activating the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity. These faculties aim at a proper supernatural object which is God. We are told that by engaging these virtues through supernatural purgative properties, this form of spiritual direction causes a void in each of these faculties: ‘faith in the intellect, hope in the memory and charity in the will.’ He continues by telling us that the intellect is perfected in the apophatic darkness of faith, the memory in the emptiness of hope, and the will in its emptiness of every affection (AC II. 6. 1). For John, faith is the substance of things hoped for, but these things are not manifest to the intellect. Following Aquinas, John explains that if these things of certitude were made manifest to the intellect, then there

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would be no faith. The paradox is that the more certain one becomes in faith, the more obscure it becomes to the intellect (AC II. 6. 2). He further teaches us that hope hollows out the memory concerning all earthly and heavenly objects. To us, hope always aims at an unpossessed object, for if we possessed this said object, there would no longer be any hope. (AC II. 6. 3). He also claims that charity causes an emptiness regarding the affections. Moreover, charity’s operation withdraws from aiming the affections from things of the world and toward God (AC II. 6. 4). John’s spiritual direction, then, is entirely anti-intuitive in its conception of truth on the subjective structures of the soul. It goes against the common idea that spirituality is the affective counterpart to a theological, intellectual relationship with God. It is an exposition of D2 as opposed to D1a and D1b. In this sense, at the level of structure, it is the same as Lacan’s conception of psychoanalysis in the most radical sense that both aim at a conception of truth that relates to a triadic structure of human consciousness. Furthermore, both reject outright an understanding of desire located purely at the experiential level. Both thinkers believe we only become the subject proper when an antagonistic object is accounted for. For John, in the field of spiritual direction, it is God. While for Lacan, in the process of psychoanalysis, it is the real. John is interested in the pure relation between ourselves and God, emptied of objects that hinder it. In the end, what is revealed to us in John’s kenotic process is the fundamental structure of our relation to God and nothing more. As Lacan would say, there is no getting rid of the fantasy, there is no absorption into God that annuls our difference, but there is a new subject that relates to God differently. In both cases, in the analytic and contemplative discourse, what is at stake is a change in subjective structure, not a drive toward certainty and understanding. This is a change in one’s perspective of the world and God. To confront this ‘fundamental relation,’ the director’s task is to undo the directee’s relationship to meaning. It is to reduce the knots that weave narrative to narrative into hollow points which threaten to tear down the entire edifice. I will argue that such discourse aims to help the directee move their speech from the logic of the All or Whole to the language of the ‘hole’ (or not-all), as explained earlier. The final chapter of

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Discourses of D1

Discourse of D2

Dogmatic Discourse. (a) Doctrinal Discourse (a) (b)Experiential Discourse

Contemplative Discourse

Fig. 6.12  Movement to the contemplative discourse

this book will offer a more detailed exposition of this type of discourse and how to practice it. To frame these forms of spiritual direction, the following table will help readers (See Fig. 6.12): A Juanist Lacanian model of spiritual direction aims to move the directee from the discourses of D1 (A & B) to the speech of D2 by hystericizing the subject. Certainly, John tells us that spirituality starts from the premise that in thinking about God’s desire, we must first understand God’s desire for us (Tyler, 2011, p. 146). To move to the contemplative discourse, one has to get the directee to desire through the Other. This entails that if the directee communicates in the dogmatic or doctrinal discourse, then the director moves them to the experiential discourse. John tells us the importance of this stage. He notes that to understand the beginner’s stage of spiritual direction, directees should engage in discursive reflection, which participates in the imagination and affection. Moreover, the director should supply the directee with material that facilitates this. John is thus entirely clear that this sort of spiritual direction is necessary for cultivating the eventual arising of the passive night. In other words, the director should encourage experientialism precisely to problematise it later (LF 3. 32). From here, one can move to a discursive position of problematising the concept of positive affective experientialism as one engages in the concept of an apophatic practice that questions not only ideals about intellect but also the affect. This is done by reflecting the structure of the directee’s desire in their own speech in a way that short-circuits imaginary demand. It is important to point out here that the same method of reflecting speech back at the directee happens, like in analysis, at all given points, whether in dogmatic or doctrinal modes of discourse.

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The point is that moving them to the experientialist discourse will be easier to generate material since it puts the director in the strongest position as ‘the subject who is supposed to know’ (SE, XI: 267). In other words, the demand for the director to deliver to the directee is stronger in the experientialist position than in other positions. Consequently, due to the structure of the relationship and how this necessitates the directee engaging subjectively in their own speech (they will speak because they demand something), the outcome of subverting this demand will—by reflecting the directee’s discourse—ultimately be more effective and thus aid the transition to what we have called the contemplative discourse. We tend to think of the apophatic process as only applying to mystics and a sort of end point where we leave language behind. However, people can also think of language as just words representing things. Against this perspective, I have aimed to suggest, following John and Lacan, that we take a wider view of language. I also wish to suggest that this apophatic process does not just take place in some faraway place at the end of language. Instead, it happens right in the communication between the director and the directee. The apophatic singularity is found in linguistic ambiguity and uncertainty in all speech. Even when something is said that seems entirely concrete and certain, we know that this is an illusion of language. Thus sometimes, it is more helpful to show the inherent ambiguity of a statement we assume to be concrete. The apophatic does not just empty out; it also warps and makes things strange. Moreover, in this anti-intuitive strangeness, the multiplicity of lost narratives exist as the very breadth of our desire.

Summary In discovering the concept of the not-all, we see that Lacan has discovered a model of speaking by which we can understand mystical speech as the theo-poetic. This reflects what Alan Jones states in the preface of Margret Guenther’s work Holy Listening. He writes that the work of spiritual direction lies in finding the hidden poetry in the prosaic of our lives. Moreover, it is in realising that it is in our response to everyday events that the divine lies open to us. For Jones, language is either poetry or

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prose, and the work of spiritual direction is to help the directee move from the prosaic register to the poetic register, for it is here that the divine truly reveals itself (1999, p. ix). Likewise, from a Lacanian Juanist perspective, we can approach this injunction by understanding the importance of moving them from a mode of speech we have properly called the contemplative discourse. This is where directees can realise the poetry in their own speech. directors do this by piercing the rhetorical defences of the ego so directees can understand the properly metaphorical operation of the unconscious to identify with their desires. However, this interpretation of our language being in the modality of D2, the not-all, does not mean a retreat into a positive experientialist understanding of the poetic. It does not mean that language comes to represent a sublime unrepresentable emotional reality that is only demonstrable metaphorically (E: 260). In this case, this would be a poetics of the affect, which operates at the level of the imaginary register. Instead, to understand our language as theo-poetic is to understand that there is, after the suspension of the ego, only the poetry of the unconscious. That is to say, there is only metaphor insofar as there is the infinite sliding of one signifier into another signifier. Furthermore, realising our desire is less about it being some kind of affective energy but rather the hard work of reflectively engaging in this poetic core of ourselves whereby we can reinterpret the knots of our own personal narrative, which make no sense to us. This is why Lacan said this analytic intervention is akin to techniques used in Zen spiritual direction (E: 260). This happens through the director listening carefully for circulating words which operate as entry points to different narrative perspectives whereby we can see these points from different perspectives. In more detail, De Certeau writes that the subverting poetic aspect of psychoanalysis is nothing new; it is one of the characteristics of mystical writers and premodern spiritual directors. Like the unconscious, the mystical lexicon acts as the ‘the verbal raw material for phonetic derivations: procedures which change the semantic usage of words without altering the substance of the sounds’—thus ‘effecting a shift of meaning beneath the same phonetic material’ (1986, p. 159). Consequently, through this subtle poetic shift in their use of language, the analyst-mystic generates the possibility of new narratives to open up in the life-world of those under

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their care (De Certeau, 1986, p. 159). Hence, the shift in meaning takes place in a shift in the rhetoric of the directee, which comes from a change in the raw material of the subject: the unconscious. In this chapter, we delved into Lacan‘s formulation of the structure of mystical speech in psychoanalysis, focusing on the influence of Baruzi. Baruzi’s work on mystical theology and its expression in language provided a critical backdrop for Lacan’s own exploration, which helped to shape the psychoanalytic understanding of the spiritual and the mystical. Afterwards, we shifted our attention to Lacan’s concept of the four discourses, reinterpreting them as dogmatic, doctrinal, experiential, and contemplative. The dogmatic and doctrinal discourses find their place within the D1a modality, whereas the experiential discourse situates itself at the D1b register. Finally, the contemplative discourse resides at the D2 level, and we offered an initial sketch of the nature and characteristics of this type of discourse. Subsequently, we delved into a more detailed discussion on how the directee can facilitate this mode of speech, engaging both in speaking and listening, cultivating a certain linguistic flexibility. We saw an unfolding process that undoes certainty in language until a unique mode of speaking emerges in the directee—a mode that is comfortable in uncertainty, reflective of John’s todo-nada principle.

References Anon. (2018). Chic | Origin and Meaning of Chic by Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved December 12, 2018, from https://www.etymonline. com/word/chic#etymonline_v_11244, https://www.etymonline.com/ word/chic Badiou, A., & Cassin, B. (2017). There’s No Such Thing as a Sexual Relationship: Two Lessons on Lacan. Columbia University Press. Baruzi, J. (1924). Saint Jean de La Croix et le Problème de l’Expérience Mystique. Felix Alcan. Baruzi, J. (1991). L’Intelligence Mystique. Editeurs Berg International. Bataille, G. (1988). The Accursed Share: An Essay on General Economy (Vol. 1). Zone Books.

