Merton finally finds God--in art . . .
Things were going on as they usually did with me. But after about a week —I don’t know how it began—I found myself looking into churches rather than into ruined temples. Perhaps it was the frescoes on the wall of an old chapel—ruined too—at the foot of the Palatine, at the edge of the Forum, that first aroused my interest in another and a far different Rome. From there it was an easy step to Sts. Cosmas and Damian, across the Forum, with a great mosaic, in the apse, of Christ coming in judgement in a dark blue sky, with a suggestion of fire in the small clouds beneath His feet. The effect of this discovery was tremendous. After all the vapid, boring, semipornographic statuary of the Empire, what a thing it was to come upon the genius of an art full of spiritual vitality and earnestness and power—an art that was tremendously serious and alive and eloquent and urgent in all that it had to say. And it was without pretentiousness, without fakery, and had nothing theatrical about it. Its solemnity was made all the more astounding by its simplicity—and by the obscurity of the places where it lay hid, and by its subservience to higher ends, architectural, liturgical and spiritual ends which I could not even begin to understand, but which I could not avoid guessing, since the nature of the mosaics themselves and their position and everything about them proclaimed it aloud.
I was fascinated by these Byzantine mosaics. I began to haunt the churches where they were to be found, and, as an indirect consequence, all the other churches that were more or less of the same period. And thus without knowing anything about it I became a pilgrim. I was unconsciously and unintentionally visiting all the great shrines of Rome, and seeking out their sanctuaries with some of the eagerness and avidity and desire of a true pilgrim, though not quite for the right reason. And yet it was not for a wrong reason either. For these mosaics and frescoes and all the ancient altars and thrones and sanctuaries were designed and built for the instruction of people who were not capable of immediately understanding anything higher.
I never knew what relics and what wonderful and holy things were hidden in the churches whose doors and aisles and arches had become the refuge of my mind. Christ’s cradle and the pillar of the Flagellation and the True Cross and St. Peter’s chains, and the tombs of the great martyrs, the tomb of the child St. Agnes and the martyr St. Cecelia and of Pope St. Clement and of the great deacon St. Lawrence who was burned on a gridiron.... These things did not speak to me, or at least I did not know they spoke to me. But the churches that enshrined them did, and so did the art on their walls.
And now for the first time in my life I began to find out something of Who this Person was that men called Christ. It was obscure, but it was a true knowledge of Him, in some sense, truer than I knew and truer than I would admit. But it was in Rome that my conception of Christ was formed. It was there I first saw Him, Whom I now serve as my God and my King, and Who owns and rules my life.
Merton seems to be having an awakening in these paragraphs. In Rome, he finds God. Or, rather, he recognizes God in his life, because God was really never lost. In fact, God's been watching out for Merton all along, through the deaths of his parents and his own illnesses. Merton just has some scales on his eyes, and, as he stands in front of those Byzantine mosaics and frescoes and altars, those scales start to fall off.
Yes, I have been gone for quite some time. I apologize. The first week of face-to-face teaching has sort of consumed me in major ways. I have had every intention of posting every night. However, the best laid plans . . . Plus, recently, I've been having a spiritual struggle of my own. An argument with God. I've had them before. At the moment, my life is headed in a direction that makes me profoundly sad and angry. A direction that feels as if God has taken a few steps back from me. On good days, I can manage a "please watch over me, God," in the morning. On bad days, I am little more blunt: "Fuck you, God."
Yet, as I was once told by one of my best friends who is a Methodist pastor, I know God can take this abuse. "He has big shoulders," my friend told me. And I know that's true. God doesn't abandon anyone. I rest in that knowledge. But, at the moment, I simply don't feel a whole lot of grace in my days. Instead, there seems to be a whole lot of broken promises instead, despite how hard I try to be a good person, do the right things.
Last night, however, I found some solace spending time with an old friend. Sharing stories and laughter. Writing together. I felt connected and a little at peace. It filled up my empty cup a little. I'm sure God had a part in it, but there was also a whole lot of wine and White Claw, as well. But, when I went to bed last night, I actually managed a little three-word prayer--"Thank you, God." That was a miracle.
Tonight, I finished a draft of a new poem. Another miracle. And I got to visit with my niece and her husband, who I haven't seen since my father's funeral. Miracle. My son in playing video games and not screaming at the screen. Miracle. Tomorrow is Friday. Big miracle.
It has been a very long week. Saint Marty is thankful that it's almost over, and that a little grace broke through.
A new poem . . .
Things were going on as they usually did with me. But after about a week —I don’t know how it began—I found myself looking into churches rather than into ruined temples. Perhaps it was the frescoes on the wall of an old chapel—ruined too—at the foot of the Palatine, at the edge of the Forum, that first aroused my interest in another and a far different Rome. From there it was an easy step to Sts. Cosmas and Damian, across the Forum, with a great mosaic, in the apse, of Christ coming in judgement in a dark blue sky, with a suggestion of fire in the small clouds beneath His feet. The effect of this discovery was tremendous. After all the vapid, boring, semipornographic statuary of the Empire, what a thing it was to come upon the genius of an art full of spiritual vitality and earnestness and power—an art that was tremendously serious and alive and eloquent and urgent in all that it had to say. And it was without pretentiousness, without fakery, and had nothing theatrical about it. Its solemnity was made all the more astounding by its simplicity—and by the obscurity of the places where it lay hid, and by its subservience to higher ends, architectural, liturgical and spiritual ends which I could not even begin to understand, but which I could not avoid guessing, since the nature of the mosaics themselves and their position and everything about them proclaimed it aloud.
