September 1: The Structure of the Question, Loneliness, Thomas Merton

Arthur is about to learn something rather unpleasant . . .

"But . . ." started Arthur, hopelessly.

"Hey, will you get this, Earthman," interrupted Zaphod.  "You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, right?"

"Er . . ."

"So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer program," said Ford, rather lucidly he thought.

"Right?" said Zaphod.

"Well," said Arthur doubtfully.  He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything.  He had always seen this as one of his problems.

"In other words," said Benjy, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, "there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain--so we want to buy it off you."

"What, the question?" said Arthur.

"Yes," said Ford and Trillian.

"For lots of money," said Zaphod.

"No, no," said Frankie, "its the brain we want to buy."

"What!"

"Well, who would miss it?" inquired Benjy.

"I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically," protested Ford.

"Oh yes," said Frankie, "but we'd have to get it out first.  It's got to be prepared."

"Treated," said Benjy.

"Diced."

"Thank you," shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror.

"It could always be replaced," said Benjy reasonably, "if you think it's important."

And there you have it.  Arthur is about to have his head split open and his brain removed by a pair of bloodthirsty white mice.  If you have just tuned into this year of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, none of this will make a whole lot of sense.  For the sake of this post, what is important to know is that Arthur is quite isolated at the moment.  Even though he's surrounded by his friends (at least, he thinks they're his friends), Arthur is feeling very much alone.

Loneliness is a very difficult emotion.  You can be sitting in a room by yourself or surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel very much like the last person on Earth (or from Earth, in Arthur's case).  Isolation is not dependent upon the number of individuals around you.  No, feeling isolated is a matter of emotional and/or spiritual connection.  It's about not being understood and supported on a deep level.  So, you can feel utterly alone with anyone--your friend, spouse, family--if you aren't experiencing that connection.

Currently, I'm reading a book by a Jesuit priest, James Martin, titled My Life with the Saints.  Martin includes an entire chapter on Thomas Merton, one of the most influential Catholic writers/thinkers of the 20th century.  Merton experienced a lot of loneliness and isolation.  He was a Trappist monk.  It sort of came with the territory.  Merton's childhood was filled with loss and grief.  His mother died when he was quite young, and his father was a nomadic artist who didn't provide a whole lot of emotional support for his motherless children.  This upbringing instilled in Merton a kind of rootlessness that stayed with him his entire life.

In his book No Man is an Island, Merton addressed these feelings of loneliness and despair.  He wrote,

How close God is to us when we come to recognize and to accept our abjection and to cast our care entirely upon Him!  Against all human expectation He sustains us when we need to be sustained, helping us to do what seemed impossible  We learn to know Him, now, not in the "presence" that is found in abstract consideration--a presence in which we dress Him in our own finery--but in the emptiness of a hope that may come close to despair.  For perfect hope is achieved on the brink of despair when, instead of falling over the edge, we find ourselves walking on the air.  Hope is always just about to turn into despair, but never does so, for at the moment of supreme crisis God's power is suddenly made perfect in our infirmity.  So we learn to expect His mercy most calmly when all is most dangerous, to seek Him quietly in the face of peril, certain that He cannot fail us though we may be upbraided by the just and rejected by those who claim to hold the evidence of His love.

I know, I know.  That's pretty heady stuff.  But what Merton is getting at is this:  when you feel the most isolated and alone, when you are teetering on the brink of utter despair, that is when perfect hope is achieved.  God steps in.  Instead of plunging into darkness, you find yourself "walking on air" (an image I find very comforting).  Merton paints a picture of a Higher Power that pierces the darkness of loneliness with light and love.

Most of you know that I've been struggling a lot recently with some of these darker emotions.  Teetering "on the brink of despair," as Merton says.  It's not been easy.  When you are sitting in a room with someone you love, feeling the kind of loneliness Merton describes above, you don't have anywhere to go but up.  According to Merton, you are about to experience hope at its most profound level.  Because you've been stripped bare.  You have nothing else.  That's when God rolls up his sleeves and goes to work.

I truly believe Merton's words.  Deep loneliness leads to deep hope.  Deep despair leads to God's deep love.  You may think that I'm naive.  I don't care.  That's what faith is all about, trusting in God's "mercy when all is most dangerous."

It's late.  Almost 1 a.m.  I am tired.  Yet, I am filled with peace right now.  Because I know that God's love is with me, and that love will never fail.

Saint Marty is ready for God's power to be made perfect in his loneliness.