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Boothby, R. (2015). Freud as Philosopher: Metapsychology After Lacan. Routledge. Brousse, M.-H. (2022). The Feminine: A Mode of Jouissance. Lacanian Press. Chiesa, L. (2016). The Not-Two: Logic and God in Lacan (1st ed.). The MIT Press. Dalzell, T. G. (2011). Freud’s Schreber Between Psychiatry and Psychoanalysis: On Subjective Disposition to Psychosis. Karnac Books. De Certeau, M. (1986). Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. University of Minnesota Press. De Certeau, M. (2015). The Mystic Fable, Volume Two: The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (M. B. Smith, Trans.). University of Chicago Press. Discover Your True Self. (2023). Ask Eckhart. https://askeckhart.com/ Evans, D. (1996). An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis. Routledge. Eyers, T. (2012). Lacan and the Concept of the Real (1st ed.). Palgrave Macmillan. Fink, B. (1996). The Lacanian Subject: Between Language and Jouissance. Princeton University Press. Fink, B. (2011). Fundamentals of Psychoanalytic Technique: A Lacanian Approach for Practitioners. W. W. Norton & Company. Guenther, M. (1992). Holy Listening: The Art of Spiritual Direction. Rowman & Littlefield. Hollywood, A. (2002). Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History. University of Chicago Press. James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature. Longmans, Green and Co. John of the Cross. (1991). The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross (K. Kavanaugh & O. Rodríguez, Trans.). ICS Publications. Jones, A. (1999). Exploring Spiritual Direction. Cowley Publications. Keller, C. (2014). Cloud of the Impossible: Negative Theology and Planetary Entanglement. Columbia University Press. Lacan, J. (1964). Les problèmes cruciaux pour la psychanalyse Séminaire XII 1964–1965 (1st ed.). l’Association freudienne internationale. Lacan, J. (1964). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Crucial Problems of Psychoanalysis. 1964–1965, Seminar XII (1st ed.). Lacan in Ireland. Lacan, J. (1966). Écrits. Du Seuil. Lacan, J. (1969b). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Other Side of Psychoanalysis, 1969–1970. Seminar XVII. [online] Translated by C. Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/ translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1971b). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Knowledge of the Psychoanalyst, 1971–1972. Seminar XIX. (Part 2). [online] Translated by

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C. Gallagher. : Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (1972). Jacques Lacan Encore. Séminaire XX 1972–1973. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1990). Television (1st ed.). Lacan, J. (1993). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book III The Psychoses 1955–1956 (R. Grigg, Trans.). Routledge. Lacan, J. (1998). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI) (1st ed.). W.W. Norton. Lacan, J. (1999). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book XX: On Feminine Sexuality the Limits of Love and Knowledge 1972–1973 (2nd ed.). W.W Norton & Company. Lacan, J. (2006). Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (B. Fink, Trans.). W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Leonard, E. M. (1997). Creative Tension: The Spiritual Legacy of Friedrich von Hügel. University of Scranton Press. McGinn, B. (2017). Mysticism in the Golden Age of Spain. The Crossroad Publishing Company. McIntosh, M.  A. (1998). Mystical Theology: The Integrity of Spirituality and Theology (Challenges in Contemporary Theology). Wiley-Blackwell. Millar, I. (2018). Black Mirror: From Lacan’s Lathouse to Miller’s Speaking Body. Psychoanalytische Perspectieven, 36, 1–16. Moncayo, R. (2012). The Signifier Pointing at the Moon: Psychoanalysis and Zen Buddhism. Karnac Books. Nelstrop, L., & Onishi, B. (2016). Mysticism in the French Tradition: Eruptions from France. Routledge. Park, J.  E. S. (2016). Border-Crossing Spirituality: Transformation in the Borderland. Wipf and Stock Publishers. Pattison, G., & Kirkpatrick, K. (2018). The Mystical Sources of Existentialist Thought: Being, Nothingness, Love. Routledge. Peterson, J. B. (2018). 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos. Penguin. Pound, M. (2007). Theology Psychoanalysis and Trauma. SCM Press. Pound, M. (2012). Lacan’s Return to Freud: A Case of Theological Ressourcement? In G. Flynn & P.D. Murray (Eds.), Oxford University Press (pp. 440–456). Roudinesco, E. (1997). Jacques Lacan: Outline of a Life, History of a System of Thought: An Outline of a Life and History of a System of Thought. Polity Press. Schroeder, J.  L. (2008). The Four Lacanian Discourses: or Turning Law Inside Out. CRC Press.

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Thacker, E. (2011). In the Dust of This Planet: Horror of Philosophy (Vol. 1). Zero Books. Tyler, P. (2011). The Return to the Mystical: Ludwig Wittgenstein, Teresa of Avila, and the Christian Mystical Tradition. Continuum. Zimmerman, B. (1925a). Review of Jean St. John of the Cross and the Problem of Mystic Experience. The Tablet April. Zimmerman, B. (1925b). St. John of the Cross and The Problem of Mystical Experience. The Tablet, 145, 547–549. Žižek, S. (1998). Four Discourse, Four Subjects. In Sic 2: Cogito and the Unconscious (pp. 74–113). Duke University Press. Zupančič, A. (2000). Ethics of the Real. Verso.

7 Listening and Speaking in Juanist-­Lacanian Spiritual Direction

 sycho-Mystical Strategies of Breaking P Through the Not-Knowing with the Unknowing  he Non-Affectological Strategies of Juanist Lacanian T Spiritual Direction In this section, I will demonstrate the discourse which subverts the drive for experientialist certainty. Again it is important to note that I am not critiquing the concept of experience in and of itself. Instead, I criticise the libidinal investment in the demand for positive affective experientialism. This starts from the assumption that in the experientialist discourse, there is a structure that posits that the directee knows what they want and what they expect the director to deliver. The point, however, is to demonstrate that what is at stake is a truth within the directee, which is: 1. Non-experiential: It is not experienced since it is unconscious. Lacan argues that people come to analysis precisely because they secretly do not want to know. On the surface, there is a demand for experiential © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_7

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certainty, but really they do not want to experience or know anything about the structure of their symptom, because facing that fundamental structure which lies at the heart of their subjectivity entails a change which throws them into question the self. (Fink, 1997, pp. 7–10) 2 . It is disruptive: What is within the directee is precisely what throws into question the unremitting demand for experiential certainty and meaning from the outset since it comes from the symbolic rather than the imaginary. Moreover, because it lies at the symbolic level, it threatens the ego in and of itself.

Table of Strategies The strategies below can be split between listening and speaking. The left half of the list allows us to be able to listen to the soul’s rhetorical defence of not knowing, while the right half will enable us to be able to intervene in the directee’s speech through strategies of unknowing (See Fig. 7.1):

Listening: detecting the directee’s defences of not knowing. The directee’s Psychoanalytic Rhetoric of not-knowing: Periphrasis: Needless additions of words Hyperbaton: Reordering of words in a sentence. Prolepsis, or Rhetorical Anticipation. Suspension: Talking about something else. Catachresis: A mixed metaphor. Litotes: Understatements. Ellipses: Leaving things out. Antonomasia: Switching proper name. Digression: Shifting the subject. Retraction: Irony. Negation: Contradiction. Hypotyposis: Manifest presence. Irony. Slip (Parapraxis).

Speech: director’s unknowing.

Mystical

interventions

1. Humility/avoiding conclusions. (To allow space for Grace to operate by not making assumptions) 2. Use of ordinary speech. (When intervening, use simple but ambiguous language) 3. Disorientation and Contradiction. (Use of paradox to shake up their worldview) 4. Humour. (It is serious talk about serious things, however, serious does not mean boring)

Fig. 7.1  Table of analytic strategies of not knowing and unknowing

of

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The left hand of the table can be termed the ‘not wanting to know anything about the unconscious’ defence of the ego. On the right-hand side, we have the dissolving strategies whereby the directee’s ego disintegrates through the director’s strategies of unknowing—unknowing vs not-knowing. In other words, the ego’s ‘not wanting to know’ is broken through mystical unknowing. The main point here is to help the directee understand that their own speech is mystical, broken and stammering. Their speech is full of strange devices which hide desire. From a Lacanian-Juanist perspective, one can also argue that this is the split between prose and poetry. The prose discourse can be said to lie on the side of the directee, while the director’s work is to make precise interventions within the directee’s discourse to find the kernel of poetry at the heart of their speech. It is important to remind the reader that this split between prose and poetry is something that both Lacan and John of the Cross share. Moreover, it has been postulated that for Lacan, this was not just a stylistic preference; it was part and parcel of the training and formation of the analyst to know the difference between the analyst’s discourse and the analysand’s discourse. Training then was a process of constantly switching the listener between these modes of communication until it had a formative effect on them. This would then be utilised in the analytic setting. However, one must not confuse this split between poetry and prose as a split between ‘difficult theory’ and pragmatic application. Lacan’s theory cannot be separated from its practice. No ‘simple, pragmatic application’ can be explicated apart from its general weirdness, difficulty, and awkwardness. Instead, the theory and technique come from how one engages in this type of discourse—it is a way of listening, reading, and speaking.

Techniques of Listening Listening, Not Understanding Lacanian analyst Bruce Fink calls analytic listening the ability to listen sideways. It is a way of listening that aims to stop projecting ourselves onto the analysand. In his book on the Fundamentals of Lacanian

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Psychoanalytic Technique, he states that the analyst’s first task is to listen carefully. Moreover, although many therapists and authors have highlighted this point, he argues that surprisingly few practise this art of listening effectively. Fink explains that this is because listening is always framed in relation to ourselves. Imaginary listening imposes meaning on the analysand’s words (2011, p. 1). He goes on to explicate that listening and understanding are two different things. Moreover, when someone tells the analyst their story, we are tempted to start framing these tales in our own experience. Mutual experiences become the supposed seat of analytic wisdom. We annul the multiple interpretations within the symbolic network by starting from the premise that we must know what the other person experiences by putting ourselves into their shoes. ‘In other words, our usual way of listening is centred to a great degree on ourselves, our own similar life experiences, our own similar feelings, our own perspectives (2011, p. 1). He explains that the concept of understanding is based on the imaginary dyadic structure of human existence rather than the symbolic aspect. The projection of the imaginary takes place when the analyst states things like, ‘I know what you mean,’ ‘I feel for you,’ or ‘I feel your pain.’ At these moments, we assume that the feeling of sympathy allows for real connection (2011, p. 1). In more detail, our normal process of listening is usually loaded with imaginary obstacles that close down the operation of the symbolic. Analysts assimilate narratives in such a way that they become an extension of our own life-world. In the tendency to ‘understand,’ we close down essential differences within the story of the analysand by reducing it to our own experiences and knowledge. It is a much more difficult task to listen without understanding to allow ‘the new’ to arise in its otherness (Fink, 2011, p. 2). Put differently, Lacan, through his method of communication, was helping the analyst to read the unconscious, not as a hidden affective depth but as a mode of speaking one needs to be trained and formed in. It was to listen to the directee from the position of difference rather than sameness. Likewise, John, in his writings, was preparing the directee to read what the mystical is as a mode of speaking, thinking, writing, listening, and seeing the world. When addressing the specific topic of spiritual direction, the similarity between the psychoanalytic way of listening carefully

