Sunday, January 3, 2021

January 3: Mountain of a Purgatory, Epiphany, Word Made Flesh

Merton embarks on his climb of the Seven-Circled Mountain . . .

I very quickly made friends with him, and told him all about my thesis and the ideas I was trying to work with, and he was very pleased. And one of the things he sensed at once was something that I was far from being able to realize: but it was that the bent of my mind was essentially “Augustinian.” I had not yet followed Bramachari’s advice to read St. Augustine and I did not take Dan’s evaluation of my ideas as having all the directive force that was potentially in it —for it did not even come clothed in suggestion or advice. 

Of course, to be called “Augustinian” by a Thomist might not in every case be a compliment. But coming from Dan Walsh, who was a true Catholic philosopher, it was a compliment indeed. 

For he, like Gilson, had the most rare and admirable virtue of being able to rise above the petty differences of schools and systems, and seeing Catholic philosophy in its wholeness, in its variegated unity, and in its true Catholicity. In other words, he was able to study St. Thomas and St. Bonaventure and Duns Scotus side by side, and to see them as complementing and reinforcing one another, as throwing diverse and individual light on the same truths from different points of view, and thus he avoided the evil of narrowing and restricting Catholic philosophy and theology to a single school, to a single attitude, a single system. 

I pray to God that there may be raised up more like him in the Church and in our universities, because there is something stifling and intellectually deadening about textbooks that confine themselves to giving a superficial survey of the field of philosophy according to Thomist principles and then discard all the rest in a few controversial objections. Indeed, I think it a great shame and a danger of no small proportions, that Catholic philosophers should be trained in division against one another, and brought up to the bitterness and smallness of controversy: because this is bound to narrow their views and dry up the unction that should vivify all philosophy in their souls. 

Therefore, to be called an “Augustinian” by Dan Walsh was a compliment, in spite of the traditional opposition between the Thomist and Augustinian schools, Augustinian being taken not as confined to the philosophers of that religious order, but as embracing all the intellectual descendants of St. Augustine. It is a great compliment to find oneself numbered as part of the same spiritual heritage as St. Anselm, St. Bernard, St. Bonaventure, Hugh and Richard of St. Victor, and Duns Scotus also. And from the tenor of his course, I realized that he meant that my bent was not so much towards the intellectual, dialectical, speculative character of Thomism, as towards the spiritual, mystical, voluntaristic, and practical way of St. Augustine and his followers. 

His course and his friendship were most valuable in preparing me for the step I was about to take. But as time went on, I decided to leave the notion of becoming a priest out of the way for the time being. So I never even mentioned it to Dan in those days. 

As November began, my mind was taken up with this one thought: of getting baptized and entering at last into the supernatural life of the Church. In spite of all my studying and all my reading and all my talking, I was still infinitely poor and wretched in my appreciation of what was about to take place within me. I was about to set foot on the shore at the foot of the high, seven-circled mountain of a Purgatory steeper and more arduous than I was able to imagine, and I was not at all aware of the climbing I was about to have to do. 

Merton is about to embark on a journey toward the Catholic Church and, eventually, priesthood.  He recognizes that it is not going to be easy.  Or, perhaps more accurately, as a memoirist looking back, he realizes how difficult the journey actually was.  Either way, it's a long, long trek through mountain and desert, chasing the tail of a comet.

Today is the Sunday that celebrates the Epiphany.  Three astrologers/astronomers/magi/kings appear in Bethlehem, looking for Jesus to deliver some belated birthday presents.  You all know the story.  Gold and frankincense and myrrh.  Kingship and divinity and sacrifice.  For Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, it's the unveiling of truth as told in prophecy.  God in human form.  The intersection of Heaven and Earth.

Of course, the word "epiphany" has come to mean any sudden realization, whether religious or scientific or philosophical or literary.  James Joyce made a career writing about small epiphanies in his characters' lives.  Snow falling all over Ireland, on the living and the dead.  That sort of thing.  A simple revelation that resonates like a church bell at midnight.

Anything could bring about an epiphany.  Brushing your teeth in the morning.  Brushing your teeth at night.  Watching your child sleep, counting each of his breaths.  Eating one too many Christmas sugar cookies.  Taking your puppy for a moonlit walk in the backyard.  

As a poet, I am constantly on the lookout for these small, everyday acts that carry profound meaning.  Some people may call them inspirations.  I prefer to think of them as Bethlehem moments, because I'm a Christmas lover.  When everything falls into place--at the intersection of syllable and image and meaning--that is when I feel as though I've been touched by something much larger than myself.  Something divine.  

And it's a great gift.  Each time.

Tonight, as Epiphany Sunday draws to a close. I give thanks for all the Bethlehem moments in my life.  When a star appears in the darkness, and I follow its light to some everyday place--a barn filled with cows and chickens and straw and a huge pile of manure.  And there, as the Gospel of John says, in the beginning, was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

Saint Marty joins the magi at the manger tonight, worshipping Word made flesh. 



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