Merton finds himself in the presence of God, and he runs for the hills . . .
I wonder what would have happened in my life if I had been given this grace in the days when I had almost discovered the Divinity of Christ in the ancient mosaics of the churches of Rome. What scores of self-murdering and Christ-murdering sins would have been avoided—all the filth I had plastered upon His image in my soul during those last five years that I had been scourging and crucifying God within me?
It is easy to say, after it all, that God had probably foreseen my infidelities and had never given me the grace in those days because He saw how I would waste and despise it: and perhaps that rejection would have been my ruin. For there is no doubt that one of the reasons why grace is not given to souls is because they have so hardened their wills in greed and cruelty and selfishness that their refusal of it would only harden them more.... But now I had been beaten into the semblance of some kind of humility by misery and confusion and perplexity and secret, interior fear, and my ploughed soul was better ground for the reception of good seed.
The sermon was what I most needed to hear that day. When the Mass of the Catechumens was over, I, who was not even a catechumen, but only a blind and deaf and dumb pagan as weak and dirty as anything that ever came out of the darkness of Imperial Rome or Corinth or Ephesus, was not able to understand anything else.
It all became completely mysterious when the attention was refocused on the altar. When the silence grew more and more profound, and little bells began to ring, I got scared again and, finally, genuflecting hastily on my left knee, I hurried out of the church in the middle of the most important part of the Mass. But it was just as well. In a way, I suppose I was responding to a kind of liturgical instinct that told me I did not belong there for the celebration of the Mysteries as such. I had no idea what took place in them: but the fact was that Christ, God, would be visibly present on the altar in the Sacred Species. And although He was there, yes, for love of me: yet He was there in His power and His might, and what was I? What was on my soul? What was I in His sight?
It was liturgically fitting that I should kick myself out at the end of the Mass of the Catechumens, when the ordained ostiarii should have been there to do it. Anyway, it was done.
Catholics ascribe to the concept of transubstantiation. That is the belief that the bread and wine of Holy Communion actually become the Body and Blood of Christ. In essence, all who are present are in the actual physical presence of God. Merton, who has been anything but holy for most of his life, who has, in fact, rejected God's love at every turn, feels shame when face-to-face with divinity. So, he withdraws. Kicks himself out onto the street.
This will be a short post tonight. I am still in the throes of finishing my annual Christmas essay, which, I am happy to report, finally seems to be taking on a life of its own. Early this afternoon, I hosted an author chat with Les Standiford, writer of the book The Man Who Invented Christmas, for the library, which will probably be one of the highlights of this yuletide season for me. I've loved the book for years, and the film adaptation, starring Christopher Plummer as Scrooge, is one of my favorite Christmas movies.
And then tonight . . .
My sister-in-law's church staged a drive-through living nativity. I packed up my entire family, including my puppy, and drove to Marquette. It was wonderful to be out of the house. We got in the queue of cars, drove up, parked, and tuned our radio to the proper station. At the appointed time, we listened to the Gospel narrative of the birth of Christ as the angels warmed themselves by a fire and the sheep threw snowballs at each other. It was simply perfect.
And it made me realize how much I miss being in church this Christmas season. I miss the music and stained glass. The sense of community, even if we sit distanced and masked. Feeling the presence of God. For about five minutes this evening, I had all that. It filled me up, buoyed my spirits, which have been waxing and waning these last few days.
Here are a few snapshots from my day:
- I woke to a fresh layer of beautiful snow. Not enough to make me swear, but enough to Currier & Ives the world.
- I wrote most of the day, and the words started flowing beautifully. At last.
- I received a note in the mail from a beautiful poet friend of mine, with a gift inside that reminded me of the goodness of the universe.
- I got to Zoom with the author of one of my favorite Christmas books. It was a beautiful 60 minutes of being in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Present.
- I attended a beautiful living nativity tonight, and felt the presence of God.
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