The Difference Between Suffering and Desolation

For the past several days I have been in the hospital following a medical complication, related to seven bowel surgeries I went through earlier. The details themselves are not relevant to write further. What drives me to write is not only the physical reality of illness, but the spiritual reality that accompanies it.

Illness makes an impact not only on the condition of the body but also the mind and spirit. Within my journey, I have become increasingly convinced that one of the most important contributions of Ignatian spirituality to healthcare, disability, and pastoral care is its distinction between physical suffering, psychological distress, and spiritual desolation.

These realities often occur together, but they are not the same thing.

Physical suffering refers to the pain, weakness, limitations, and discomfort experienced in the body. It belongs to the realm of illness and injury.

Psychological distress refers to anxiety, fear, uncertainty, grief, or emotional overwhelm. It belongs to the realm of our thoughts and emotions.

Spiritual desolation, however, is something different. Ignatius describes it as a movement away from faith, hope, and love; a state in which God seems distant and the soul becomes trapped in discouragement, confusion, or despair.

In practice, these experiences might overlap. Physical suffering may trigger anxiety. Anxiety may create vulnerability to desolation. Yet the distinction remains crucial because one can be present without the others.

A person may experience severe physical suffering while remaining spiritually grounded. Likewise, a person may enjoy physical comfort while living in profound spiritual desolation.

The hospital has become an unexpected classroom for learning this distinction.

My body is undoubtedly suffering. There is pain and uncertainty. Yet I have noticed something surprising. While suffering is present, despair is not.

At one point I wrote to a friend:

I suffer, but I guess I am a happy sufferer, not because suffering is what I prefer, but I know Who suffers with me.

I do not mean that I enjoy suffering. Nor do I mean that faith removes suffering. Perhaps, I can say that the presence of Christ changes the meaning of suffering, making it endurable.

Christian faith does not proclaim a God who stands at a safe distance from human pain. It proclaims a God who enters it. The crucified Christ is not merely an observer of suffering but a participant in it.

This realization has led me to reflect on two Gospel passages that have long intrigued me.

Jesus says, "Get away from me, Satan," on two separate occasions.

The first occurs during the temptation in the wilderness. The source of temptation is obvious. Jesus faces Satan directly. (Matthew 4:10)

The second occurs when Peter reacts to Jesus' prediction of suffering and death. Peter is horrified. He cannot bear the thought of Jesus suffering. His response is understandable, compassionate, and deeply human.

Yet Jesus responds with the same words:

"Get away from me, Satan." (Matthew 16:23)

The parallel is striking.

Peter is not Satan. He is a beloved disciple who eventually received the keys of the Church. Nevertheless, in that moment Peter becomes a vehicle for a temptation that would lead Jesus away from his mission.

This episode reveals something profound about the spiritual life. Temptation does not always arrive openly. Sometimes it appears through the fears of people who genuinely love us.

During illness I have received many messages filled with concern and care. I am grateful for them. Yet I have also observed how fear can spread from one person to another. Sometimes another person's panic can become more spiritually disruptive than the illness itself.

This insight resonates strongly with Ignatius' understanding of discernment.

The evil spirit does not necessarily create suffering. Human life already contains suffering. Rather, the evil spirit seeks to distort our response to suffering. Fear becomes magnified. Hope becomes obscured. Catastrophic possibilities dominate attention. Freedom narrows.

The objective is not pain itself but discouragement.

Seen from this perspective, one of the most important spiritual tasks during illness is learning to discern which voices deserve attention.

Not every thought is true.

Not every fear is prophetic.

Not every anxious possibility deserves hospitality.

Discernment requires asking a simple but demanding question:

Does this movement lead me toward greater faith, hope, and love, or away from them?

If a thought increases panic, isolates me from God, or diminishes trust, Ignatius would advise caution regardless of how convincing that thought may initially appear.

The challenge is not to deny reality. Discernment is not optimism. It is not pretending that illness is less serious than it is. Rather, discernment seeks to engage reality truthfully while refusing to surrender to unnecessary fear.

The distinction between suffering and desolation becomes especially important here.

Physical suffering may be unavoidable.

Psychological distress may arise naturally.

Spiritual desolation, however, is not something to be accepted passively. It must be recognized, understood, and resisted.

This insight was born in the life of Ignatius himself. Long before he became a spiritual master, he was a patient confined to a sickbed. It was there, amid physical weakness and uncertainty, that he began observing the inner movements of the soul. The Spiritual Exercises emerged not from comfort but from vulnerability.

Perhaps this is why Ignatius remains such an important conversation partner for contemporary disability theology and healthcare spirituality. He reminds us that suffering does not have the final word.

The decisive question is not whether we suffer.

The decisive question is what happens within us while we suffer.

As I continue recovering, I do not know what lies ahead. Yet I find myself returning to a simple conviction:

I suffer. But I know who suffers with me.

And because of that, suffering need not become desolation.