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and the importance of not projecting oneself into communication is striking in John. Indeed, he teaches us that erroneous spiritual directors cause great harm to directees for not understanding the properties of the spirit. By imposing their own self on the directee, they shut down the operation of the Holy Spirit and cause regression in spiritual direction. He believes that this stems from not understanding the level at which the directee is working at and so imposing methods of spiritual direction only serviceable to beginners (LF 3. 31). Moreover, he claims that directors should not impose external methods of meditation, nor should they get their directees to ‘make acts or strive for satisfaction.’ John believes that any such imposition destroys the role of God as the primary agent in spiritual direction. Like Lacan, John warns us that we should not shut down the third term of the Other—the Holy Spirit—to whom we should always be sensitive to (LF 3. 33). Again, in this work interpretation, what is at stake is the ability of the director to listen carefully for the poetic, mystical element within speech to free them of imaginary attachments. John reflects on this duty of the spiritual director: Directors should strive to disencumber the soul and bring it into solitude and idleness so it may not be tied to any particular knowledge, earthly or heavenly. (LF 3. 46)At the heart of John’s teaching was not some pure exposition on doctrine but rather a treatise of formation that hinges on subverting and problematising many of the assumptions people unconsciously brought to both his writings and actual spiritual direction. We have seen that both Lacan and John aim to disturb and shake up our image of God and our view of interiority and self. As we take the time to read and attempt to understand the work of Lacan, we find that he builds up images and ideas of the self in his work, only to change the very framework by which we understand these ideas. He reverses commonly held beliefs about Freud before shifting and introducing strange new interpretations using modern philosophical and intellectual paradigms. The affect this has on the reader is profound. It entails that one develops a constant sense of examination and acceptance of uncertainty as a necessary predicate of analytic discourse. We also find this in the work of John. He also knew that his language, or his use of language, profoundly affected the reader. Awareness of the power of language would

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consequently be at the heart of a Juanist-Lacanian form of spiritual direction. Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction should occur with this ‘awareness of the direction of locution.’ It is a general awareness of what type of discourse or language is being used within a given session by the directee. Is the conversation dry and scientific? Is it overly poetic and affective? However, more than anything, the director should be listening for the strange, awkward, and imperfect within speech. This defensive, strange speech may appear in Juanist Lacanian spiritual direction in the following ways:

 eriphrasis in Spiritual Direction: Unexperienced P Desire Behind Needless Words This is the needless addition of words when reiterating a point to the directee. So, instead of saying, ‘I cannot relate to the concept of the Eucharist,’ the directee may say, ‘I find it extremely difficult, challenging and a somewhat incoherent theoretical, conceptual apparatus that frames the theological idea of transubstantiation.’ By saying things needlessly complexly and adding needless words, the directee unconsciously gets the directors to focus on the content of what is being said. So, attention becomes focused on deducing the meaning of the words uttered by the directee. What is also taking place is the attempt to move the direction of locution toward what Lacan has called the university discourse. Thus, the Juanist-Lacanian approach would be aware of when and where this type of periphrasis occurs. It would also be a mistake to equally engage in a type of theological answer to justify why they should not doubt the veracity of the Eucharist. It would be a mistake to ignore the multiplication of words to get to the ‘experientialist core’ behind what is being said, as if what is needed is a certain experience of the Eucharist that will set things right. In other words, when this sort of discourse appears on the scene, one should void the logic of D1a and D1b. The multiplication of words in sentences can hide demands and lures of the imaginary. It can disguise a discourse of the Whole or All. For example, a directee could say, ‘Please tell me how I must act.’ Instead of operating

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through these demands, the director should say, ‘that is an interesting way of phrasing your problem; I urge you to think about how you just said that to me; it is important.’

 yperbaton in Spiritual Direction: Unexperienced H Desire Behind the Reordering of Words This occurs when there is a needless re-ordering of words in a given sentence. The Greek origin of the term implies ‘stepping over.’ So, what is at stake is the ‘stepping over’ of terms to get to the crux of meaning. One can imagine the scenario: the directee is happy because he regularly goes to Church and says to the director, ‘Good God, I go to Church!’ When in fact, he meant to say, ‘God is Good; I go to Church!’ We can see here that another narrative that could go unheard is taking place. Indeed, Hyperbaton goes unnoticed if the director is encapsulated in the imaginary register because he is eager to understand and confirm this joyful experience. From John’s perspective, this unwitting need to fully understand the directee’s experience, as stated, would destroy the operation of the third term of Grace, to open up new narratives for the directee. So, even if the disposition of the directee is positive and happy when recounting something like this to the director, one can be lured into the imaginary by way of confirming this positive experience. At this point, the director could feign that they have misheard what the directee has said. They could intervene with, ‘Did you just say you are surprised you go to Church?’ Note that the point is not to destroy happy experiences or to impose austere rules. Preferably, the point is to tactfully demonstrate that there could be a non-experiential desire within the register of the symbolic of their discourse.

 rolepsis, or Rhetorical Anticipation in Spiritual P Direction: The Unexperienced Desire Behind Presumption Theoretically, this could occur in spiritual direction when the directee expects some kind of judgment from the director. What should arise from rhetorical anticipation in spiritual direction is the idea that, at an

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unconscious level, the directee demands and wants judgment. So, a directee could say something like, ‘I know you won’t like this, but I haven’t been praying much lately, nor have I experienced the presence of God in my life.’ This is another way of surreptitiously demanding rules and experience from the director. When this happens, the director can simply reflect this judgment back toward the directee. They can say something along the lines of, ‘…. Not like it?’ Again, it is important to keep interventions short, as the point is to keep statements evocative to get the directee’s speech and desire to flow.

 uspension: Talking About Something Else in Spiritual S Direction—The Unexperienced Desire Behind Changing the Subject Spiritual direction from a particular perspective is always talking about something Other. It is a conversation about the things that matter most and operates as a type of retreat from life to find the space to talk about them. However, the idea is that at certain points in spiritual direction, there is a desire not to want to know, so the directee will change the subject quickly to direct attention from the issue at hand. So, for example, a directee could be talking about how in their childhood, their parents made them feel guilty over sexuality. However, rather than continue this line of thought, they suddenly change the subject. This example would be delicate as the change of subject is necessary for this instance to protect the directee from something very difficult. Nevertheless, the lure of the imaginary would be to ignore this altogether. A spiritual director should note this and encourage the continuation of this line of thought which has been suspended. A director could say something like, ‘You mentioned guilt in your last session?’ The ethical impetus here is not to force this upon the directee. Instead, it is to return what was said to the directee so they can examine it. If the director does not want to continue this line of thought, then one should not force the issue. One can imagine that John was extremely aware of those tendencies in the spiritual process where past pain and suffering would come up.

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This is why he spoke so well on the issue of melancholia. John’s advice was always about gentleness and giving space for the directee’s desire to flourish.

 atachresis: Mixed Metaphors in Spiritual Direction: C The Unexperienced Desire Behind Mixed Metaphors A mixed metaphor is a succession of incongruous metaphors presented in a signifying chain. So, a directee could say, ‘God asks us to turn the other eye’ when he meant to say, ‘God asks us to turn the other Cheek.’ What is taking place here is a mixing of two separate sayings: 1 . ‘Turn the other cheek.’ 2. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ The fact that these two separate statements have been mixed up tells us that another line of thought or unspoken narrative is taking place. But, again, the director can bring attention to this by simply bringing to light what was said and asking them to expand on it.

L itotes: Understatements in Spiritual Direction: The Unexperienced Desire Behind Understatements Understatements in spiritual direction can happen when someone wishes to gloss over an important point unconsciously. There can be many examples of this. So, for instance, a directee could spend a long time describing their prayer life. How they go to Church and other aspects of Christian living, for example, but then say off the cuff that they think belief in God is irrelevant and then quickly switch the conversation back to discussing something else. The technique here is to resist any conversation that touches on uncertainty to focus on things the directee can be sure about. The director could intervene by simply saying, ‘You said something about irrelevance? I didn’t quite catch that.’

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 llipses: Leaving Things Out in Spiritual Direction: E The Unexperienced Desire Behind Things Unsaid This is an important technique most spiritual directors will be aware of, but there is no harm in highlighting it. In the activity of listening carefully to a directee’s spiritual life, one needs to listen for what is not being said. Sometimes in spiritual direction, it can be used as a kind of defensive space to justify ignoring the material world. For example, in talking about prayer, theology and biblical interpretations, a directee can use these things to not talk about their life and the things that matter most. On a subtler level, this can occur in spiritual direction when specific details are left out in recounting a story. Again, the director needs to listen to these absences. After noticing what has been left out, a director can bring up what has not been said, ‘I notice you do not speak much about X?’

Antonomasia This is a type of metonymy where a phrase takes the place of a proper name. Switching from this phrase to using a proper name usually indicates something is unspoken. For instance, say the directee refers to God in personal terms then switches to relating to God formally; the directee mustn’t discount this switch as if both names are equivalent and can stand in for each other. Moreover, what is the significance of this phrase in the context of the analysand’s life? Who else does she refer to through this substitute for a name? (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

 igression: Tangents in Spiritual Direction. D The Unexperienced Desire Behind Tangents As said, I am personally guilty of this in direction, analysis, and other forms of discourse. Those who engage in this level of rhetorical defence are usually quite skilled in shifting the subject subtly, away from sensitive topics and on to things one can handle. But, again, this is a subtler version of changing the subject. The abrupt change is absent in this mode of

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rhetorical defence. So, a directee could talk about difficulty concerning having faith but then start to speak about the difficulty in understanding specific texts or the message within scripture. Again, the difference is subtle, but the difficulty of a given text is not the difficulty of faith in general. Understanding the message of, say, The Prodigal Son differs from discussing the difficulty of belief. Moreover, if the director is lured into answering this, the previous difficulty being touched upon will be eluded. The director must note this transition to ensure a train of thought is followed later. For example, they could say, ‘is the difficulty of faith the same thing as what you were speaking about?’

 etraction: The Use of Irony in Spiritual Direction: R The Unexperienced Desire Behind the Use of Irony The work of irony can be used as an effective defence against the exploration of a directee’s desire. For example, a directee could say something like, ‘well, God works in mysterious ways’ in response to personal misfortune. Still, the point is that this attempt at ironic self-deprecation can be used as a type of mechanism to preclude discussing a sensitive issue. A Juanist Lacanian method of spiritual direction would understand the use of irony and humour within discourse. Like the director who can use humour to shake up speech, a directee can use it as a mode of defence. To be caught in snares of humour within spiritual direction can ultimately throw the director off guard and cause him to miss something important that is being said. Again, at such points, the director can urge a continuation of this line of thought by saying, ’Sorry, what do you mean?’

Negation Negation is a grammatical device that aims to contradict or negate a statement or word’s meaning (all or part). Usually, this can happen after an explanation is given in analysis. So, a directee could say, ‘It is true that we have limits to our love, but God does not. Love is strange, after all.’ If we remove the full stop, we can see a hidden negation, and so the

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sentence reads, ‘God does not Love.’ From a particular perspective, we can understand this as an unconscious and detrimental type of apophasis that shapes our perception of God. (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Hypotyposis This would be a moment in direction where a preceding description of an event suddenly becomes present. So, the directee could be describing something excruciating in the past, such as, ‘I felt God was not there for me,’ but instead of concluding the description with, ‘It was very painful for me,’ they state, ‘It is very painful for me.’ In this example, this slip reveals that the event is still happening and has not reached a conclusion for the analysand (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Irony This would be a moment in spiritual direction where Irony disguises the truth of a statement. For example, a directee could say, ‘of course, I am angry at God, but God works in mysterious ways, right?’ This statement shows that irony is used to repress and disguise something a director should explore. Thus, a director should not let a directee move on from this too quickly. (Fink, 2004, pp. 72–73).

