Merton meets a Hindu mystic . . .
It was the end of the school year, June 1938, when Lax and Seymour already had a huge box in the middle of the room, which they were beginning to pack with books, when we heard Bramachari was again coming to New York.
I went down to meet him at Grand Central with Seymour, and it was not without a certain suppressed excitement that I did so, for Seymour had me all primed with a superb selection of lies about Bramachari’s ability to float in the air and walk on water. It was a long time before we found him in the crowd, although you would think that a Hindu in a turban and a white robe and a pair of Keds would have been a rather memorable sight. But all the people we asked, concerning such a one, had no idea of having seen him.
We had been looking around for ten or fifteen minutes, when a cat came walking cautiously through the crowd, and passed us by with a kind of a look, and disappeared.
“That’s him,” said Seymour. “He changed himself into a cat. Doesn’t like to attract attention. Looking the place over. Now he knows we’re here.”
Almost at once, while Seymour was asking a porter if he had seen anything like Bramachari, and the porter was saying no, Bramachari came up behind us.
I saw Seymour swing around and say, in his rare, suave manner:
“Ah, Bramachari, how are you!”
There stood a shy little man, very happy, with a huge smile, all teeth, in the midst of his brown face. And on the top of his head was a yellow turban with Hindu prayers written all over it in red. And, on his feet, sure enough: sneakers.
I shook hands with him, still worrying lest he give me some kind of an electric shock. But he didn’t. We rode up to Columbia in the subway, with all the people goggling at us, and I was asking Bramachari about all the colleges he had been visiting. Did he like Smith, did he like Harvard? When we were coming out into the air at 116th Street, I asked him which one he liked best, and he told me that they were all the same to him: it had never occurred to him that one might have any special preference in such things.
I lapsed into a reverent silence and pondered on this thought.
I was now twenty-three years old and, indeed, I was more mature than that in some respects. Surely by now it ought to have dawned on me that places did not especially matter. But no, I was very much attached to places, and had very definite likes and dislikes for localities as such, especially colleges, since I was always thinking of finding one that was altogether pleasant to live and teach in.
After that, I became very fond of Bramachari, and he of me. We got along very well together, especially since he sensed that I was trying to feel my way into a settled religious conviction, and into some kind of a life that was centered, as his was, on God.
The thing that strikes me now is that he never attempted to explain his own religious beliefs to me—except some of the externals of the cult, and that was later on. He would no doubt have told me all I wanted to know, if I had asked him, but I was not curious enough. What was most valuable to me was to hear his evaluation of the society and religious beliefs he had come across in America: and to put all that down on paper would require another book.
He was never sarcastic, never ironical or unkind in his criticisms: in fact he did not make many judgements at all, especially adverse ones. He would simply make statements of fact, and then burst out laughing—his laughter was quiet and ingenuous, and it expressed his complete amazement at the very possibility that people should live the way he saw them living all around him.
He was beyond laughing at the noise and violence of American city life and all the obvious lunacies like radio-programs and billboard advertising. It was some of the well-meaning idealisms that he came across that struck him as funny. And one of the things that struck him as funniest of all was the eagerness with which Protestant ministers used to come up and ask him if India was by now nearly converted to Protestantism. He used to tell us how far India was from conversion to Protestantism—or Catholicism for that matter. One of the chief reasons he gave for the failure of any Christian missionaries to really strike deep into the tremendous populations of Asia was the fact that they maintained themselves on a social level that was too far above the natives. The Church of England, indeed, thought they would convert the Indians by maintaining a strict separation—white men in one church, natives in a different church: both of them listening to sermons on brotherly love and unity.
But all Christian missionaries, according to him, suffered from this big drawback: they lived too well, too comfortably. They took care of themselves in a way that simply made it impossible for the Hindus to regard them as holy—let alone the fact that they ate meat, which made them repugnant to the natives.
