It was an easy and handy religion—too easy in fact. It told me that all the evils in the world were the product of capitalism. Therefore, all that had to be done to get rid of the evils of the world was to get rid of capitalism. This would not be very hard, for capitalism contained the seeds of its own decay (and that indeed is a very obvious truth which nobody would trouble to deny, even some of the most stupid defenders of the system now in force: for our wars are altogether too eloquent in what they have to say on the subject). An active and enlightened minority—and this minority was understood to be made up of the most intelligent and vital elements of society, was to have the two-fold task of making the oppressed class, the proletariat, conscious of their own power and destiny as future owners of all the means of production, and to “bore from within” in order to gain control of power by every possible means. Some violence, no doubt, would probably be necessary, but only because of the inevitable reaction of capitalism by the use of fascist methods to keep the proletariat in subjection.
It was capitalism that was to blame for everything unpleasant, even the violence of the revolution itself Now, of course, the revolution had already taken the first successful step in Russia. The Dictatorship of the Proletariat was already set up there. It would have to spread through the rest of the world before it could be said that the revolution had really been a success. But once it had, once capitalism had been completely overthrown, the semistate, or Dictatorship of the Proletariat, would itself only be a temporary matter. It would be a kind of guardian of the revolution, a tutor of the new classless society, during its minority. But as soon as the citizens of the new, classless world had had all the greed educated out of them by enlightened methods, the last vestiges of the “state” would wither away, and there would be a new world, a new golden age, in which all property would be held in common, at least all capital goods, all the land, means of production and so on, and nobody would desire to seize them for himself: and so there would be no more poverty, no more wars, no more misery, no more starvation, no more violence. Everybody would be happy. Nobody would be overworked. They would all amicably exchange wives whenever they felt like it, and their offspring would be brought up in big shiny incubators, not by the state because there wouldn’t be any state, but by that great, beautiful surd, the lovely, delicious unknown quantity of the new “Classless Society.”
I don’t think that even I was gullible enough to swallow all the business about the ultimate bliss that would follow the withering away of the state— a legend far more naive and far more oversimplified than the happy hunting ground of the most primitive Indian. But I simply assumed that things would be worked out by the right men at the right time. For the moment, what was needed was to get rid of capitalism.
The thing that made Communism seem so plausible to me was my own lack of logic which failed to distinguish between the reality of the evils which Communism was trying to overcome and the validity of its diagnosis and the chosen cure.
For there can be no doubt that modern society is in a terrible condition, and that its wars and depressions and its slums and all its other evils are principally the fruits of an unjust social system, a system that must be reformed and purified or else replaced. However, if you are wrong, does that make me right? If you are bad, does that prove that I am good? The chief weakness of Communism is that it is, itself, only another breed of the same materialism which is the source and root of all the evils which it so clearly sees, and it is evidently nothing but another product of the breakdown of the capitalist system. Indeed, it seems to be pieced together out of the ruins of the same ideology that once went into the vast, amorphous, intellectual structure underlying capitalism in the nineteenth century.
I don’t know how anybody who pretends to know anything about history can be so naive as to suppose that after all these centuries of corrupt and imperfect social systems, there is eventually to evolve something perfect and pure out of them—the good out of the evil, the unchanging and stable and eternal out of the variable and mutable, the just out of the unjust. But perhaps revolution is a contradiction of evolution, and therefore means the replacement of the unjust by the just, of the evil by the good. And yet it is still just as naive to suppose that members of the same human species, without having changed anything but their minds, should suddenly turn around and produce a perfect society, when they have never been able, in the past, to produce anything but imperfection and, at best, the barest shadow of justice.
However, as I say, perhaps the hopefulness that suddenly began to swell in my breast as I stood on the deck of this ten-day liner going to New York, via Halifax, was largely subjective and imaginary. The chance association, in my mind, with fresh air and the sea and a healthy feeling and a lot of good resolutions, coinciding with a few superficial notions of Marxism, had made me—like so many others—a Communist in my own fancy, and I would become one of the hundreds of thousands of people living in America who are willing to buy an occasional Communist pamphlet and listen without rancor to a Communist orator, and to express open dislike of those who attack Communism, just because they are aware that there is a lot of injustice and suffering in the world, and somewhere got the idea that the Communists were the ones who were most sincerely trying to do something about it.