Slip (Parapraxis)—The Classical Slip and Slur The parapraxis is the classic Freudian slip. From a particular perspective could be overlooked by spiritual directors as being an archaic listening technique that has no real place in modern spiritual direction. However, if we are supposed to take language’s formative and de-formative power seriously, then the parapraxis becomes the symptom of a non-experienced experience or an experienced non-experience. Usually, what we call a psychological symptom is not a problem because we experience it. Instead, symptoms are a problem precisely because we typically do not experience them. Symptoms only present themselves in the disturbances of the

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structures of our life. In other words, we know something is off but do not usually know what. Alternatively, if we do know what the problem is, we do not know or experience the whole problem and tend to want to go back to ignoring what is not fully experienced. Likewise, some people come to spiritual direction, not knowing at all why they are there. There has been no distinct experience that has driven them to this. Moreover, this desire and its articulation can only be present in other parts of their speech, which again will mostly be undetectable unless the director can listen for these slips, slurs, strangely organised sentences, retractions, digressions, etc. So, from a Lacanian-Juanist perspective, listening for the parapraxis can be understood as John’s injunction to directors to look carefully for signs of the Dark Night of the Soul and to distinguish it from other psychic formations that could appear at the level of the imaginary. Thus, what takes place is a movement away from understanding these signs at the level of inner experience and instead of detecting them on the surface of one’s discourse.

Other Discursive Defences to Listen Out For One of the methods my analyst used was to show me how I utilised a particular word over a period. I used to call this tendency ‘word of the month syndrome.’ The question here is not just to show the word to embarrass the analysand. Preferably, it is to get the analysand to ask about the jouissance caught up in the word or turn of phrase. These repeated turns of phrase are apertures that allow us to glance at the structure of desire in the analysand. They can be viewed as a type of miniature version of the obsessive-compulsive ritual. Just as the obsessive repeat actions to protect themselves, so does the repetition of words. A spiritual director should listen carefully for repetitive words, sentences, etc. It is easy to lose sight of these repetitions if one gets too caught up in listening for meaning. The same turn of phrase can be used in different contexts to give totally different meanings, while their repetitive instances over time might communicate something else entirely. For example, I remember a point in spiritual direction during a particularly stressful time at work after school inspectors had come in. I kept using the phrase ‘restitution.’

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I would keep bringing up the phrase in various sentences describing different situations, usually about politics: ‘There needs to be restitution….’ ‘Well, it was a clear case of restitution.’ As it turned out, in the following session, I said, ‘I am not speaking very well, am I? ‘my intuition tells me I need a rest from work soon.’ My director responded, ‘do you feel you’ll receive restitution?’ It then occurred to me that although I was aware of the experience of wanting a rest from work, what was at stake and ultimately not experienced was feeling as though I deserved a rest or was owed one in any way: ‘Rest in tuition.’ Language should not be limited to thinking about the verbal. It includes our bodies as well. The idea that the body speaks is commensurate with an incarnational logic at home in a Juanist approach to spiritual direction. John did not write about body language in the same way we understand it today, but he did speak of the word becoming flesh and how we participate in this reality. So, the body is important to John. The spiritual director should thus be open to how another’s body communicates to them. This does not mean we should understand body language as some universal metalanguage that applies to all cultures. Instead, we need to grasp it within the locus of the individual. Freud and Lacan spoke about body language regarding the symptom, a message encoded in our flesh to another. He also understood that the symptom is not merely to be discarded. Instead, the symptom should be understood in the economy of that person’s psyche. When a directee speaks to you with their body, the directee should listen to what they are saying and communicate that back to the directee. I have a habit of tugging my ear. My analyst informed me that I always did this when I was in situations where I felt overwhelmed with language. I tried to use my symptom to protect myself from things I did not understand. I was saying, ‘I do not need to listen.’ Forgetfulness was crucial to John in describing the process of the Dark Night. Indeed, we see that as the operations of Grace continue to work within the soul, there is a dulling of the faculty of memory. This is not to say that a person forgets the content of thought entirely. Instead, one forgets the ‘affects’ a previous activity was associated with. This is broadly commensurate with Lacan’s idea of displacement. Indeed, what takes place in displacement is that the link between affect and memory is

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ultimately severed. In Lacanian analysis, this is what takes place in trauma. More often than not, the emotional content of the affect gets attached to something else, another word. For the directee, this idea can be useful for understanding the ‘Wounding of the soul’ as a type of trauma. So why shouldn’t we approach John’s notion of the wounding of the spirit as a psychological trauma that shakes up our psychic economy in such a way as to create displacements of affects? Indeed, during the Dark Night of the Soul, we might end up with displacements of affects as God rushes in. Thus, by listening to this forgetfulness of affect and its corresponding displacement, one can detect God’s work in the soul, maybe? Consequently, the Dark Night should not just be interpreted as gloomy forgetfulness. Instead, it should be conceived as a disruptive forgetfulness that shifts our emotional economy as it warps around God’s antagonistic, traumatic wounding. The significance of intonation cannot be overstated. Some linguistic cultures demonstrate a much more sophisticated intonation usage than what we commonly see in the English-speaking world. Indeed, the multifaceted nature of language is more evident in spoken discourse than in written form. Spiritual direction distinguishes itself from mystical theology precisely because it involves the practice of speech imbued with complex intonational nuances. Such aspects often need to be recovered once committed to writing. This likely explains the limited volume of Lacan‘s actual writings. By labelling his written work as ‘Écrits,’ Lacan underscores what is lost in the shift from spoken to written expression (Fink, 2004, p. 70). A comparison of ‘Écrits’ to his seminars readily highlights this disparity. The multifaceted nature of speech is demonstrated by how things are expressed—the modulations and fluctuations of the voice. Remarkably, by echoing a phrase with a slightly altered intonation, an analyst can unveil a new realm of understanding for the analysand, potentially disrupting their self-perceptions. This approach should also find resonance in spiritual direction. If the mystical can only be expressed through speech, then the intonation of speech is a fundamental component of this process. It is noteworthy that the matters relating to the body, intonation, and forgetfulness in the context of spiritual direction necessitate a more comprehensive exploration than this book can provide. This exploration is a task I intend to pursue in the future.

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Techniques of Speaking in Spiritual Direction How the Director Should Speak After Listening This section focuses on the director’s speech; I have already addressed this somewhat by giving examples of how a director should intervene in each of the examples of rhetorical defence above. However, concluding by saying a little more about this is helpful. This would correlate to the mystical strategies of unknowing. The spiritual director should engage the directee with a common language, embracing humility and occasionally humour, if required. All these efforts should be channelled towards highlighting the inherent paradox within the directee’s speech. However, the principal objective of Juanist spiritual direction is to aid the directee in realising that their unique speech, their own ‘writing,’ possesses a mystical quality. This understanding emerges from attentive listening to the directee’s discourse. To be sure, if the mystical theology of John and Lacan‘s psychoanalysis reside in how the reader interprets them, then the role of the director is to listen carefully to the directee to assist them in discerning (or reading) their own speech. The director’s voice in spiritual direction is best used sparsely. The whole point of the director’s voice in Lacanian-Juanist spiritual direction is to allow the directee to speak: The ideal of analysis is not complete self mastery, the absence of passion. It is to render the subject capable of sustaining the analytic dialogue, [by the analyst learning] to speak neither too early, nor too late. Such is the aim of a training analysis.1 (SE, I: 3) (Translated by John Forrester) Similar to a Lacanian analyst, a spiritual director should refrain from extensive explanations or answers. Additionally, the director’s task is to embrace the incongruities within the directee’s discourse. For instance, a directee may repeat a specific doctrine or theological teaching only to find themselves entangled in a separate thought. In regular conversation,  ‘[L’idéal d’analyse n’est] pas non plus la maîtrise de soi complète, l’absence de passion; l’idéal est de rendre le sujet capable de soutenir le dialogue analytique, de parler ni trop tôt, ni trop tard; c’est cela que vise une analyse didactique’ (SE,I :11). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 1

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we often dismiss such deviations to maintain a façade of coherence. Reflecting on this trend in psychoanalysis, Fink argues that we should challenge or occasionally suppress our instinctive drive for coherence and logicality. Encouraging this illusionary, restrictive aspect of language limits the capacity for free association. Therefore, the analyst should promote what Fink calls ‘drift.’ If the analysand momentarily deviates from the topic to explore a thought, only to promptly self-correct, the analyst should encourage the continuation of this drift. Doing so may catch ‘glimpses of the repressed’ (Fink, 1997, p. 45). At this point, Fink argues that an intervention should be as simple as ‘no, please carry on with that thought.’ This should also be the case in spiritual direction. In all cases, the director’s speech should always free up desire and discourse by punctuating, opening up a multiplicity of meanings. This is reflected by De Certeau, who writes that mystic discourse is a ‘putting to death’ of the stifling operation of language. It ‘wounds’ language through the linguistic drift mentioned above. It affects semantic formations and so infiltrates ordinary discourse, throwing it off balance and thereby opening the directee up to a desire born of linguistic ambiguity (1986, p. 159). Similarly, in Lacanian psychoanalysis, the analyst’s speech should be limited to interventions aimed to help move along the analysand’s discourse. Fink notes that a psychoanalytic interpretation should be evocative rather than explanatory. Moreover, if an intervention merely operates to give meaning, then it is not correctly an analytic interpretation. As said, the function of an analytic intervention is to put the analysand to work. It is to aid the analysand in engaging the poetry of their speech rather than an escape to the certainty offered by prose (Fink, 2011, p. 81). A good example of how one should make interventions into the speech of a directee is by looking at the structure of John’s The Sayings of Love and Life. They are short, suggestive interventions designed to help a directee reflect on their spiritual life and discourse. The humility referenced earlier is found in the brevity of these interventions. It is also found in resisting the temptation to comprehensively answer a question posed by a directee. This is, as Tyler has stated, the avoiding of hard conclusions. Indeed, training the director’s speech is not found in having a comprehensive doctrinal discourse but in training oneself not to speak at crucial points.

