Merton learns something about sacrifice . . .
But the conversion of the intellect is not enough. And as long as the will, the domina voluntas, did not belong completely to God, even the intellectual conversion was bound to remain precarious and indefinite. For although the will cannot force the intellect to see an object other than it is, it can turn it away from the object altogether, and prevent it from considering that thing at all.
Where was my will? “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,” and I had not laid up any treasures for myself in heaven. They were all on earth. I wanted to be a writer, a poet, a critic, a professor. I wanted to enjoy all kinds of pleasures of the intellect and of the senses and in order to have these pleasures I did not hesitate to place myself in situations which I knew would end in spiritual disaster—although generally I was so blinded by my own appetites that I never even clearly considered this fact until it was too late, and the damage was done.
Of course, as far as my ambitions went, their objects were all right in themselves. There is nothing wrong in being a writer or a poet—at least I hope there is not: but the harm lies in wanting to be one for the gratification of one’s own ambitions, and merely in order to bring oneself up to the level demanded by his own internal self-idolatry. Because I was writing for myself and for the world, the things I wrote were rank with the passions and selfishness and sin from which they sprang. An evil tree brings forth evil fruits, when it brings forth fruit at all.
I went to Mass, of course, not merely every Sunday, but sometimes during the week as well. I was never long from the Sacraments—usually I went to confession and Communion if not every week, every fortnight. I did a fair amount of reading that might be called “spiritual,” although I did not read spiritually. I devoured books making notes here and there and remembering whatever I thought would be useful in an argument—that is, for my own aggrandizement, in order that I myself might take these things and shine by their light, as if their truth belonged to me. And I occasionally made a visit to a church in the afternoons, to pray or do the Stations of the Cross.
All this would have been enough for an ordinary Catholic, with a lifetime of faithful practice of his religion behind him: but for me it could not possibly be enough. A man who has just come out of the hospital, having nearly died there, and having been cut to pieces on an operating table, cannot immediately begin to lead the life of an ordinary working man. And after the spiritual mangle I have gone through, it will never be possible for me to do without the sacraments daily, and without much prayer and penance and meditation and mortification.
It took me time to find it out: but I write down what I have found out at last, so that anyone who is now in the position that I was in then may read it and know what to do to save himself from great peril and unhappiness. And to such a one I would say: Whoever you are, the land to which God has brought you is not like the land of Egypt from which you came out. You can no longer live here as you lived there. Your old life and your former ways are crucified now, and you must not seek to live any more for your own gratification, but give up your own judgement into the hands of a wise director, and sacrifice your pleasures and comforts for the love of God and give the money you no longer spend on those things, to the poor.
What Merton is talking about here is this: once a door opens, it's next to impossible to close it again. Merton has walked through the doors of the Catholic Church, and now either he has to change his ways, or live for the rest of his life with the knowledge that he has rejected the love of God. Not a comfortable position to find oneself.
This afternoon, I got a phone call. One of those phone calls that open a door that you can't close. It was my older sister, telling me that my sister, Rose, who has Down syndrome, suffered a grand mal seizure at home and was rushed by ambulance to the hospital. When she got to the hospital, she had another grand mal seizure.
Now, some of you may remember that this particular door opened a few weeks ago. The same thing happened. Rose had a seizure and ended up in an ambulance, then the hospital. Since we are in the middle of a pandemic, I wasn't able to see Rose or visit her in the hospital. So, all the information I got was filtered through my sister, who is Rose's durable power of attorney. From what I know, Rose came home last time on new medications with the need to follow up with her primary care provider. I'm not sure if Rose ever saw her PCP.
Back to today . . . Rose was released from the hospital this afternoon after about two hours. When she got home, as she was being helped out of the car, she suffered another grand mal seizure. An ambulance was called again. She was transported to a different hospital, and now, about three hours later, I'm still waiting for any news on her condition.
Some doors you open yourself and walk through. I did that this past October with my new job at the library. Other doors open by themselves, and you're forced through them. Addiction doors. Marital strife doors. Cancer doors. Dead car battery doors. Pandemic doors. Mental illness doors. Sick sister doors.
I am hoping for good news some time tonight. A miracle even. My sister's little body can't take much more. And, I fear that a door may be opening for her. I'm not ready for her to walk through that door. So, I'm praying for that door to close again. It's a selfish prayer, I know. I don't care.
Saint Marty is tired of unfamiliar rooms.
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