Added to this was my own personal conviction, the result of the uncertain and misdirected striving for moral reform, that I must now devote myself to the good of society, and apply my mind, at least to some extent, to the tremendous problems of my time.
I don’t know how much good there was in this: but I think there was some. It was, I suppose, my acknowledgment of my selfishness, and my desire to make reparation for it by developing some kind of social and political consciousness. And at the time, in my first fervor, I felt myself willing to make sacrifices for this end. I wanted to devote myself to the causes of peace and justice in the world. I wanted to do something positive to interrupt and divert the gathering momentum that was dragging the whole world into another war—and I felt there was something I could do, not alone, but as the member of an active and vocal group.
It was a bright, icy-cold afternoon when, having passed Nantucket Light, we first saw the long, low, yellow shoreline of Long Island shining palely in the December sun. But when we entered New York harbor the lights were already coming on, glittering like jewels in the hard, clear buildings. The great, debonair city that was both young and old, and wise and innocent, shouted in the winter night as we passed the Battery and started up the North River. And I was glad, very glad to be an immigrant once again.
Merton has been an immigrant his whole life, moving from place to place, passion to passion, belief system to belief system. At this point in his life, he hasn't found a "home" yet. Instead, he has landed on the shores of communism, and, like most immigrants, he believes his new home is perfect. Clear. Pure. Hopeful. Utopian. A cure for all the ills of modern society.
Of course, you and I know that utopias are wonderful dreams. Like most dreams, they don't bear strong scrutiny in the harsh light of day. They break down, and all their flaws become visible. Then there is a choice to be made: buy into the fantasy with willful ignorance, or strive to perfect the imperfections with honesty and a clear, open gaze.
Many citizens in my country have chosen willful ignorance these days. They overlook flaws and contradictions, not because they don't see them, but because they don't gibe with their particular world views. I guess it's easier to live in denial than to try to correct what's wrong. Because that would mean confessing the mistakes we've made/sins we've committed, and accepting the penance, whatever it may be.
I have no problem admitting my mistakes. They are multitude. Huge and small. They happen all day, every day. For example, I spent much of the last several days feeling sorry for myself. While this isn't necessarily a sin, it can lead to things like anger and apathy and lack of empathy. I won't get into the whys. They, themselves, are multitude, huge and small. Suffice to say, I was not in a good mind space this morning.
Then, I met a person who provided me with a huge kick in the ass. A kick I needed. He is an amazing guy. Young--just 24 years of age. He has stage 4 cancer. I spent most of the day with him, providing in-service and training. Now, you would think that someone living with that diagnosis wouldn't really be in the mood for social interaction. That he would be want to be curled up in a fetal position in the dark.
This guy, let's call him Colby, was the most upbeat and positive person I've ever met. Friendly to everyone. Happy to lend a helping hand. Excited by every challenge. And funny. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time. (He can do a pitch-perfect Donald Trump impersonation.) While he hasn't been dealt the cards a young man of 24 would want or expect, Colby is filled with compassion and humor. I saw him, over and over in a eight-hour time span, go out of his way to lend assistance to patients and coworkers and strangers. This from a guy who's going to be going through his 47th round of chemo next week. 47th.
Colby is my hero. He makes me realize that all of my problems, my transgressions and sins, are pretty tiny. We are all immigrants in life, searching for some place or person to call home. It's easy to become wrapped up in all the potholes and stormy waters we encounter. To lose sight of the goal because of the difficulties of the journey.
Today, I met a person who is just as excited over the journey as the destination. An immigrant who knows that every other immigrant he encounters deserves respect, a good joke, and a leg up. Colby's whole life is a miracle.
Saint Marty is eternally grateful for this lesson in humility.
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