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John reflects on this at the beginning of The Sayings of Love and Light. In an introductory prayer on the text, he states that the Lord loves discretion and brevity. Furthermore, John asserts that these mystical aphorisms are spiritual precisely because they lack the ‘worldly discourse’ of ‘long-­ winded and dry eloquence of weak and artificial human wisdom’ (SL Prologue). What is so fascinating about The Sayings of Love and Light is how different they are from the rest of John’s writings. They are short, sharp, brief, suggestive, and spoken with a certain simplicity. They work to fracture discourse. This is directly reflected by Fink, who writes that oracular speech, as it is practised in psychoanalysis, does not entail that it should be complicated or pretentious. Instead, its effectiveness is found in its simplicity since it should be drawn from the vernacular of the analysand’s speech. By engaging in this discourse, as drawn from the analysand’s symbolic, multiplicity is nurtured since these signifiers will necessarily have more than one meaning in the function of the analysand’s life-world (1997, p. 85). As we have seen earlier in my argument, the goal here is not to give meaning, but to give the truth. Truth is that which shakes up meaning. It is the introduction to the language of the not-all. It guides directees out of the register of positive affective experientialism and into a desire that flows beyond it. John states: Since the senses find nothing to be attached to, take pleasure in, or do in this recollection, these directors also persuade souls to strive for satisfaction and feelings of fervor when they should be counseling the opposite. (LF 3. 53)It thus should be remembered that the speech of the analyst and director should only be used to continue to shake up the directee’s D1 (a & b) to move them toward D2. The goal is to keep them speaking to help them realise beyond the prose of their rhetorical defences their life is, properly speaking, always poetic. It is a poetic expression that takes them beyond demand for the good (Jones in Guenther, 1992, p. ix).

Juanist Lacanian Diagram of Spiritual Direction To recapitulate, below is a schema detailing this form of contemplative discourse in more detail. A direct relationship between director and

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directee is barred by our use of language (bottom half of the triangle). We retreat into imaginary identifications to repress language’s inherent ambiguity and formative power (the curved line in the middle of the triangle). However, the real always interferes with the imaginary. (this is the straight line in the middle connecting the black triangle at the top with the curved line of the imaginary). This would entail the generation of demands either through dry rules (D1a) or the production of affects (D1b). This ultimately means that one thinks that one can bypass language. Thus, we can say that the dogmatic, doctrinal, and experiential forms of discourse mentioned above can be located in the bottom half of the triangle as dual manifestations of D1. The contemplative discourse then introduces the third term (the real or Grace) through the symbolic (language). This results in the generation of desire from that which interrupts the symbolic and imaginary (Grace/real). In Fig.  7.2, we can see that as the director becomes increasingly removed from the imaginary dyadic relation, this gives space for the directee’s unconscious to speak. The director reflects the unconscious discourse back toward the directee. This is what is known as returning empty speech for full speech (E: 211). As this process continues, a radical

Fig. 7.2  The antagonism of Grace

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questioning takes place, which aims to restructure their perception of God and how he functions within their life. As stated earlier, Peter Tyler suggests that spiritual direction is a form of discourse that subverts other forms of discourse, which destabilises knowing in the process of unknowing and points to the strangeness of the mystical as a form of performative speech (Tyler, 2011, pp. 232–233). So, unlike modern definitions of mysticism that are predicated upon universal extra-linguistic noetic experiences of certainty, which are then translated through the contingency of religious symbols, traditional definitions are based more on a technique of interruptive paradoxical language which is defined by their performativity as opposed to their descriptive, ostensive value. So, when the directee expects to hear something that would give them meaning, certainty or some other aspect of positive affective experientialism, what they hear is the uncertainty in their own speech. It is here that God as uncertainty is found. A Lacanian-­ Juanist-­informed spiritual direction would be a discipline that puts language’s formative power directly at the centre of its work. It places the signifier before experience. Moreover, If the Dark Night was not one single experience but an ongoing experience of non-experience, then in a Lacanian idiom, this process starts in, with and through speech. To talk of the Dark Night of the Soul is to speak of the Dark Night of Speech as directees realise the inherent ambiguity in everything they say and believe. Furthermore, the union which one can interpret in The Living Flame of Love is instead an enjoyment that arises from embracing the impossibility of the experience of certainty. This is what Lacan termed ‘other jouissance’ (SE, XX: 59). The self is formed in language, with language, through language and by language. However, language in and of itself is antagonistic, imbalanced, imperfect, deformative and, at times, opaque. Consequently, Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction escapes from the post-liberal problem of linguistic fideism by positing that there is an excess to the self that transcends strict linguistic dynamics. However, it does not equate this excess with an object that the pure amorphous faculties of the heart can only grasp. It is not an excess made for therapeutic

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placation. From a purely Lacanian view, this excess is known as the real. However, from a Juanist perspective, it would be equated with Grace. Grace is that which warps and interrupts language and emotion alike. It is the great interrupter of certainty. As stated earlier, Lacan has drawn comparisons of the Other with the theological concept of Grace (Pound, 2012, pp. 440–456). So, when a directee seeks advice on their prayer life, they will speak to you via a mesh of signifiers saturated with Grace. The assumption of Grace is what distinguishes this practice from pure Lacanian analysis. This unique life is caught up directly in Christianity’s larger narrative, with each signifier linking to the next to create a web of intractable meaning. However, it would most certainly be a mistake to equate meaning and feeling with this traumatic, decentring excess at the heart of our understanding of Grace. The story of Christianity has at its centre an absurd traumatic kernel that continually threatens to destroy the fabric of the story itself, the crucifixion and the resurrection. Much more can be said about the notion of Grace in spiritual direction and concerning Juanist-Lacanian spiritual direction. I will continue this in later work as it is beyond the scope of this work at this juncture. To be a Christian entails a process of formation in language, along with de-formation and reformation in a constant process of running up against this antagonistic revelation that lies open at the centre of its narrative. The concept of Grace is what flows from this antagonism which constantly disturbs our story. As John has taught us, as have many others, Grace can only be described apophatically. However, there is no outer limit against that we can trace the boundaries of what cannot be said. In other words, there is no clear boundary of language we can traverse. Instead, this holy emptiness is injected into the very fabric of language itself. There is no stepping outside of the text as the outside is already in, through and with it. Excavating the caverns of the heart is thus an injunction toward a reflective, kenotic activity through which the director aids the directee in doing unto themselves. The nature of desire as D2 entails that not only God becomes apophatic, but we become apophatic also. As we draw closer to the divine and because of the interpenetration of God’s

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desire with our own desire (his language mixing with ours, abyss calling to abyss), the very self, or the structures of the self, become as opaque as that of God. This is reflective of what Lacan states in Seminar XI: In a certain register it is not God who is not anthropomorphic, it is man who is begged not to be so.2 (SE, XI: 113) (Translated by Alan Sheridan)Reflecting on this quote, Hollywood states that psychoanalysis aims not to strip God of attributes but to show that man never possessed any attributes (Hollywood, 2002, p.  168). Hollywood argues that the analyst’s role is to ‘separate the imaginary and the symbolic registers and expose the phantasmatic character of the […] relationship to object a’ (Hollywood, 2002, p. 168). However, Hollywood seems to imply that this is what psychoanalysis has over traditional forms of spiritual direction and mystics, but as we have seen, the same structure exists in the work of John of the Cross. For both John and Lacan, what is at state is the creation of a new symbolic self that escapes the current conceptualisations. This applies to both Lacan’s concept of the analytic discourse and what we have called the contemplative discourse. Summary  This chapter has focused on developing the contemplative discourse as a specific mode of speaking and listening that takes place in the spiritual director’s situation, which is a mode of discourse between two subjects: the director and directee. This involved demonstrating how the director listens to detect the directee’s defences of not knowing. She then learns to intervene with the mystical strategies of unknowing to shake up the directee’s discursive position to nurture D2. As a summary thus far, I have created the following table (See Fig. 7.3) to help conceptualise the difference between a Juanist-Lacanian model of spiritual direction to other methodologies.3

 ‘Dans un certain registre, ce n’est pas Dieu qui n’est pas anthropomorphe, c’est l’homme qui est prié de ne pas l’être.’ (SE, XI: 128). (Unedited l’Association Freudienne Internationale version). 3  The table is inspired by the guide for spiritual direction given in the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley. The author is anonymous, but the table itself is attributed to Institute for Living. Please see: https://psr.edu/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Student-Life-OCL-A-Guide-to-Spiritual-­ Direction.pdf? 2

7  Listening and Speaking in Juanist-Lacanian Spiritual Direction  Pre-modern direction

spiritual

Goal

Modern direction

spiritual

Modern methods

therapeutic

Lacanian analysis

Juanist-Lacanian direction

297 spiritual

To assist a person in discovering God acting in their life and to facilitate that person’s creative, loving response to God; presupposes a certain degree of healthy psychological functioning and fidelity to daily personal prayer. Focus on experientialism

To facilitate a person’s growth to greater personal integration and freedom of choice through selfknowledge.

To facilitate one’s desire qua desire. Desire is coincident with one’s formation in language.

To move the directee from the language of D1 to the language of D2. To free the directee’s desire for God in such a way to facilitate their ability to speak from God and not about God. To help them understand their formation in language by introducing them to the very ambiguity which exists in their language as presented in the unconscious.

The adoption of a guide in helping one discerns the operation of Grace in a directees life. The spiritual father or spiritual director may provide advice, give indications of life and prayer

In the context of a one-to-one helping relationship, director and directee together attend to and discern the primary relationship and call of God in the directee’s life and his or her response to the mystery of Grace, which is understood concerning healing and happiness

The therapeutic relationship between counsellor and client. The relationship is defined by healing symptoms.

Relationship to third term, symbolic other.

To facilitate their relationship with Grace. To help facilitate the speech of the directee and reflect this back on the directee to detect this Grace. By shattering the imaginary formations in the ego, there is the facilitation of the dark night of the soul, not as an endpoint but as the very ambiguity in speech itself.

Techniques

Reflection, communication, facilitation of contemplative prayer. Discernment, the transition to apophatic discourse from cataphatic. Mystical strategies of unknowing, which opens up the third term of Grace

Dyadic is the interaction between counsellor and client, utilising selfdisclosure, support, questions, clarifications, and reflection on patterns of prayer and on God's creative, redeeming, and sanctifying action.

Dyadic interaction between counsellor and client utilising selfdisclosure, observations, support, clarifications, interpretations, etc.

Evading countertransference, sidestepping the demand for experience or rules. Linguistic polyvalence and ambiguity. Intrasubjective focus with the third term of language present. Opening other narratives to the directee. The facilitation of desire as transcending the affect and the intellect through radical uncertainty and piercing imaginary rhetorical defences.

We employ not knowing and unknowing strategies, listening attentively to the directee's rhetorical defences that conceal D2 within D1. We then shatter their attachment to D1, introducing them to alternative narratives through interventions. These interventions are not designed to explain but to prompt the directee to continue speaking and reflecting on the conversation—thereby unveiling new perspectives and ways of perceiving the world.

Area of focus

Directee’s relationship with God as experienced and developed through prayer.

