Merton gets tapped on the shoulder by God . . .
I know that many people are, or call themselves, “atheists” simply because they are repelled and offended by statements about God made in imaginary and metaphorical terms which they are not able to interpret and comprehend. They refuse these concepts of God, not because they despise God, but perhaps because they demand a notion of Him more perfect than they generally find: and because ordinary, figurative concepts of God could not satisfy them, they turn away and think that there are no other: or, worse still, they refuse to listen to philosophy, on the ground that it is nothing but a web of meaningless words spun together for the justification of the same old hopeless falsehoods.
What a relief it was for me, now, to discover not only that no idea of ours, let alone any image, could adequately represent God, but also that we should not allow ourselves to be satisfied with any such knowledge of Him.
The result was that I at once acquired an immense respect for Catholic philosophy and for the Catholic faith. And that last thing was the most important of all. I now at least recognized that faith was something that had a very definite meaning and a most cogent necessity.
If this much was a great thing, it was about all that I could do at the moment. I could recognize that those who thought about God had a good way of considering Him, and that those who believed in Him really believed in someone, and their faith was more than a dream. Further than that it seemed I could not go, for the time being.
How many there are in the same situation! They stand in the stacks of libraries and turn over the pages of St. Thomas’s Summa with a kind of curious reverence. They talk in their seminars about “Thomas” and “Scotus” and “Augustine” and “Bonaventure” and they are familiar with Maritain and Gilson, and they have read all the poems of Hopkins—and indeed they know more about what is best in the Catholic literary and philosophical tradition than most Catholics ever do on this earth. They sometimes go to Mass, and wonder at the dignity and restraint of the old liturgy. They are impressed by the organization of a Church in which everywhere the priests, even the most un-gifted, are able to preach at least something of a tremendous, profound, unified doctrine, and to dispense mysteriously efficacious help to all who come to them with troubles and needs.
In a certain sense, these people have a better appreciation of the Church and of Catholicism than many Catholics have: an appreciation which is detached and intellectual and objective. But they never come into the Church. They stand and starve in the doors of the banquet—the banquet to which they surely realize that they are invited—while those more poor, more stupid, less gifted, less educated, sometimes even less virtuous than they, enter in and are filled at those tremendous tables.
When I had put this book down, and had ceased to think explicitly about its arguments, its effect began to show itself in my life. I began to have a desire to go to church—and a desire more sincere and mature and more deep-seated than I had ever had before. After all, I had never before had so great a need.
The only place I could think of was the Episcopal Church down the road, old Zion Church, among the locust trees, where Father had once played the organ. I think the reason for this was that God wanted me to climb back the way I had fallen down. I had come to despise the Church of England, the “Protestant Episcopal Church,” and He wanted me to do away with what there was of pride and self-complacency even in that. He would not let me become a Catholic, having behind me a rejection of another church that was not the right kind of a rejection, but one that was sinful in itself, rooted in pride, and expressed in contumely.
This time I came back to Zion Church, not to judge it, not to condemn the poor minister, but to see if it could not do something to satisfy the obscure need for faith that was beginning to make itself felt in my soul.
It was a nice enough church. It was pleasant to sit there, in the pretty little white building, with the sun pouring through the windows, on Sunday mornings. The choir of surpliced men and women and the hymns we all sang did not exactly send me up into ecstasy: but at least I no longer made fun of them in my heart. And when it came time to say the Apostles’ Creed, I stood up and said it, with the rest, hoping within myself that God would give me the grace someday to really believe it.
I have been going to church all my life. Born and raised Catholic, I've gone through periods of truancy in the practice of my faith. Times when I went to Burger King for breakfast instead of Mass. I was a teenager then, more interested in friends and girls and alcohol. That's pretty normal. A lot of Catholic saints struggled with the same types of distractions prior to their conversions. Saint Augustine certainly did. Thomas Merton certainly, as well. (Technically, Merton isn't a saint. However, we're all saints-in-making.) Yet, eventually, there is that moment when God taps you on the shoulder.
I have talked about my shoulder moment in previous posts. It was, quite literally, a voice in church. My parish priest (an Italian version of Barry Fitzgerald's character in Going My Way) was in need of a church organist for one of his weekend Masses. He knew I played the piano. As I was sitting in the pew one Saturday evening, Monsignor announced that there was "a young man" who would be starting to play the pipe organ for the Mass "next week." He looked directly at me when he made this proclamation. When I went up to receive Communion, he winked at me.
That was it. Monsignor didn't take "no" for an answer. Some 35 years later, I am still sitting on the same bench every Saturday evening, before the same pipe organ, playing the old Catholic hymns (and maybe a few from the Methodist hymnal, to keep people on their toes). Music brought me back to church when I was on my way out the door.
I'm no saint. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. I am frequently impatient and angry. Struggle with trust in God. (I hand my problems over to God in one breath, and then take them back in the next.) I swear like a Merchant Marine. (One of my favorite sayings: "Are you fucking kidding me?!!") Every once in a while, I have a few too many glasses of wine in a night. (In my defense, Jesus was known to share a little fermented grape with the disciples, as well. So, I am walking in Christ's footsteps there.) And I have a tendency to fret about the future. A lot. (This all goes back to my issues with trust. Instead of "Just a Closer Walk with Thee," my theme is more like "my God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" most days.)
I am a work in progress. Will be until the day I die. I'd love to say that I feel God's presence in my life all the time. I don't. In fact, this past year, I haven't heard His voice too much. Of course, this year has been a year of great testing for the entire planet. The pandemic; in my country, four years of non-leadership by people who call themselves "Christian" but turn their backs on the poor, homeless, sick, and elderly; and some major personal struggles have made me, at times, question whether God hasn't gone on an extended vacation. I hear Mount Everest is lovely this time of year.
Yet, every weekend, I get that tap on the shoulder again, hear Monsignor's invitation in my head, and find myself at the pipe organ, playing songs like "For the Beauty of the Earth" or "Panis Angelicus." It's who I am now, almost 40 years after that first calling. I'm not the greatest organist in the world by any means. But it's really not about being great. It's about growing.
In 2006, a high school English student wrote a letter to Kurt Vonnegut as an assignment, probably never expecting a response. Vonnegut wrote back. Here is a portion of what he said:
I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.
Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!
Kurt Vonnegut
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