I don’t know anything about missionaries: but I am sure that, by our own standards of living, their life is an arduous and difficult one, and certainly not one that could be regarded as comfortable. And by comparison with life in Europe and America it represents a tremendous sacrifice. Yet I suppose it would literally endanger their lives if they tried to subsist on the standard of living with which the vast majority of Asiatics have to be content. It seems hard to expect them to go around barefoot and sleep on mats and live in huts. But one thing is certain: the pagans have their own notions of holiness, and it is one that includes a prominent element of asceticism. According to Bramachari, the prevailing impression among the Hindus seems to be that Christians don’t know what asceticism means. Of course, he was talking principally of Protestant missionaries, but I suppose it would apply to anyone coming to a tropical climate from one of the so-called “civilized” countries.
For my own part, I see no reason for discouragement. Bramachari was simply saying something that has long since been familiar to readers of the Gospels. Unless the grain of wheat, falling in the ground, die, itself remaineth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. The Hindus are not looking for us to send them men who will build schools and hospitals, although those things are good and useful in themselves—and perhaps very badly needed in India: they want to know if we have any saints to send them.
Bramachari appears first in this passage as a cat. A little magical realism on the part of Thomas Merton. Then Bramachari materializes and teaches Merton a few things. While Merton seems to mock Hinduism (calling it a "cult"), he also touches upon some hard truths about Christians--that they are kind-hearted, well-intentioned, but dedicated to maintaining social status and class. Feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick--that's all well and good, as long as you can go home at night, eat your pot roast, and watch a little TV. It's not about giving your all. It's about giving what's left over.
I'm just as guilty as the next person on this account. I don't live ascetically. Sure, I struggle to pay bills all the time. I worry about paychecks and my next contract to teach at the university. Sometimes, I fall behind on payments. Since the pandemic began, I have been playing a shell game with my money. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, as my dad used to say.
I'm not exactly middle class. (I'm not sure a middle class exists in the United States anymore.) Just like most Americans, I'm one or two paychecks away from losing my car or house. One health crisis away from bankruptcy. Those are the realities of living in the United States today, unless you are Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, or a Congressperson.
Yet, I have a roof over my head. Warm clothes. A really cute puppy. I'm not sitting on my couch worrying about how I'm going to feed my kids tomorrow. And when I'm done typing this post, there's a warm bed waiting for me.
This afternoon, on my way home from work, I drove by the Warming Center. (If we were living during the Great Depression, I suppose the Warming Center would be called a soup kitchen.) It was crowded with men and women. In early December, in the middle of a pandemic, with local hospitals overwhelmed with COVID-19 patients, homelessness is surging, too. People are cold and hungry and sick.
My favorite Christmas movie is It's a Wonderful Life. For some reason, the story of George Bailey moves me deeply. It's dark, filled with suicide and drinking and despair. I, myself, have been on that bridge with George on more than one occasion. Yet, like George, I'm reminded that I have friends who care a lot about me. At the end of the film, George returns home, manically happy. A sheriff is there with an arrest warrant for him. George's response is one of my favorite lines: "Isn't it wonderful? I'm going to jail!"
Asceticism is about avoiding indulgence. Living simply, sometimes in seclusion. It's about relying on grace to take care of you. Trusting in it. Embracing struggle with open arms. And being happy. That's what Merton learns from Bramachari. It's what I learn from George Bailey. Every time.
Yes, I'm only teaching one class next semester. That's a loss of around $6000 in income. My daughter usually gets a tuition waiver because of my teaching. That won't be available to her. So she's going to have to take out a large student loan to pay for her classes. But all of my contingent friends at the university have no classes to teach. Their kids are going to have to take on even more debt than my daughter in order to attend classes this winter.
From now until next September, I am going to be living a pretty ascetic existence. Paycheck to paycheck. I'm sure there will be moments when I will be on the bridge, contemplating the dark water below. But, I have a lot of Clarences in my life to remind me of this important lesson: ". . . [N]o man is a failure who has friends."
Saint Marty is thankful for the miracle of struggle and the blessings of angels.
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