How to make spiritual progress (The Ascent of Mount Carmel)

Have you ever noticed how tightly a child grips a handful of coins at a toy store? Knuckles white, fist clenched, eyes darting from shelf to shelf, trying to calculate what those few dollars can buy. The child is paralyzed, not by poverty, but by the desperate arithmetic of wanting. Every option considered means another option lost. And so the child stands frozen in the aisle, clutching coins that grow warm and slick in a sweaty palm, unable to choose because choosing means giving something up.

We never really outgrow this. We just trade coins for other currencies: time, reputation, security, control, the approval of people whose names we will forget in five years. We grip these things with the same white-knuckled intensity, convinced that the tighter we hold, the more we possess. And all the while, something in us suspects that we have the equation exactly backward.

St. John of the Cross, the sixteenth-century Spanish mystic, monk, and poet, gave voice to this suspicion. But beware, these words might feel a little obtuse at first, more like a punch in the face than a warm embrace. This is by design, but bear with me, I'll break it down:

"To come to the pleasure you have not, you must go by a way in which you enjoy not. To come to the knowledge you have not, you must go by a way in which you know not. To come to the possession you have not, you must go by a way in which you possess not."

These words, found in his Ascent of Mount Carmel, are not a riddle designed to frustrate. They are a map. But the territory they describe is so counterintuitive that most of us fold the map back up and shove it in a drawer.

We prefer directions that confirm what we already believe: that more effort yields more reward, that accumulation leads to satisfaction, that knowing leads to understanding.

John tells us the opposite. He says the road to everything passes directly through nothing.

 

The Paradox at the Center

This is not merely a mystical curiosity. It is woven into the fabric of Scripture itself.

Jesus said, "For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it" (Matthew 16:25, NRSV). Notice the structure. It mirrors John of the Cross almost exactly. There is a thing you want (your life, in its fullest sense), and the way to obtain it is the precise opposite of what instinct dictates.

You do not find your life by grasping it. You find it by releasing it.

Paul understood this paradox from the inside. Writing to the church at Philippi, he catalogued his impressive credentials, his pedigree, his achievements, and then made a stunning declaration: "Yet whatever gains I were mine, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ" (Philippians 3:7-8).

The Greek word Paul uses for "rubbish" is skybala, a coarse, even vulgar term. He basically means "dung," or to put it even more crassly, crap.

He is not being polite or philosophical. He is saying that everything he once treasured now strikes him as refuse when compared to what opened up when he stopped clutching it.

This is not a rejection of the world. It is a reordering.

Paul did not cease to think, to work, to love, to engage. He ceased to grip. And in the opening of his hands, he found them filled with something he could never have acquired by reaching.

 

The Way of Unknowing

John of the Cross speaks of three specific deprivations: pleasure you enjoy not, knowledge you know not, possession you possess not.

Each one addresses a different dimension of the human soul.

The first touches our appetites, the endless hunger for experience and sensation that drives so much of modern life. We are a culture addicted to stimulation. We scroll, consume, binge, and browse, always seeking the next moment of pleasure. John does not say pleasure is evil. He says that the path to the deepest pleasure runs through a stretch of road where familiar pleasures fall silent.

Think of it this way: a person who has never experienced silence cannot truly hear music. The pause between notes is what gives melody its shape. Without the willingness to pass through seasons of not enjoying, we condemn ourselves to a shallow, frantic kind of enjoyment that never satisfies.

The second touches our intellect, our relentless need to understand before we trust. We want explanations. We want theology to be neat, suffering to be logical, God to be predictable.

But the deepest knowledge of God has always come to those willing to stand at the edge of what they know and take one more step into darkness. Moses encountered God not in clarity but in "the thick darkness where God was" (Exodus 20:21). The psalmist cried, "Be still, and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10). The Hebrew word translated "be still," raphah, carries the sense of letting go, of releasing one's grip. It is as though God says: stop striving to figure me out, and in that stopping, you will know me as you never could through striving.

The third touches our possessions, not merely material goods but everything we consider ours: our identity, our plans, our relationships, our image of who we are and who God should be.

Abraham was asked to place his only son on an altar. The story in Genesis 22 is harrowing precisely because it asks the reader to confront the question: Is there anything you hold so tightly that releasing it feels like death?

