June 28: Ten-Day Boat, Book Club Meeting, God Complex

Young Merton goes on the search for love . . .

In three months, the summer of 1931, I suddenly matured like a weed.

I cannot tell which is the more humiliating: the memory of the half-baked adolescent I was in June or the glib and hard-boiled specimen I was in October when I came back to Oakham full of a thorough and deep-rooted sophistication of which I was both conscious and proud.

The beginning was like this: Pop wrote to me to come to America. I got a brand-new suit made. I said to myself, "On the boat I am going to meet a beautiful girl, and I am going to fall in love."

So, I got on the boat. The first day I sat in a deck chair and read the correspondence of Goethe and Schiller which had been imposed on me as a duty, in preparation for the scholarship examinations at the university. What is worse, I not only tolerated this imposition but actually convinced myself that it was interesting.

The second day I had more or less found out who was on the boat. The third day I was no longer interested in Goethe and Schiller. The fourth day I was up to my neck in the trouble that I was looking for.

It was a ten-day boat.


According to David Van Biema of Time Magazine:

He [Thomas Merton] will not become a saint because of his radical pacificism, which caused him to be censored even in his lifetime; because his curiosity regarding Eastern contemplative traditions struck some as heretical; and because he admitted to a variety of sins throughout his career that would give ammunition to his opponents. Certain intellectually-inclined Catholics, however, will continue to regard his wrestling with faith as holier than the boring compliance of some others well along the path to canonization.

According to Van Biema, Merton is too much a person of his time--vehemently opposed to war, intellectually curious about Eastern religious ideas, and wholly human in his failings (he fathered a child out of wedlock before he became a Trappist monk).  And in the passage above, the adolescent Merton does what all adolescent boys do:  he lets his actions be dictated by a force centered thoroughly below his belt.  

I think I am drawn to Merton because of his humanity.  He isn't one of these holy people who, as a child, had visions of the Virgin Mary and joined a holy order when he was ten years old, never to leave the confines of the monastery again.  No, Merton struggled.  Failed.  Sinned.  Sought forgiveness.  Failed again.  For me, he is a model for saintliness.  Despite all of the things he did "wrong," Merton never stopped chasing God for his entire life.

Now, I have been chasing God most of my life, or vice versa.  It's pretty much the same thing.  I've run away from God, turned my back on God, yelled at God, and broke up with God.  Yet, somehow, I still have God in my life, despite my best efforts.  I would like to say that now, in the darkest moments of my life, I always turn to prayer and find comfort in God's abiding presence.  However, that would be a lie.  

Here's the truth:  there is something in me that always wants to try to fix things that are wrong in my life.  Things I simply have no power over.  People I love who are traveling down the road of addiction and self-destruction.  Who are sick with no hope of good health.  Who make bad choices daily because of that stupid thing called free will.

You will notice that all of the things I listed in the previous paragraph belong to the life journeys of other people.  One of my huge failings as a human being (and spiritual person) is this notion that I have all the answers.  If only people would listen to me, the world would be a much better place.  Certainly, my life would be a lot easier.  God just needs to let me drive the car for a little while.

There it is.  I want to be God.  Instead of praying "Thy will be done," I pray "my will be done."  And when my will isn't done, I get angry, depressed, despairing.  

Tonight, I had a wonderful Zoom meeting with my book club.  This month's selection was Ann Patchett's The Dutch House.  A great novel.  Deeply complex in its humanity.  There were a lot of difficult questions to answer about being stuck in the past, unable to move forward.  A lot of the book's issues struck close to home.  And no matter how hard I tried to steer the discussion in other directions, it always seemed to circle back to me.  I'm not kidding.  I couldn't control it.

The people in my book club are some of my best friends.  They know me.  I can't bullshit my way through anything with them.  They will call me on it.  Or laugh at me.  That's why I love our meetings.  They bring out my flaws, force me to take stock of my life.  They remind me that I'm human, like Merton.  I ain't no saint, although one of my book club members pointed out the possibility that I enjoy being a martyr.  My response to that observations:  "I have to be a martyr to put up with all of you."  Which simply elicited raucous laughter.

So, here I am tonight:  a flawed, deeply conflicted, would-be saint with a God complex.  And I am blessed with the miracle of friends who know all this and still love me.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.