I was fascinated by these Byzantine mosaics. I began to haunt the churches where they were to be found, and, as an indirect consequence, all the other churches that were more or less of the same period. And thus without knowing anything about it I became a pilgrim. I was unconsciously and unintentionally visiting all the great shrines of Rome, and seeking out their sanctuaries with some of the eagerness and avidity and desire of a true pilgrim, though not quite for the right reason. And yet it was not for a wrong reason either. For these mosaics and frescoes and all the ancient altars and thrones and sanctuaries were designed and built for the instruction of people who were not capable of immediately understanding anything higher.
I never knew what relics and what wonderful and holy things were hidden in the churches whose doors and aisles and arches had become the refuge of my mind. Christ’s cradle and the pillar of the Flagellation and the True Cross and St. Peter’s chains, and the tombs of the great martyrs, the tomb of the child St. Agnes and the martyr St. Cecelia and of Pope St. Clement and of the great deacon St. Lawrence who was burned on a gridiron.... These things did not speak to me, or at least I did not know they spoke to me. But the churches that enshrined them did, and so did the art on their walls.
And now for the first time in my life I began to find out something of Who this Person was that men called Christ. It was obscure, but it was a true knowledge of Him, in some sense, truer than I knew and truer than I would admit. But it was in Rome that my conception of Christ was formed. It was there I first saw Him, Whom I now serve as my God and my King, and Who owns and rules my life.
Merton seems to be having an awakening in these paragraphs. In Rome, he finds God. Or, rather, he recognizes God in his life, because God was really never lost. In fact, God's been watching out for Merton all along, through the deaths of his parents and his own illnesses. Merton just has some scales on his eyes, and, as he stands in front of those Byzantine mosaics and frescoes and altars, those scales start to fall off.
Yes, I have been gone for quite some time. I apologize. The first week of face-to-face teaching has sort of consumed me in major ways. I have had every intention of posting every night. However, the best laid plans . . . Plus, recently, I've been having a spiritual struggle of my own. An argument with God. I've had them before. At the moment, my life is headed in a direction that makes me profoundly sad and angry. A direction that feels as if God has taken a few steps back from me. On good days, I can manage a "please watch over me, God," in the morning. On bad days, I am little more blunt: "Fuck you, God."
Yet, as I was once told by one of my best friends who is a Methodist pastor, I know God can take this abuse. "He has big shoulders," my friend told me. And I know that's true. God doesn't abandon anyone. I rest in that knowledge. But, at the moment, I simply don't feel a whole lot of grace in my days. Instead, there seems to be a whole lot of broken promises instead, despite how hard I try to be a good person, do the right things.
Last night, however, I found some solace spending time with an old friend. Sharing stories and laughter. Writing together. I felt connected and a little at peace. It filled up my empty cup a little. I'm sure God had a part in it, but there was also a whole lot of wine and White Claw, as well. But, when I went to bed last night, I actually managed a little three-word prayer--"Thank you, God." That was a miracle.
Tonight, I finished a draft of a new poem. Another miracle. And I got to visit with my niece and her husband, who I haven't seen since my father's funeral. Miracle. My son in playing video games and not screaming at the screen. Miracle. Tomorrow is Friday. Big miracle.
It has been a very long week. Saint Marty is thankful that it's almost over, and that a little grace broke through.
A new poem . . .
Arrangement in Pink and Blue No. 1
by: Martin Achatz
He basks before his sister, does this thing
they planned together, she with her 19-year-old
college girl generosity of time, he with his
11-year-old boy hunger for her attention.
On the floor, they face each other,
heads almost touching, his neon
pink hair bathing her face like a sunrise.
They talk about small things. Rain. Cheetos.
pink hair bathing her face like a sunrise.
They talk about small things. Rain. Cheetos.
Skunks under our front porch. She holds
his hand. He allows her to hold
his hand. She paints each of his fingernails
Pacific Ocean at night, a blue so dark
it could hold sea monsters. My daughter's touch,
meticulous, does not miss with her brush.
My son's cuticles, knuckles remain pristine. White.
it could hold sea monsters. My daughter's touch,
meticulous, does not miss with her brush.
My son's cuticles, knuckles remain pristine. White.
He sits there, the way Whistler's mother probably
did as her son arranged dress, bonnet, asked her
to fold her hands just so, gave her a stool
for her feet, told her not to move, hold still.
said "You're perfect" and "I love you, mom,"
as he mixed his oils while she stared
at the wall in front of her, counted rosettes
in the wallpaper, and felt herself
becoming her son's masterpiece.
did as her son arranged dress, bonnet, asked her
to fold her hands just so, gave her a stool
for her feet, told her not to move, hold still.
said "You're perfect" and "I love you, mom,"
as he mixed his oils while she stared
at the wall in front of her, counted rosettes
in the wallpaper, and felt herself
becoming her son's masterpiece.
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