Directee’s relationship with God as experienced and developed through prayer and feelings

Client’s life experience: events, thoughts, relationships, feelings, especially areas of pain;

Directee’s relationship with the Other developed through desire.

The directee’s relationship with God as Other developed through D2.

To facilitate one’s desire for God and a deeper integration into the Christian community. Central focus on Christ, pneumatology. Less experiential focus. Evading false desires to develop one’s desire for God. Process

the the

The process of linguistic destabilisation. Problematisation of imaginary identifications. Transition to the analyst’s discourse. The not-all. All demands are put into parentheses.

Fig. 7.3  The difference of Juanist-Lacanian direction

References De Certeau, M. (1986). Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. University of Minnesota Press. Fink, B. (1997). A Clinical Introduction to Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Theory and Technique. Harvard University Press. Fink, B. (2004). Lacan to the Letter: Reading Écrits Closely. University of Minnesota Press.

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Fink, B. (2011). Fundamentals of Psychoanalytic Technique: A Lacanian Approach for Practitioners. W. W. Norton & Company. Guenther, M. (1992). Holy Listening: The Art of Spiritual Direction. Rowman & Littlefield. Hollywood, A. (2002). Sensible Ecstasy: Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History. University of Chicago Press. John of the Cross. (1991). The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross. (K. Kavanaugh & O. Rodríguez, Trans.). ICS Publications. Lacan, J. (1964). Les quatre concepts fondamentaux de la psychanalyse Séminaire XI 1964. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1972). Jacques Lacan Encore. Séminaire XX 1972–1973. l’Association Freudienne Internationale. Lacan, J. (1988). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book I: Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (J. Forrester, Trans.). W.W Norton. Lacan, J. (1998). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-analysis (Seminar XI) (A. Sheridan, Trans.). W.W. Norton. Lacan, J. (1999). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book XX: On Feminine Sexuality the Limits of Love and Knowledge 1972–1973 (2nd ed.). W.W Norton & Company. Pound, M. (2012). In G. Flynn & P. D. Murray (Eds.), Lacan’s Return to Freud: A Case of Theological Ressourcement? (pp. 440–456). Oxford University Press. Tyler, P. (2011). The Return to the Mystical: Ludwig Wittgenstein, Teresa of Avila, and the Christian Mystical Tradition. Continuum.

8 Conclusion

Non-Spiritual Direction Returning to Jones’ Claim One might compare Jones’ proposal of a non-spiritual non-direction with Alain Badiou’s claim that Lacan’s work is anti-philosophy. Anti-­ philosophy is depicted as different from philosophy since it throws into question many of the presumptions that philosophy operates on. It destroys or inverts ideas of the subject, truth and the good. The goal of a Lacanian psychoanalyst as an anti-philosophy is not the recovery of the subject but rather a very questioning and problematising of the subject by exploring its formulation in language. The subject consequently only appears in moments within the analytic session. It (the subject) is ‘a vanishing point, a disturbance in the symbolic order represented by the petrification of one signifier in relation to the movement of the other signifiers’(Badiou, 2018, p. xxvi). Can we conceive of this Juanist-Lacanian intervention as an anti-­ spiritual direction insofar as it radically questions much of the presumptions which permeate modern methodologies? I would say yes, as what is © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7_8

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being articulated in this work is an anti-spiritual direction or a non-­ spiritual direction. The modern subject of spiritual direction is being questioned as one centred around ideas and methodologies of experientialism. In other words, it is a non-spiritual direction to the extent that its foundation of mystical theology is linguistic non-affective mystical negativism as opposed to negative affective experientialism or its positive affective experientialist counterpart. It cleaves to the methodology of D2 instead of D1a and D1b. The problem at hand can be understood as the set of assumptions that come with modern spiritual direction. It demands that one approach spirituality in one way and one way only. Or, as stated, ‘the petrification of one signifier’ (Badiou, 2018, p. xxvi). The spiritual is understood as a metaphysical force inside us, a pneumatic potentiality for happiness. No matter how radical the theological content of specific spiritual directions is, the natural tendency to ‘therapeuticise’ its subject matter is a real problem today. Reflecting this, Daniel Tutt suggests that therapeutic culture is tangled between personal drives and societal norms, a state he describes as a “vampiric symptomal torsion” (Tutt, 2012). He suggests that therapeutic culture works on the side of the affective drive toward interpolative castrative universalism, which is the polar opposite of what a Lacanian approach would entail. In other words, he argues that adaptation works by moving from the real to the universal. In contrast, Lacanianism moves from the ordinary unhappiness of the universal toward that which disrupts it. This book maps out a strategy to problematise the propensity to engage in the endless production and cultivation of positive affective experientialism that seems to constantly sidestep the problem of language. Lacan had a name for the endless production of false experientialist objects that populated the modern world. He called them ‘lathouse.’ Lacan claims that the procedural multiplication of these objects are not properly part of the symbolic process, nor are they associated with the real, but rather they masquerade their position between these two registers (SE, XVII:

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162–163).1 His point was that psychoanalysis needs to be aware of these fake experientialist technologies and navigate past them in treatment. The Juanist-Lacanian intervention developed here can be said to be a short-circuiting of the demand for these false objects in modern spiritual direction. To subvert the subject of spiritual direction as the accumulator of experiential capital in their consumption of these spiritual ‘lathouse.’ To rephrase Lacan: Why does God have to be in the basement of experientialism rather than in the attic of our speech? Maybe John’s injunction to clear out the caverns of the heart starts in the attic? In other words, this work questions a spirituality that forces conformity through an all-­ encompassing injunction-to-enjoy, a demand to feel a specific way. It does this since that presumption is predicated on an unreflexive use of language alien to Juanist spiritual direction and Lacanian psychoanalysis. I believe Lacan and John reject this reliance on experientialism because they are profoundly suspicious of the assumption of the subject who is supposed to experience.

Questioning the Imaginary Both Lacan and John set out to demonstrate that although one should start in the imaginary or the experiential, one should always then move toward problematising it. The tendency to seek respite from the uncertain through recourse to experiential certainty is reversed in this symbolic intervention. It is about realising the fundamental uncertainty of experience itself as a register of existence dependent on the signifier and the real; it is the signified. Understanding one’s emotional states as being the product and illusion of the signified means understanding how that illusion captivates us in other aspects of our lives. To play with language  Literally a mix between the Greek term ousia and the French ventouse; a device which is used to extract a baby from the mother’s body. Lacan’s point is that lathouse are devices to extract bodily enjoyment without danger. He argues that this is a false object a. He says, ‘If man had less often played the spokesman of God in order to believe that he forms a union with a woman, this word ‘lathouse’ would have perhaps been found a long time ago’ (SE, XVII: 162). This could mean that if there was some space to explore forms of the mystical outside of the forced logic of D1a and D1b, there may have been the opportunity to discover a mode of discourse which operates outside the endless reproduction of devices of experientialism. 1

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and to understand how the autonomous play of language (the unconscious) has shaped our feelings requires a rejection of the common-sense hegemony of spirituality. This rejection of common sense is a rejection of a possessive desire we have come to name D1(A & B) in favour of what we called D2. I contend that this work opens a doorway for what I believe is a crucial pastoral resource in spiritual direction, that of taking Lacan seriously as a psychoanalyst who was deeply informed by the Catholic mystical tradition. I start from the premise that one should approach John’s writing as spiritual direction. This means that one should understand his work as belonging to a distinct type of performative discourse. Lacan’s work is to be approached in much the same way. His work cannot be reduced to a philosophical system, medicine, or any other university discourse. Instead, Lacan stated that his work should be located between ‘speech’ and ‘writing.’ In other words, he wishes to locate his work within the analyst’s discourse. There is a blurring between the transmission of psychoanalysis as a body of knowledge and the practice of psychoanalysis itself. In other words, one must approach Lacan’s work in the same way one should approach the work of John. It is designed to create desire in the subject, to allow them to create new associations and ideas about the Christian story. This work has argued that spiritual direction is not so much about following rules or seeking an experience. Instead, it is the shared creative endeavour of attempting to say something new by giving up the demand to speak about or experience God and instead focusing on speaking with God.

Encapsulating the Argument I have created a space for language in spiritual direction to operate differently. If the aformentioned cultural-linguistic methods of theology offered a space for exploring the formative and performative aspects of discursive practice, then Lacan adds to that mix the autonomous de-­ formative element of language. Spiritual direction then becomes about formation and deformation. It becomes catechetical catachresis. This is what I have called the language of the ‘not-all’ or the broken stammering

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language of John of the Cross and other mystics. It has aimed to create a language appropriate for the fostering of D2 over and against D1(A & B). I have chosen the discipline of Catholic spiritual direction as my starting point because it straddles the coordinates between a personal spirituality and community. In other words, it is the minimal structure of community. Hence, how we approach the relationship between self and other at this minimal level will ultimately allow language(s) to emerge which have wider ecclesial and political formulations. To summarise, in order to answer my research question: How can a Lacanian and Juanist interpretation of ‘mystical desire’ highlight and demonstrate its ethical role in pragmatically countering the problem of experientialism within the modern context and practice of spiritual direction?

In the first part of this work, I argued that the concept of mystical desire in modern spiritual direction has ultimately been transformed from its previous incarnations and practices. I contended that specific methods of spiritual direction have become ‘therapeuticised’ and have lost a certain focus demonstrated in earlier accounts. I also explored how certain scholars have interpreted the work of pre-modern spiritual directors and mystics as being not reducible to experiential or psychologistic expressions. I then explored in detail John of the Cross’s understanding of spiritual direction. It served as an introduction to John of the Cross; thus, it began by exploring some of the contexts of his life and the significant events that impacted John. After this, there was a short exposition on the major themes of his texts within the corpus of his work and its relation to the practice of spiritual direction. Following this, the chapter briefly examined the initial reception of the work of John and how this reception shaped our understanding today. I then explored modern scholarship, which has attempted to break free of this received image of John to let new understandings arise. The argument here was that these new understandings of John of the Cross, which problematise perceiving him as either a fully systematic thinker or an experientialist psychologised mystic, do not fully translate over to the practice of spiritual direction.

