February 13: Without Any Religion At All, Difficult Circumstances, Love and Belief

Merton speaks of his father's religious faith:

When we woke up in the morning, and looked out into the bright sunlit air, and saw the low tiled roofs, we realized that we had come upon a scene different from the last kind of landscape we had seen by the light of the previous evening in the rain.

We were at the borders of Languedoc.  Everything was red.  The town was built of brick.  It stood on a kind of low bluff, over the clay-colored eddies of the river Tarn.  We might almost have been in a part of Spain.  But oh!  It was dead, that town!

Why were we there?  It was not only that Father wanted to continue painting in the south of France.  He had come back to us that year with more than a beard.  Whether it was his sickness or what, I do not know, but something had made him certain that he could not leave the training and care of his sons to other people, and that he had a responsibility to make some kind of a home, somewhere, where he could at the same time carry on his work and have us living with him, growing up under his supervision.  And, what is more, he had become definitely aware of certain religious obligations for us as well as for himself.

I was sure he had never ceased to be a religious man but now--a thing which I did not remember from my earlier years--he told me to pray, to ask God to help us, to help him paint, to help him have a successful exhibition, to find us a place to live.

When we were settled then, perhaps after a year of two, he would bring John Paul over to France too.  Then we would have a home.  So far, of course, everything was indefinite.  But the reason why he had come to Montauban was that he had been advised that there was a very good school there.

The school in question was called the Institut Jean Calvin, and the recommendation had come from some prominent French Protestant whom Father knew.

I remember we went and visited the place.  It was a big, clean, white building overlooking the river.  There were some sunny cloisters, full of greenery, and all the rooms were empty, because it was still the time of summer vacation.  However, there was something about it that Father did not like, and I was, thank God, never sent there.  As a matter of fact it was not so much a school as a kind of Protestant residence where a lot of youths (who belonged, mostly, to fairly well-to-do families) boarded and received religious instruction and supervision and, for the rest, attended the classes of the Lycee.,

And so I obscurely began to realize that, although Father was anxious for me to get some kind of religious training, he was by no means in love with French Protestantism.  As a matter of fact, I learned later from some of his friends, that at the time there had been not a little likelihood that he might become a Catholic.  He seems to have been much attracted to the Church, but in the end he resisted the attraction because of the rest of us.  I think he felt that his first duty was to take the ordinary means at his disposal to get me and John Paul to practice whatever religion was nearest at hand to us, for if he became a Catholic there might have been immense complications with the rest of family, and we would perhaps have remained without any religion at all.  

If anyone had reason to turn his back on God, it was Owen Merton.  Merton's father lost his young wife to cancer early in their marriage, leaving him without his life partner.  The person with whom he had been planning to spend the rest of his life.  And now, he's trying to bring up his children to the best of his ability, including teaching them about faith.

When faced with difficult circumstances in life, a person of faith has two choices:  1) to fully rely on his/her Higher Power, or 2) turn his/her back on that Higher Power.  Sometimes, however, it's a little of both.  Getting angry.  Giving up on prayer.  Wallowing in grief and self-pity.  Then, in the midst of all that, saying things like "help me, God" and "why me, God" and "I don't understand, God."  That's what the human experience is all about. 

Struggle is always a part of life.  Sometimes, you can go for long periods where everything is going well.  You're healthy, making enough money to pay the bills.  Your kids are doing well in school, and your love life is full of roses and hearts and back massages.  And then, things change in a millisecond.  Suddenly, you're walking through a valley of bones.

I'm in Calumet at the moment, sitting in a hotel room as a snowstorm sort of rages outside.  Not a big snowstorm.  Just enough to make it impossible to see across the parking lot.  I've spent a good portion of the night watching reruns of M*A*S*H.  Not a bad way to kill a few hours.

And, of course, being alone gives me a lot of time to think about and reflect on life and love and faith and chocolate.  I already do that a lot, but, being by myself, lets me do it without interruption.  Here is what I've learned about myself tonight:

1. I love my wife.
2. I love my kids.
3. I love my new puppy.
4. I love my family.
5. I love my friends.
6. I love teaching.
7. I love writing.
8. I love God, even when my life seems shitty.
9. I love making the world a better place.
10. I love being around creative people.
11. I believe that love wins.  Always.
12. I believe that God is looking out for me.  Always.
13. I believe that Donald Trump is a horrible human being.  Always.
14. I believe that words can change the world.  Always.
15. I believe that the world is a better place with me in it.  Always.  (I struggle with this one sometimes.)
16. I believe that a good book makes me happy.  Always.
17. I believe that being alone makes me a little sad.  Always.
18. I believe that chocolate makes things better.  Always.
19. I believe that I'm a decent poet.  Always.
20. I believe in the idea of Bigfoot.  Always.

That's a lot of love and belief for one night.

Saint Marty is going to try to get some sleep now.