Abraham walked up that mountain possessing nothing but obedience, and he came down possessing a covenant that would reshape human history. He came to the possession he had not by going a way in which he possessed not.

 

Why This Terrifies Us

Let us be honest. This teaching is terrifying. It sounds like a demand to annihilate the self, to become nothing, to embrace a grim and joyless emptiness. But that is a misreading, and it is worth pausing to correct it.

John of the Cross is not describing destruction. He is describing detachment, which is an entirely different thing. Destruction removes the person. Detachment frees the person.

A bird tied to a post by a thread is just as unable to fly as a bird tied by a heavy chain.

John's concern is the thread.

It is the subtle, nearly invisible attachments that keep us tethered to a version of life far smaller than the one God intends.

The goal is not emptiness for its own sake. The goal is availability. When your hands are full, you cannot receive. When your mind is cluttered with certainties, there is no room for revelation. When your calendar is crammed with the pursuit of pleasure, there is no space for joy, which is a far deeper and more durable thing than pleasure ever was.

Jesus illustrated this when he told the rich young ruler to sell everything and follow him (Matthew 19:21). The young man went away grieving, "for he had many possessions" (Matthew 19:22). Notice: Jesus did not say the possessions were sinful. He said they were in the way the man gripped them, how he clung to them, how they prevented him from truly following. They occupied the space where something infinitely greater was waiting to dwell.

 

The Surprise at the Bottom

Here is what makes this teaching not grim but radiant: the emptying is never the end of the story. It is always the beginning.

"Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves" (Psalm 126:5-6).

The weeping is real.

The emptiness is real.

The disorientation of walking a path where you do not enjoy, do not know, and do not possess is genuinely painful.

But the harvest is also real. And it is abundant beyond anything the clutching hand could have gathered on its own.

The ancient Christian tradition has a phrase for this movement: kenosis, from the Greek word Paul used to describe Christ, who "emptied himself, taking the form of a slave" (Philippians 2:7). The self-emptying of Jesus was not a diminishment. It was the very act by which all of creation was redeemed.

His nothing became our everything. And we are invited into the same pattern, not as saviors, but as participants in a love that operates by giving itself away.

 

The Visual Theology of the Ascent

In his drawing, The Ascent of Mount Carmel, John presents a schematic of the human soul’s journey toward union with God. It is a stark, geometric representation of the choices we face daily. YOU CAN SEE THIS IMAGE AT THE TOP OF THIS POST.   

I have a printed-out and framed version of this drawing in two locations in my office. Why? Because I'm that stubborn that I need the constant reminder. This isn't an easy or a quick path.  Feel free to "right-click" the image, save it, and print it out for yourself.

The Three Paths at the Base

At the bottom of the mountain, John illustrates three distinct paths, but only one leads to the summit. On the far left and far right, he draws wide paths labeled "The Way of the Imperfect Spirit." These represent our natural instincts to seek security.

One is the path of earthly goods—possessions, joys, and knowledge of the world.

The other is the path of heavenly goods—spiritual consolations and the desire to "feel" holy. This might be your "worship experience," or a particular "feeling of closeness" you hope to achieve in prayer. Some people think these are the height of the spiritual life, but it's not. Such consolations or "feelings" may come from God, even as a parent might need to hug a child in order to let him know that he is loved. But the goal of the parent is not to be there throughout their entire lives, hugging them at every moment when hardship in life comes, but to train the child in a confidence that he comes to know he is loved, even when he doesn't get the hug.

John warns that even seeking "spiritual" highs can be a form of grasping that keeps us circling the base of the mountain.

God is not a feeling.

He is so much more than that. He is everything, quite literally.

Your spouse is more than the feelings you had when you first met, when you were infatuated with each other. If you reduce your spouse to a “feeling,” there will come a time when those feelings cease and you might think you’ve fallen “out of love.” How many people have divorced precisely because they’d loved a “feeling” more than a “person”?

Apply this to your spiritual life. Consider how this relates to your relationship with God. If you’re seeking a feeling rather than God, Himself, you’ll invariably find yourself fearing for your faith, you’ll become overwhelmed with thoughts that you’re unlovable, or that God has been ignoring you, or isn’t giving you the attention you want.

If the summit, the deepest part, of your spiritual life is a worship experience, a “feeling” that you associate with the Holy Spirit, then you will never know true love. Because the pursuit of a “feeling” is always about loving oneself more than it is about loving God.

