The priests that he [William Blake] saw going their rounds in black gowns--he knew no Catholics at the time, and had probably never even seen a Catholic priest--were symbols, in his mind, of the weak, compromising, pharisaic piety of those whose god was nothing but an objectification of their own narrow and conventional desires and hypocritical fears.
He did not distinguish any particular religion or sect as the objects of his disdain: he simply could not stand false piety and religiosity, in which the love of God was stamped out of the souls of men by formalism and conventions, without any charity, without the light and life of a faith that brings man face to face with God. If on one page of Blake these priests in black gowns were frightening and hostile figures, on another, the "Grey Monk of Charlemaine" was a saint and a hero of charity and of faith, fighting for the peace of the true God with all the ardent love that was the only reality Blake lived for. Towards the end of his life, Blake told his friend Samuel Palmer that the Catholic Church was the only one that taught the love of God.
I am not, of course, recommending the study of William Blake to all minds as a perfect way to faith and to God. Blake is really extraordinarily difficult and obscure and there is, in him, some of the confusion of almost all the heterodox and heretical mystical systems that ever flourished in the west--and that is saying a lot. And yet, by the grace of God, at least in my opinion, he was kept very much uncontaminated by all his crazy symbols precisely because he was such a good and holy man, and because his faith was so real and his love for God so mighty and so sincere.
The Providence of God was eventually to use Blake to awaken something of faith and love in my own soul--in spite of all the misleading notions, and all the almost infinite possibilities of error that underlie his weird and violent figures. I do not, therefore, want to seem to canonize him. But I have to acknowledge my own debt to him, and the truth which may appear curious to some, although it is really not so: that through Blake I would one day come, in a round-about way, to the only true Church, and to the One Living God, through His Son, Jesus Christ.
He did not distinguish any particular religion or sect as the objects of his disdain: he simply could not stand false piety and religiosity, in which the love of God was stamped out of the souls of men by formalism and conventions, without any charity, without the light and life of a faith that brings man face to face with God. If on one page of Blake these priests in black gowns were frightening and hostile figures, on another, the "Grey Monk of Charlemaine" was a saint and a hero of charity and of faith, fighting for the peace of the true God with all the ardent love that was the only reality Blake lived for. Towards the end of his life, Blake told his friend Samuel Palmer that the Catholic Church was the only one that taught the love of God.
I am not, of course, recommending the study of William Blake to all minds as a perfect way to faith and to God. Blake is really extraordinarily difficult and obscure and there is, in him, some of the confusion of almost all the heterodox and heretical mystical systems that ever flourished in the west--and that is saying a lot. And yet, by the grace of God, at least in my opinion, he was kept very much uncontaminated by all his crazy symbols precisely because he was such a good and holy man, and because his faith was so real and his love for God so mighty and so sincere.
The Providence of God was eventually to use Blake to awaken something of faith and love in my own soul--in spite of all the misleading notions, and all the almost infinite possibilities of error that underlie his weird and violent figures. I do not, therefore, want to seem to canonize him. But I have to acknowledge my own debt to him, and the truth which may appear curious to some, although it is really not so: that through Blake I would one day come, in a round-about way, to the only true Church, and to the One Living God, through His Son, Jesus Christ.
We all have that one teacher who makes a difference in our lives. The one who fundamentally changes you in some way and sends your life spinning off in a new direction. For Merton, it was William Blake. Blake showed Merton the path to his future. I've been lucky enough to have a few such influences in my long educational career, from middle school on up. Mrs. Kantola, seventh grade. Mrs. Luoma, eighth grade. Ms. DeCaire and Mrs. Jones, high school. Phil Legler, Beverly Matherne, Diane Sautter, Ray Ventre, John Vandezande, Ron Johnson, and John Smolens--college. All fantastic teachers who were somehow able to make me learn something new about myself and who I wanted to be.
Tonight, I "attended" a high school graduation ceremony. It had been postponed and rescheduled several times due to the pandemic. There had already been parades of graduates in cars. Videos on the school district's Facebook page. All very moving and exciting and culminating tonight, on the school's football field, with the Class of 2020 sitting in folding chairs, distanced six feet apart. My daughter's boyfriend was sitting in one of the those chairs. And my wife and I were parked outside the stadium, watching from the fence line, listening on the radio to the speeches and addresses.
My daughter's boyfriend is an amazing young man, who overcame a lot of obstacles in his educational career. My daughter has been dating him for going on four years now. That's a long time for teenagers, who seem to change partners about as often as they change socks. I've watched him grow and mature, struggle and overcome. I'm sure he's had some mentors in his life--people he's looked up to. Maybe they've changed him with a kind word or a valuable life lesson. Or maybe they kicked him in the ass when his ass needed kicking. Whoever those individuals are, they can be pretty proud of him. I certainly am.
So, I present to you the miracle of graduation. Of seeing bright, shining young people taking their first steps into the future. It is always, in my experience, a wondrous thing to behold. The pandemic may have delayed this moment. It may have set up barriers that needed to be hurdled. It may have even made graduation seem impossible. Yet, the impossible happened tonight.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
Tonight, I "attended" a high school graduation ceremony. It had been postponed and rescheduled several times due to the pandemic. There had already been parades of graduates in cars. Videos on the school district's Facebook page. All very moving and exciting and culminating tonight, on the school's football field, with the Class of 2020 sitting in folding chairs, distanced six feet apart. My daughter's boyfriend was sitting in one of the those chairs. And my wife and I were parked outside the stadium, watching from the fence line, listening on the radio to the speeches and addresses.
My daughter's boyfriend is an amazing young man, who overcame a lot of obstacles in his educational career. My daughter has been dating him for going on four years now. That's a long time for teenagers, who seem to change partners about as often as they change socks. I've watched him grow and mature, struggle and overcome. I'm sure he's had some mentors in his life--people he's looked up to. Maybe they've changed him with a kind word or a valuable life lesson. Or maybe they kicked him in the ass when his ass needed kicking. Whoever those individuals are, they can be pretty proud of him. I certainly am.
So, I present to you the miracle of graduation. Of seeing bright, shining young people taking their first steps into the future. It is always, in my experience, a wondrous thing to behold. The pandemic may have delayed this moment. It may have set up barriers that needed to be hurdled. It may have even made graduation seem impossible. Yet, the impossible happened tonight.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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