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After this, I examined the doctrinal foundations of John’s spiritual direction before looking at its pragmatic application within the corpus of his writings. I then gave a cultural-linguistic interpretation of John’s spiritual direction which opposes dogmatic or experientialist understandings. This entailed that the mystical theology of John of the Cross is not just found in the content of his teachings, which would reduce it to either dogmatism or experientialism. I argued that we also need to look at the form and structure of his writing as a ‘manner of speaking’ that we are invited to practice. The point of this chapter was to demonstrate that within John’s teachings is a mystical desire that goes against modern understandings of it. I then set out to give a brief biographical sketch of Lacan’s academic development. It then gave an overview of Lacan’s main ideas before illustrating the practice of managing desire in a psychoanalytic setting. What emerged was a conception of psychoanalytic desire that opposes experientialist psychological understandings. In Chap. 5, I then explored Lacan’s conception of psychoanalysis and its relation to spiritual direction by relating it to the concept of performative discourse. I then gave a close reading of a crucial paragraph from his seminal text Psychoanalysis and its Teaching, where he mentions the importance of spiritual direction for psychoanalytic practice. This aimed to demonstrate that Lacan understood spiritual direction as relating to desire as D2 as opposed to D1 (A & B). In other words, there is much in common with a psychoanalytic non-experientialist account of desire, and the latter mentioned mystical one. Chapter 6 served as an interlude and traced the influence of Jean Baruzi and George Bataille on the formation of Lacan’s concept of the mystical and spiritual direction. Both these scholars were both influenced by the work and spiritual direction of John of the Cross. What emerged is that these were interpreters of mystical desire in terms of experientialism. In his approach to Freud, I then argued that Lacan radically revised this reception to come up with his own conception of mystical desire and its relation to language, which took it outside of its conception as being experientialist in nature. I then expanded on Lacan’s concept of the mystical regarding what he called the not-all and what I decided to call D2.

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The chapter then explored Lacan’s concept of the four discourses: The Master Discourse, the University Discourse, The Hysterical Discourse, and The Analysts Discourse. To interpret the relevance of Lacanian psychoanalysis for spiritual direction, I re-created these categories in relation to what I have called the four discourses of spiritual direction. These are the Dogmatic Discourse, the Theological Discourse, the Experientialist Discourse and finally, the Contemplative Discourse. What emerged was that the modality of D1a (doctrinal, dogmatic, and intellectual approaches to spiritual direction) and D1b (positive affective experientialism) is transcended with the logic D2. Chapter 7 was an original contribution to the possibility of a Lacanian-­ informed spiritual direction which was inspired by themes present in the work of John of the Cross. I split these techniques between listening to the directee and the director speaking. This was an interpretation of the Juanist strategies of unknowing and what I have called the Lacanian strategies of not-knowing. I then gave some stipulations and criteria for maintaining Contemplative Discourse within spiritual direction. This operated from the premise that a Lacanian-Juanist-informed spiritual direction would be a discipline that puts language’s formative power directly at the centre of its work.

Summary In the past, the positive experiential paradigm (D1b) offered us certainty in a world plagued by the limits of the intellect (D1a). However, the many different arguments leading to diverse justifications for the existence of God, along with apologetic justification for tradition, led to the modern subject becoming overwhelmed through the very plethora of these arguments. Spiritual direction became lost in a sea of these intellectual arguments and justifications. This resulted in overtly doctrinal or highly regulative forms of spiritual direction. The subjective turn, or rather the experientialist turn, offered a palliative to this situation. The effect on spiritual direction was thus one which moved it away from offering dogmatic or theological security by way of apologetic reflection.

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Instead, it opened an affective aperture through which the spiritual director could guide the subject to a place where the multiplication of these problems vanished within the positive experiential strata that lay beyond the signifier. With the birth of the experience economy and the distribution of positive affective experientialism with its endless array of commodities and services, spiritual direction can sometimes struggle to offer itself as a discourse of difference. Moreover, as long as it operates solely within the discourse of the experiential, there is a danger of there being no difference between what it offers and these other technologies-of-the-self. There is only a sense of quantity rather than quality. The enjoyment that certain strands of modern Christian spirituality and spiritual direction can offer is merely an object of experiential enjoyment which is supposedly bigger and better than all the rest. The imperative, in my experimental form of non-spiritual direction proposed here, is to break free of a paradigm of experientialist certainty that perceives God simply as another object to be experienced in a world that is already primed to offer us endless other so-­called transcendent experiences which ultimately result in anxiety. The paradox here is that the supposed object of experientialist certainty, by its very consumption, results in a subject of anxiousness as it seeks to hold on to these experiences via the ego. This doubt leads to an anxiety which becomes the repressed reality of this promise of experiential enjoyment. What this conversation between John and Lacan teaches us is that the nurturing of doubt within the paradigm of positive affective experientialism is the nurturing of what I have called D2. John expressed this within his notion of the night of the sense and spirit, and Lacan articulated this through his reinterpretation of John’s todo-nada as the not-all, which, in turn, created the core of his conception of the analytic discourse as a mode of mystical speech. What John and Lacan teach us is the importance of re-imagining the apophatic so that experience itself results in the antagonistic saturation of ‘nothing’ in the materiality of the signifying chain itself: the not-all, the mystical, the wound. The epistemological threshold is brought back into the folds of language rather than being supposed as an experientialist ‘edge’ which tempts us with its potential utopian transgression.

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Christianity teaches us that God is found in an unexpected place. He is found in a destroyed body on the Cross. God is found in a place of meaninglessness. This is reflected in the writings of the Catholic French Catholic philosopher Jean Yves Lacoste in his work Experience and the Absolute: Disputed Questions on the Humanity of Man: A Christological theory of experience—and thus a theory for which the secrets of liturgy ultimately reveal themselves beyond every phenomenological given that claims to be of eternal value for everyone everywhere, or in any case to be of value everywhere the Absolute is known as the subject and promise of a relation, in the singular meeting of God and man in Jesus of Nazareth—would not have as its sole task the interpretation of the darkness of Good Friday and the dereliction of the crucified Christ. Man can enjoy proximity to the divine in the time that leads him to death, and we do not lack texts that can be invoked here as Christological confirmation. But is that proximity attested to and demonstrated only in joy? This has already been denied, and we can deny it more forcefully still here. The Cross is, in fact and in the mode of a paroxysm, the place of inexperience. The existence of God is affirmed there, for one does not speak (“My God, my God, why…?”) to one who does not exist. God, however, is not absent: just as the humanity of Jesus of Nazareth is the humanity of God, so the death of Jesus is his death, his Passion, and not a human drama for which he might show a distant compassion. The Christological relation between man and God ceases, however, to be governed by consciousness—and we would advise against the pious but virtually senseless reading that attempts to safeguard we know not what devotional interpretation of the Cross by supposing that the crucified Christ, in the midst of his agonizing sufferings, still enjoys from the depths of his soul the beatific vision of God. God can be closest to us, (and there is no greater proximity than that to which Christology bears) even though the senses known him only as an absence. Man can encounter God, exist in the presence of God [coram Deo], without requiring him to grant us the fruition of his presence. The affective experience of God therefore loses all right to verify or falsify the relation between man and God. (Lacoste, 2004, p. 191)

In the above, Lacoste suggests that our conscious affective understanding does not solely define our relation to God, and human experiences of joy

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or sorrow do not bind it. He argues that divine proximity was not diminished even in the depths of Jesus’ suffering on the cross. He concludes that the emotional experience of God—the affective—neither verifies nor disproves the existence of the divine-human relationship. Lacoste’s theory implies a depth of divine interaction that transcends our typical phenomenological experiences, hinting at a more intricate, less universally defined understanding of man’s relation to God. Likewise, a Lacanian-Juanist interpretation of spiritual direction teaches us that human desire is mostly un-experienced and found in unexpected places. God is found at points of rupture in the meaning-­ making ability of the ego. Moreover, the place where desire ‘resides’ changes the very nature of desire as we conceive it. One of Lacan’s radical discoveries was in his positing that the signified slides under the signifier. This entails that the apparent depth of the self and the uniqueness of how we think and feel is shaped by something as contingent and paltry as the mere sounds of words echoing and connecting with other words in our psyche rather than being reducible to their meaning and content. The unconscious is not so much deep as it is inaccessible. It is difficult to listen for these sounds, slips, repetition, slurs, and rhythms of speech. Because of this, the depth of the self becomes disenchanted in its unbearable lightness. Psychoanalysis and Juanist spiritual direction start from the difficult premise that we trade the imaginary scarcity of profundity for the symbolic excess of triviality. We choose the signifier instead of the signified. So, the Lacanian listens for these phonetic sounds without always understanding. He does this as the process of understanding closes the ear’s sensitivity to the repetition of these sounds that shape us. Similarly, John teaches us that soon as we look for our way, we lose our way. The way up Mount Carmel is really no way at all. In other words, human desire, paradoxically, vanishes if we attempt to trap it within the smooth lines of meaning. Only by listening past meaning and questioning the immediacy and presence of meaning itself can we detect the outlines of other partial antagonistic narratives that interrupt the fixed parameters of the ego in garbled instances. These are instances within the normal process of communication that go undetected, ignored, and un-experienced unless one is trained to listen for this ‘small voice’ as the engine of our speech [1

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Kings 19: 11–13]. By pulling at these barely uttered points and tying whispered threads together, the director keeps the subject speaking as a subject who comes into view as one who can reconfigure their history and can have the courage to face the real of their linguistic formation. We assume our truth as creatures who can find new ways of speaking and desiring, by exploring and connecting these points of linguistic incoherence in their manifestation as a symptom. The Juanist-Lacanian director’s work is not to give the directee happiness but to help them continue speaking from these rupture points (SE, VII: 102, 219). We see something similar with John, as one who experienced the dredges and horrors of human existence through the fragmentation of his own story. In the complete rupture of his own personal narrative. As one who was torn away from his community and placed in depravation and silence. In solitude, John confronted bright phantoms from the gospel that broke through the night as songs on scraps of paper. He became haunted by language. Throughout the ordeal, he never stopped speaking. Through the darkening of the intellect, he continued to speak. Through the loss of memory, he continued to speak. Through the loss of experience itself, he continued to speak. John could not stop speaking because participation in divine speech precludes such an act. For Lacan, subjects like John are those who can engage in a perspective-­ changing, performative discourse to the extent that they first come to terms with the reality that discourse first performs them in its manifestation as the unconscious. This ability to face the sheer contingency and absurdity of our spoken desire is remarkably Christological in its application. It entails a constant kenotic denouement of imaginary identifications before a new subject that can arise through speech, with speech, and in speech. It is a way of speaking that by its nature, must be coterminous with the injunction that our spiritual life should be by the Word, through the Word and with the Word and its relation to desirative participation in the interpersonal essence of the Godhead. This is what I think a spiritual direction of desire would look like as opposed to a spiritual direction predicated on a search for satisfaction and experientialist certainty. This would be an ethical direction of desire precisely because it smashes through the experientialist injunctions of the pleasure principle.

