So I began to justify Protestantism, as best I could. I think they had probably said that they could not see how I managed to go on living without the faith: for there was only one Faith, one Church. So I gave them the argument that every religion was good: they all led to God, only in different ways, and every man should go according to his own conscience, and settle things according to his own private way of looking at things.
They did not answer me with any argument. The simply looked at one another and shrugged and Monsieur Privat said quietly and sadly, "Mais c'est impossible."
It was a terrible, a frightening, a very humiliating thing to feel all their silence and peacefulness and strength turned against me, accusing me of being estranged from them, isolated from their security, cut off from their protection and from the strength of their inner life by my own fault, by my willfulness, by my own ignorance, and my uninstructed Protestant pride.
One of the humiliating things about it was that I wanted them to argue, and they despised argument. It was as if they realized, as I did not, that my attitude and my desire of argument and religious discussion implied a fundamental and utter lack of faith, and a dependence on my own lights, and attachment to my own opinion.
What is more, they seemed to realize that I did not believe in anything, and that anything I might say I believed would be only empty talk. Yet they did not give me the feeling that this was some slight matter, something to be indulged in a child, something that could be left to work itself out in time, of its own accord. I have never met people to whom belief was a matter of such moment, And yet there was nothing they could do for me directly. But what they could do, I am sure they did, and I am glad they did it. And I thank God from the bottom of my heart that they were concerned, and so deeply and vitally concerned, at my lack of faith.
Who knows how much I owe to those two wonderful people? Anything I say about it is only a matter of guessing but, knowing their charity, it is to me a matter of moral certitude that I owe many graces to their prayers, and perhaps ultimately the grace of my conversion and even of my religious vocation. What shall say? But one day I shall know, and it is good to be able to be confident that I will see them again and be able to thank them.
The Privats, the old French couple with whom the young Merton is living at this moment, are devoutly Catholic, and they don't indulge Merton's penchant for argument. While Merton contends the worth of all religions (a belief that Pope Francis endorses, by the way), the Privats refuse to engage in debate. Instead, they offer him love, grace, and understanding. The Trappist monk Merton credits the Privats' intercession as a reason for his religious conversion and life.
Today is Good Friday. A day in the Christian calendar full of solemnity and grace. But this Good Friday is different from any other Good Friday I have ever experienced in my lifetime. Christians, instead of gathering together in service and commemoration of the crucifixion of Christ, stayed home. Didn't gather. Were united in isolation and grief.
In a very strange way, this pandemic Good Friday has taught me, personally, more about Christ's Passion than any church service--Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran--ever has. For the past three or four weeks, I have been confronted with the possibility of mortality. It's on the news, dawn to dusk. Infection rates and death counts. And the stories of people suffering and taking their last breaths in isolation, away from family and friends. Tens of thousands of people living out their own Good Fridays.
My hands are dry, scaly, scabbed from washing and sanitizing. I spend the majority of my days hidden behind masks, my glasses fogged with breath. I take my temperature four and five times a day. When I get home from work, I don't hug my kids, kiss my wife, pet my dog. I go immediately to the bathroom. Strip off my clothes and throw them in the washing machine. Jump in the shower, stand under water as hot as I can tolerate, and wash my body. I am plagued with past-due notices, bills I can't pay because of lost income. But I am not alone.
My daughter lost the end of her first year of college. Her boyfriend, a senior in high school, lost his last months with his close friends, his final prom, and his chance to walk into a gym in his graduation cap and gown. My son lost the end of sixth grade, those months of making ready, learning, navigating the road to high school and beyond. My wife was supposed to start a new job, begin a new career. That has been put on hold indefinitely. But they are not alone.
My mother and sister who has Down Syndrome both suffer from Alzheimer's. I haven't seen them in close to a month. I hear reports from my siblings of how they are doing, but I know that their memories of me a slowly slipping away. If I'm able to walk through the door of their house again, I might just be "that nice man," because they won't remember my name or face. But they aren't alone, either.
We all have stories. Crosses to carry. The Covid-19 pandemic has stripped away the trappings of all our lives. Laid bare all our needs and wants and failings and fears. That is the lesson of Good Friday. All that ugliness hanging up there, for everyone to see. And the realization that we are all the same in our struggles. We are not alone.
And that, after the darkness and pain of Good Friday, comes the dawn of Easter morning, with all that promise of light and hope and redemption and renewal. That is the lesson the Privats were trying to teach the young Merton.
That is the lesson that Saint Marty learned today.
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