Even in 1925, St. Antonin preserved the shape of a round, walled bourg: only the walls themselves were gone, and were replaced on three sides by a wide circular street lined with trees and spacious enough to be called a Boulevard, although you hardly ever saw anything on it but ox-carts and chickens. The town itself was a labyrinth of narrow streets, lined by old thirteenth-century houses, mostly falling into ruins. Nevertheless, the medieval town was there, but for the fact that the streets were no longer crowded and busy, and the houses and shops were no longer occupied by prosperous merchants and artisans, and there was nothing left of the color and gaiety and noise of the Middle Ages. Nevertheless, to walk through those streets was to be in the Middle Ages: for nothing had been touched by man, only by ruin and by the passage of time.
It seems that one of the busiest guilds of the town had been that of the tanners and the old tanneries were still there, along a narrow foul-smelling sewer of a stream that ran through a certain section of the town. But in those old days the whole place had been filled with the activity of all the work belonging to a free and prosperous commune.
And as I say, the center of it all was the church.
Unfortunately , the very importance of the ancient shrine of St. Antonin had drawn down violence upon it in the days of the religious wars. The church that now stood on the ruins was entirely modern, and we could not judge what the old one had been like, or see, reflected in its work and construction, the attitude of the citizens who had built it. Even now, however, the church dominated the town, and each noon and evening sent forth the Angelus bells over the brown, ancient tiled roofs reminding people of the Mother of God who watched over them.
And even now, although I never thought of it and was, indeed, incapable of doing so, since I had no understanding of the concept of Mass, even now, several times each morning, under those high arches, on the altar over the relics of the martyr, took place that tremendous, secret, and obvious immolation, so secret that ti will never be thoroughly understood by a created intellect, and yet so obvious that its very obviousness blinds us by excess of clarity: the unbloody Sacrifice of God under the species of bread and wine.
Here, in this amazing, ancient town, the very patter of the place, of the houses and streets and of nature itself, the circling hills, the cliffs and trees, all focused my attention upon the one, important central fact of the church and what it contained. Here, everywhere I went, I was forced by the disposition of everything around me, to be always at least virtually conscious of the church. Every street pointed more or less inward to the center of the town, to the church. Every view of the town, from the exterior hills, centered upon the long grey building with its high spire.
The church had been fitted into the landscape in such a way as to become the keystone of its intelligibility. Its presence imparted a special form, a particular significance to everything else that the eye beheld, to the hills, the forests, the fields, the white cliff of the Rocher d'Anglars and to the red bastion of the Roc Rouge, to the winding river, and the green valley of the Bonnette, the town and the bridge, and even to the white stucco villas of the modern bourgeois that dotted the fields and orchards outside the precinct of the vanished ramparts and the significance that was thus imparted was the supernatural one.
The whole landscape, unified by the church and its heavenward spire, seemed to say: this is the meaning of all created things: we have been made for no other purpose than that men may use us in raising themselves to God, and in proclaiming the glory of God. We have been fashioned, in all our perfection, each according to his own nature, and all our natures ordered and harmonized together, that man's reason and his love might fit in this one last element, this God-given key to the meaning of the whole.
Oh, what a thing it is, to live in a place that is so constructed that you are forced, in spite of yourself, to be at least a virtual contemplative! Where all day long your eyes must turn, again and again, to the House that hides the Sacramental Christ!
I did not even know who Christ was, that He was God. I had not the faintest idea that there existed such a thing as the Blessed Sacrament. I thought churches were simply places where people go together and sang a few hymns. And yet now I tell you, you who are now what I once was, unbelievers, it is that Sacrament, and that alone, the Christ living in our midst, and sacrificed by us, and for us and with us, in the clean and perpetual Sacrifice, it is He alone Who holds our world together, and keeps us all from being poured headlong and immediately into the pit of our eternal destruction. And I tell you there is a power that goes forth from the Sacrament, a power of light and truth, even into the hearts of those who have heard nothing of Him and seem to be incapable of belief.
There you have it. Merton explaining the meaning of his universe--the Church, the Body of Christ. Everywhere the child Merton looks, the Church of St. Antonin dominates his view. The whole town is a bull's eye, with the gray building and its spire at its center. A physical manifestation of the core teachings of Catholicism.
I think every person has some kind of center in his or her life. For some, it's what Merton describes here--Jesus as the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No happiness, except through Jesus. For others, it's work that defines who they are. I am a plumber or teacher or poet. Still others define themselves through the people in their lives: I am a husband or father or brother or friend. The center is how we define ourselves and our worth.
There is nothing more upsetting than losing your center. Losing your faith in God. Or a job you love. Or your wife or child or best friend. When that happens, you are forced to redefine your values. Come up with a new identity. Sort of like a phoenix, you have to rise from the ashes. If you're lucky, this only happens once or twice in your life. For the rest of us pour suckers, our lives are just a series of unwelcome transformations.
In the past year-and-a-half, I've had to recenter myself quite a bit, not of my own choosing. It's a matter of your priorities shifting, and, suddenly, you start thinking of yourself differently. Instead of a husband, you're mainly a father. Instead of a teacher, you're a musician. Instead of a poet, you're a health care worker. If I were to define myself right now, I'd probably say that I'm a father/family man/friend/poet, in that order. Unfortunately, none of those titles brings in a whole lot of money.
Of course, money does not define happiness. I know this. I have relatives and friends who have plenty of money, and yet they are absolutely miserable. These people could travel, buy all kinds of amenities that would make their lives easy, treat their friends and families to gifts, or help the less fortunate. They don't do any of these things. Instead, they focus on their unhappiness. These people have no center, nothing that gives their lives meaning.
I am lucky. I have a center. I know what is most important to me at this time in my life. My kids, first and foremost. My days are all about insuring their happiness and safety, as best I can. Some days, that's easier than others. But that is the gray building with the spire in the middle of my town.
Saint Marty always has his eyes on that spire.
No comments:
Post a Comment