Friday, January 1, 2021

January 1: Source of Our Strength, Harbinger of Something Miraculous, Ham Dinner

Merton craves craves renewal and finds strength in weakness . . .

I came out of the presbytery with three books under my arm. I had hoped that I could begin taking instructions at once, but the pastor had told me to read these books, and pray and think and see how I felt about it in a week or ten days’ time. I did not argue with him: but the hesitation that had been in my mind only an hour or so before seemed to have vanished so completely that I was astonished and a little abashed at this delay. So it was arranged that I should come in the evenings, twice a week. 

“Father Moore will be your instructor,” said the Pastor. 

There were four assistants at Corpus Christi, but I guessed that Father Moore was going to be the one whom I had heard preaching the sermon on the divinity of Christ and, as a matter of fact, he was the one who, in the designs of Providence, had been appointed for this work of my salvation. 

If people had more appreciation of what it means to be converted from rank, savage paganism, from the spiritual level of a cannibal or of an ancient Roman, to the living faith and to the Church, they would not think of catechism as something trivial or unimportant. Usually the word suggests the matter-of-course instructions that children have to go through before First Communion and Confirmation. Even where it is a matter-of-course, it is one of the most tremendous things in the world, this planting of the word of God in a soul. It takes a conversion to really bring this home. 

I was never bored. I never missed an instruction, even when it cost me the sacrifice of some of my old amusements and attractions, which had such a strong hold over me and, while I had been impatient of delay from the moment I had come to that first sudden decision, I now began to burn with desire for Baptism, and to throw out hints and try to determine when I would be received into the Church. 

My desire became much greater still, by the end of October, for I made the Mission with the men of the parish, listening twice a day to sermons by two Paulist Fathers and hearing Mass and kneeling at Benediction before the Christ Who was gradually revealing Himself to me. 

When the sermon on hell began, I was naturally making mental comparisons with the one in Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist and reflecting on it in a kind of detached manner, as if I were a third and separate person watching myself hearing this sermon and seeing how it affected me. As a matter of fact this was the sermon which should have done me the most good and did, in fact, do so. 

My opinion is that it is a very extraordinary thing for anyone to be upset by such a topic. Why should anyone be shattered by the thought of hell? It is not compulsory for anyone to go there. Those who do, do so by their own choice, and against the will of God, and they can only get into hell by defying and resisting all the work of Providence and grace. It is their own will that takes them there, not God’s. In damning them He is only ratifying their own decision —a decision which He has left entirely to their own choice. Nor will He ever hold our weakness alone responsible for our damnation. Our weakness should not terrify us: it is the source of our strength. Libeuter gloriabor in infirmitatibus meis ut inhabitet in me virtus Christi. Power is made perfect in infirmity, and our very helplessness is all the more potent a claim on that Divine Mercy Who calls to Himself the poor, the little ones, the heavily burdened. 

My reaction to the sermon on hell was, indeed, what spiritual writers call “confusion”—but it was not the hectic, emotional confusion that comes from passion and from self-love. It was a sense of quiet sorrow and patient grief at the thought of these tremendous and terrible sufferings which I deserved and into which I stood a very good chance of entering, in my present condition: but at the same time, the magnitude of the punishment gave me a special and particular understanding of the greatness of the evil of sin. But the final result was a great deepening and awakening of my soul, a real increase in spiritual profundity and an advance in faith and love and confidence in God, to Whom alone I could look for salvation from these things. And therefore I all the more earnestly desired Baptism.

I truly love the idea of weakness being the source of strength.  The whole Jesus narrative embodies this idea.  Christ wasn't born in a palace, attended by servants or handmaids or wet nurses.  Nope.  His parents were poor.  Travelling by donkey.  I suppose the modern equivalent of that would be hitchhiking or driving across country in a 1982 Pinto.  Jesus' birth is all about humility.  Finding beauty in cow shit and piles of dirty straw.  Power in poverty.

This first day of the new year, I'm struck by this notion.  I just poked around Facebook, looking at the posts of friends and family.  Many of them celebrate the end of 2020, which, I must agree, was a pretty wretched year on many levels.  Yet, the idea of the changing of a number somehow signifying a change of luck or circumstance is, at the very least, misguided.

The only way that January 1, 2021, will be the harbinger of something miraculous is if the entire human race admits its weaknesses and failings.  If all people  start to wear facemasks and practice social distancing.  Millionaires and billionaires have Scrooge moments and begin to distribute their wealth to the poor and hungry.  Politicians embrace true servitude and remember that they work for us, not the other way 'round.  And everyone, down to the last person on this planet, treats everyone else as if they are children of God.  Embodiments of the divine.

If that happens today, things would begin to change.  Instead of accumulating money, we'd stockpile kindness and generosity.  Each day would dawn with hope, end with thankfulness.  That would be a real revolution, based on love instead of power.  Donald Trump would be ladling soup for the starving.  Mitch McConnell handing out blankets to the homeless.  Members of the Supreme Court marching for equality and justice for everyone, regardless of race, gender, nationality, religion, or sexual orientation.  It would be heaven on Earth.  That's the real message of Christ's nativity.

So, if you want 2021 to be different than 2020, practice kindness.  All day.  Every day.  Treat this planet with respect.  Hold others accountable for cruelty and hatred.  Be a friend.  A lover.  A miracle.  

I am a weak person.  Subject to anger and despair and jealousy.  I admit that.  Yet, I am graced, despite all of these failings.  Or because of them.  Grace is not about earning something.  It's about receiving something you don't deserve.  Power in poverty.  Wealth in want.

Tonight, I am having a ham dinner.  The ham was given to my family by a friend near the beginning of our quarantine, along with several bags of other groceries.  Scalloped potatoes.  Wine.  It will be a feast provided by love.  A true communion that will feed not just our bodies, but our spirits.  

This is how Saint Marty will remember the beginning of 2021.

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