310 

M. G. Murphy

References Badiou, A. (2018). Lacan: Anti-Philosophy 3. Columbia University Press. Lacan, J. (1969b). The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. The Other Side of Psychoanalysis. 1969–1970. Seminar XVII. [online] Translated by C. Gallagher. Ireland: Lacan in Ireland. http://www.lacaninireland.com/web/ translations/seminars/ Lacan, J. (2007). The Seminars of Jacques Lacan Book VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis 1959–1960 (D. Porter, Trans.). Routledge. Lacoste, J.-Y. (2004). Experience and the Absolute: Disputed Questions on the Humanity of Man. Fordham University Press. Tutt, D. (2012, May 7). Singularity, Psychoanalysis, and the Self-Help Industry. Daniel Tutt. https://danieltutt.com/2012/05/06/singularity-­psychoanalysis­and-­the-­self-­help-­industry/

Index

A

Affective, 12, 15, 16, 22, 23, 25, 33, 41, 45, 49, 66–68, 70–72, 75, 77, 84, 100, 101, 109, 118, 124, 125, 128, 132, 143, 145, 151, 153, 170, 171, 180, 181, 210, 221, 244, 246, 249, 258, 267, 270, 278, 280, 300, 306, 307 Anglophone, 26, 27, 157, 158 Antonomasia, 186–187, 284 Apophatic, 7, 17, 20, 66, 116, 125, 218, 242, 248, 266, 268, 269, 295, 306 B

Barry, W. A., 17, 22, 23, 45, 55, 216 Baruzi, Jean, 7, 12, 22, 36, 40, 99, 102, 103, 111, 154, 155,

157, 169, 198, 201, 206, 226, 231, 235–241, 249, 251, 271, 304 Bernard of Clairvaux, 70, 71 Braatøy, Trygve, 55 Brinkman, Svend, 50 Brown, Peter, 68, 69, 217 C

Catachresis, 185, 283 Church, 4, 55, 86, 98, 99, 124, 133, 136, 140, 144, 281, 283 Connolly, W. J., 17, 22, 23, 45, 55, 216 Contemplation, 5, 7, 38, 69, 74, 114, 115, 117, 120, 123, 126, 233, 238 Crownfield, D., 27

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. G. Murphy, The Direction of Desire, The Palgrave Lacan Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33107-7

311

312 Index D

E

D1 a & b, 21–24, 30, 32–35, 41, 42, 44, 49, 52–54, 57, 65, 67, 73, 75–77, 81, 84, 98, 99, 102–105, 109, 114, 118, 123–126, 130, 132, 133, 143, 146, 147, 151, 172, 210, 215, 218, 225, 231, 232, 234, 238, 241, 244, 245, 247, 249, 251, 258, 261–263, 267, 268, 271, 280, 292, 293, 300, 302–305 D2, 23, 24, 30, 31, 35, 41, 42, 66, 67, 71, 72, 74, 75, 77, 78, 80, 104, 109, 112–114, 116, 118, 119, 122–126, 128, 130, 132, 143, 146, 172, 210, 215, 218, 225, 226, 231, 232, 234, 241, 244, 246, 247, 249–251, 258, 265, 267, 268, 270, 271, 292, 295, 296, 300, 302–304, 306 The Dark Night of the Soul, 19, 29, 31, 32, 41, 66, 71, 72, 74, 75, 87, 90, 91, 93, 96, 100–102, 114, 200, 209, 237, 238, 265, 287–289, 294 De Certeau, Michel, 16, 79, 99, 124, 131, 132, 140, 141, 195–198, 210, 213, 225, 246, 270, 291 Derrida, Jacques, 27, 157 Desire, 15, 36, 49, 68, 72, 112, 170–172, 179, 191, 217, 218, 222, 255, 280–289 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 178 Diakrisis, 69 Digression, 187, 284–285 Dream work, 182

Ellipses, 186, 284 Emotional gratification, 21, 163, 264 Epikistasis, 67 Eros, 16, 30, 68, 77, 153, 154 Experientialist paradigm, 8, 9, 12, 15–18, 20, 22, 25, 32, 33, 36, 44, 66, 67, 72–75, 78–81, 99, 101, 103–105, 107, 108, 116, 121, 124, 125, 145–147, 153, 154, 172, 231, 235, 238–241, 245, 251, 265, 269, 270, 275, 280, 300, 303–306, 309 Eyers, Tom, 26, 28, 157–159, 161, 202, 245 F

Fink, Bruce, 26, 158, 160, 163, 169, 178, 179, 181–188, 190, 202, 203, 205, 207–209, 212, 214, 215, 219, 221, 223, 225, 254, 258, 264, 276–278, 284, 286, 289, 291, 292 Freud, Sigmund, 5, 10, 29, 30, 78, 79, 155, 156, 169, 176, 188, 195, 196, 201, 203, 233, 245, 279, 288, 304 G

Galindo, I., 18, 46, 53 Garrigou-Lagrange, Reginald, 21 Gilmore, J. H., 9, 18, 51 Grace, 13, 36, 54, 55, 71, 93, 99, 108, 110, 113, 116, 119, 120, 123, 125, 128, 140, 144, 155, 217, 218, 222, 235, 261, 264, 281, 288, 293, 295

 Index 

Gregory of Nyssa, 67, 101 Guenther, Margaret, 18, 269, 292

313

The imaginary, 161 Injunction-to-enjoy, 43, 52, 56, 57, 67, 152, 301 Interiority, 16, 22, 100, 101, 125, 279 Intersubjectivity, 68, 175 Irony, 188, 285–289

105, 131, 144, 146, 154–161, 163–173, 175–180, 182, 183, 189–191, 195–199, 201–210, 212–215, 217–226, 231–235, 238, 239, 241–245, 247–250, 252–255, 259, 261, 262, 264, 265, 267, 269–271, 275, 277–280, 288–290, 294–296, 299–302, 304, 306, 308, 309 Lane, B. C., 55, 56, 67, 69, 71, 212, 216, 217 Libidinal, 171, 275 Lindbeck, G., 16, 22, 76, 77, 105, 153, 177 The linguistic turn, 34, 36, 79, 105, 129, 145, 147, 252 Litotes, 186, 283 Lorgnette, 219

J

M

John of the Cross, 7, 9–12, 17–19, 21, 25, 29–32, 36–38, 40–42, 71, 72, 74, 78–81, 85, 89, 94, 98, 100–103, 107, 121, 129–130, 133–135, 141, 146, 153, 154, 169, 198, 200, 213, 226, 231, 235–241, 244, 247, 251, 252, 264, 277, 296, 303–305

McGinn, Bernard, 15 McIntosh, Mark, 16, 19, 23, 32, 36, 65, 67, 68, 70, 103, 128, 144, 262 Milbank, John, 26, 53 Myers-Briggs, 54 Mystical, 5–7, 11–13, 15–19, 22, 23, 25, 26, 29, 32, 34–36, 38–41, 43, 44, 49, 65–67, 72–74, 80, 99–105, 107, 113, 116, 118, 125, 126, 130–132, 134–136, 141–143, 145–147, 154, 155, 157, 159, 169, 196, 198, 199, 201, 209, 210, 220, 225, 226, 231, 233, 234, 236, 238–245, 247–251, 262, 263, 269–271, 277, 278, 289, 290, 292, 294, 296, 300, 302–304, 306

H

Hillman, James, 46, 180, 181 Hollywood, Amy, 26, 29, 233 Hyperbaton, 281 Hypotyposis, 188, 286 I

K

Kepes, Ted, 29 Kerr, F., 23 L

Lacan, J., 7, 9–13, 17, 25–30, 33–42, 57, 66, 73, 78–81, 102,

314 Index N

Negation, 7, 187–188, 285–286 Negative affective experientialism, 22, 98, 300 Neurotic, 178 New Age, 52 Nobus, Dany, 158 Non-affective mystical negativism, 22, 124, 250, 300

Psychology, 7, 18, 21, 32, 44, 49, 66, 72, 80, 102, 103, 105, 111, 125, 126, 133, 135, 170, 207, 220, 234, 303 Psychotherapy, 20, 26, 33, 48, 53, 77, 172 Psychotic, 178 R

O

Otto, Rudolf, 44 P

Parapraxis, 189, 224, 286, 287 Pastoral theology, 27, 28, 36, 41, 100, 173, 196, 252 Periphrasis, 182, 183, 280–281 Phenomenology, 11, 156, 157 Pine, B. J., 9, 18, 51 Positive affective experientialism, 21, 22, 24, 30, 34, 52, 53, 98, 132, 145, 151, 206, 222, 231, 249, 265, 268, 275, 292, 294, 300, 305, 306 Postmodern, 8, 25, 27 Post-oedipal, 163, 166 Pound, Marcus, 26, 27, 41, 78, 79, 156, 159, 169, 195, 222, 231, 239, 295 Pre-modern spiritual direction, 17, 18, 80, 210, 211, 213, 224 Pre-oedipal, 163 Prolepsis, 281–282 Pseudo-Dionysius, 7, 31, 68, 101, 106, 116

Raschke, Carl, 27 The real, 167, 234, 241 Retraction, 187, 285–289 Roman Catholic, 23 Ruffing, J., 21, 28 Ruffing, J. K., 21, 28 S

Seminar XX, 26, 57, 198, 220, 226, 233, 234, 242, 244, 245, 250, 255 Slip, 96, 171, 175, 188–191, 286–287 Spiritual direction, 3, 5, 9, 11–13, 15–21, 23–25, 28–38, 41, 42, 45–47, 49, 52–57, 65–67, 69–72, 74–81, 84, 85, 89–91, 96, 100, 104, 105, 109, 113, 118–137, 139–147, 151–153, 155, 159, 173, 191, 195, 196, 199, 201–207, 209–212, 214–217, 219, 224–226, 232–234, 236, 240, 244, 249–253, 259, 261, 263, 266–270, 278–296, 299–306, 308, 309

 Index 

Spiritual directors, 13, 19, 24, 29–31, 35, 45, 53–56, 66, 70–72, 74, 78–80, 93, 122, 125, 140, 146, 211, 212, 215, 216, 260–270, 279–289, 303 Spiritual experience, 6, 11, 18, 70, 74, 220 Suspension, 185, 282–283 The symbolic, 164, 223, 253

Transcendental, 19, 22 Trauma, 26, 115, 116, 121, 289 Turner, Denys, 7, 32, 56, 72, 74, 101, 107–109, 124, 125, 127–129 Tyler, Peter, 32, 38, 73, 105, 116, 133, 153, 294 W

T

Tallman, Bruce, 54, 55 Theology, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 12, 16, 19, 21, 23, 25–29, 32, 34, 36, 39, 53, 56, 72, 83, 91, 97, 99–101, 104, 105, 107, 116, 120, 128, 130, 132, 134, 136, 146, 154, 155, 182, 199, 204, 217, 222, 226, 233–235, 240, 244, 252, 262, 263, 271, 284, 290, 302

315

Well-being, 6, 18–20, 22, 30, 46, 48, 71, 170, 172, 217, 260 Wyschogrod, E., 27 Z

Žižek, Slavoj, 26, 28, 37, 51–53, 157, 159, 167, 197, 254, 256–258