At the end of the summer I started back for England on the same boat on which I had come. This time the passenger list included some girls from Bryn Mawr and some from Vassar and some from somewhere else, all of whom were going to a finishing school in France. It seems as if all the rest of the people on board were detectives. Some of them were professional detectives. Others were amateurs, all of them made me and the Bryn Mawr girls the object of their untiring investigations. But in any case the ship was divided into these two groups: on the one hand the young people, on the other the elders. We sat in the smoking room all the rainy days playing Duke Ellington records on the portable vic that belonged to one of the girls. When we got tired of that we wandered all over the ship looking for funny things to do. The hold was full of cattle, and there was also a pack of fox-hounds down there. We used to go down and play with the dogs. At Le Havre, when the cattle were unloaded, one of the cows broke loose and ran all over the dock in a frenzy. One night three of us got up in the crow's nest on the foremast with the radio operators and I got into a big argument about Communism.
That was another thing that had happened that summer: I had begun to get the idea that I was a Communist, although I wasn't quite sure what Communism was. There are a lot of people like that. They do no little harm by virtue of their sheer, stupid inertia, lost in between all camps, in the no-man's-land of their own confusion. They are fair game for anybody. They can be turned into fascists just as quickly as they can be pulled into line with those who are really Reds.
The other group was made up of the middle-aged people. At their core were the red-faced, hard-boiled cops who spent their time drinking and gambling and fighting among themselves and spreading scandal all over the boat about the young ones who were so disreputable and wild.
Here is the young, wild Merton. On a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with a bunch of Bryn Mawr girls, playing Ellington on a record player, wandering around, getting into arguments about Communism, and giving the older passengers something to talk about. In short, being a teenage boy. The only difference between him and any other teenage boy on ship: Merton will grow up to be one of the most influential religious figures of the twentieth century. Of course, the Bryn Mawr girls are a little more interesting to him at this point in his life than God.
I often wonder at what point in a holy person's life God steps in and takes over. Of course, it's probably more like a surrender than a coup. In everything I've read and learned, God doesn't get in the way of free will. That's the one ingredient in the human soul that fucks things up for most people. If it weren't for free will, the streets would be crowded with Mother Teresas and Francises of Assisi and Thomas Mertons. The high school football teams would be quarterbacked by a kid with stigmata. And the valedictorian would change the punch into wine at the all-night graduation party.
Of course, that's not the way it works. Don't get me wrong: God is pretty relentless. You can turn your back on him your whole life, write books about his non-existence, join the Church of Latter Day Atheists. In the end, he will get you, one way or the other. It's a matter of answering the door when he knocks. You can keep on ignoring that knocking, or you can surrender.
Human beings don't like to surrender. I'm just as guilty as the next person when it comes to this. I like to think that I, through my own actions, can solve everything that's fucked-up in my life. If I were talking about Greek tragedy right now, the term I would use here is "hubris"--overweening pride. One of the most difficult things to do is . . . nothing. Simply stepping aside and letting God take over. I've done that several times in my life, and I can say that each time was incredibly freeing and terrifying at the same time. I did it when my sister was dying of lymphoma of the brain. When my marriage was crumbling. And when I struggle with depression and anxiety. There always comes that moment where I throw my hands in the air and say to God, "That's it! I'm done! You think you can do better? Be my guest!"
And, every time, God steps in, rolls up his sleeves, and goes to work. The results are usually miraculous.
Yet, before the miracle is the struggle. The days or weeks or months or years when you think you are alone in the universe, master of your own destiny. Think about the children of Israel wandering through the desert for 40 years to complete a trip that should have only taken only a couple weeks, at most. Jesus Christ wandered in the desert, too, for 40 days. Noah floated on the ark for 150 days before hitting dry land. There's times of drought and flood, and then times of rainbows and the Promised Land.
By this time in my adulthood, I should have learned to surrender early, but I don't. There's a sense of powerlessness in surrender, and I find it very uncomfortable. I'm a person who loves routines and habits. I like to know who committed the murder before I even pick up the mystery novel. God, however, doesn't give a whole lot of clues as to when the miracle is coming. Instead, it just sort of appears, like an unexpected comet or star in the sky.
Saint Marty just has to remember to look up and give thanks.
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