Between these two lies, between the “earthly goods” and the “heavenly goods,” we find the “Path of Mount Carmel,” the narrow, straight road of the Perfect Spirit.

Between these two lies the "Path of Mount Carmel," the narrow, straight road of the Perfect Spirit.

Notice the word written repeatedly along this central track: nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. This is the visual representation of the "Way of Unknowing." To climb, one must travel without the "baggage" of attachment to either worldly status or spiritual ego.

 

The Narrowing of the Way

As the central path rises, it reaches a point of total constriction. This represents the "Dark Night," where the soul feels stripped of its usual comforts and certainties. John notes that the higher you go, the less you "grip," until you reach a state where you "possess the all" precisely because you "desire to possess nothing." This is the point where the soul realizes that to arrive at being all, it must desire to be nothing.

The Summit: Divine Union

At the top of the mountain, the paths disappear into a broad, open space. This is the "Mount of God." Here, John lists the fruits of a liberated life: Charity, Joy, Peace, and Fortitude. Interestingly, the top of the mountain is not crowded with "achievements" or "titles." It is characterized by Wisdom and Justice. Once the climber stops trying to own the mountain, they find that the entire horizon belongs to them. The drawing features a beautiful paradox written at the peak: "Now that I no longer desire them, I have them all without desire." ### The Wisdom of the Map

John’s drawing reminds us that the "nothingness" he preaches isn't a void; it’s a clearing. By drawing the "Path of the Perfect Spirit" as a line of "nothings," he is showing us that the only thing keeping us from the summit is the clutter in our hands. When we look at the diagram, we see that the "imperfect" paths simply curve back around or lead to a dead end. They are circular loops of self-interest. Only the path of release—the path that looks the most difficult and empty at the start—actually breaks through to the top.

 

Practical Steps for the Journey

So what does this look like daily?

First, notice what you are gripping. Before you can release anything, you must become aware of what your hands are closed around. Spend a few quiet minutes asking a simple question: What am I most afraid of losing right now? That fear is a signpost. It points to the attachment that most needs your gentle, honest attention.

Second, practice small surrenders. You do not have to climb Mount Carmel in a day. Begin with modest acts of release. Let someone else have the last word. Sit in five minutes of silence without reaching for your phone. Give something away that you would rather keep. These small gestures train the hands to open.

Third, expect discomfort and do not mistake it for failure. The "way in which you enjoy not" will feel like loss. It is supposed to. Discomfort is not evidence that you have taken a wrong turn. It is evidence that you are on the narrow road Jesus described, the one that leads to life (Matthew 7:14).

Fourth, trust the pattern. Every seed buried in the ground looks like death for a season. But burial is not the same as destruction. It is the necessary condition for something unimaginably new to break through the soil.

Return to that child in the toy store, fist clenched around a few warm coins. Now imagine someone kneeling beside that child and whispering: Open your hand. I want to give you something better, but I cannot place it in a fist.

The Slow Work of the Climb

The path requires a steady, quiet discipline. It is no coincidence that the ancient rhythms of the Church—the Lenten practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—mirror the very "nothings" John describes. Prayer clears the mind of its own noise; fasting detaches the soul from its physical cravings; almsgiving opens the hand that has been clenched around its possessions. These are not punishments; they are the mountain gear for the ascent. They are the tools we use to slowly, methodically, thin out the attachments that keep us tethered to the base.

Grace for the Journey

As you begin to look at your own life through the lens of this map, you will inevitably find yourself still clutching "coins" in the toy store. You will feel the white-knuckled grip of your own ego or the frantic need for security. When this happens, do not beat yourself up. Shame is just another weight that makes the climb harder.

Instead, use that awareness as a diagnostic tool. When you feel the pull of an attachment, simply look at the map and identify where you are. Are you circling a loop of earthly goods? Are you stuck in a dead-end of spiritual pride?

That recognition is not a failure; it is a point of progress. It is the moment you realize where you are on the climb, allowing you to turn your feet back toward the center path of release.

The mountain is steep, and the air gets thin, but the clearing at the top is real. It is a space of infinite liberty, and it is waiting for anyone willing to keep their hands open and their feet moving, one "nothing" at a time.

This is the invitation. It has always been the invitation. Seek nothing, and find your hands full of everything that matters.