Merton goes shopping for a religious order to join . . .
The quietest place we could think of in that neighborhood was the men’s bar at the Biltmore, a big room full of comfortable chairs, hushed and paneled and half empty. We sat down in one of the far corners, and it was there, two being gathered together in His Name and in His charity, that Christ impressed the first definite form and direction upon my vocation.
It was very simply done. We just talked about several different religious Orders, and Dan suggested various priests I might consult and finally promised to give me a note of introduction to one of them.
I had read a little here and there about the Jesuits, the Franciscans, the Dominicans, the Benedictines, leafing through the Catholic Encyclopedia in the reference library in South Hall, and shopping around in the stacks. I had put my nose into the Rule of St. Benedict and not derived much benefit from so cursory an acquaintance—all I remembered was that the saint seemed a little vexed at the fact that the monks of his day could not be persuaded to go without wine. I had looked into a little French book about the Dominicans, and there I met with a piece of information that gave me pause: it said they all slept together in a common dormitory, and I thought: “Who wants to sleep in a common dormitory?” The picture in my mind was that of the long, cold, green upstairs room in the Lycée, with row after row of iron beds and a lot of skinny people in nightshirts.
I spoke to Dan Walsh about the Jesuits, but he said he did not know any Jesuits, and for my own part, the mere fact that he did not seem to have any particular reaction, positive or negative, to that Order, did away with the weak and vague preference which I had hitherto given it in my own mind. I had instinctively turned that way first of all, because I had read the life of Gerard Manley Hopkins and studied his poems, but there had never been any real attraction calling me to that kind of a life. It was geared to a pitch of active intensity and military routine which were alien to my own needs. I doubt if they would have kept me in their novitiate—but if they had, they would probably have found me a great misfit. What I needed was the solitude to expand in breadth and depth and to be simplified out under the gaze of God more or less the way a plant spreads out its leaves in the sun. That meant that I needed a Rule that was almost entirely aimed at detaching me from the world and uniting me with God, not a Rule made to fit me to fight for God in the world. But I did not find out all that in one day.
Dan spoke of the Benedictines. In itself, the vocation attracted me: a liturgical life in some big abbey in the depths of the country. But in actual fact it might just mean being nailed down to a desk in an expensive prepschool in New Hampshire for the rest of my life—or, worse still, being a parish priest remotely attached to such a prep-school, and living in more or less permanent separation from the claustral and liturgical center which had first attracted me.
“What do you think of the Franciscans?” said Dan.
As soon as I mentioned St. Bonaventure’s, it turned out that he had many friends there and knew the place fairly well; in fact they had given him some sort of an honorary degree there that summer. Yes, I liked the Franciscans. Their life was very simple and informal and the atmosphere of St. Bonaventure’s was pleasant and happy and peaceful. One thing that attracted me to them was a sort of freedom from spiritual restraint, from systems and routine. No matter how much the original Rule of St. Francis has changed, I think his spirit and his inspiration are still the fundamental thing in Franciscan life. And it is an inspiration rooted in joy, because it is guided by the prudence and wisdom which are revealed only to the little ones—the glad wisdom of those who have had the grace and the madness to throw away everything in one uncompromising rush, and to walk around barefooted in the simple confidence that if they get into trouble, God will come and get them out of it again.
This post will be short. I am tired, and I hope to rest tonight after almost a week of sleeplessness.
I really love the last few sentences of the above passage about the Franciscan order from Merton: ". . . the glad wisdom of those who have had the grace and madness to throw away everything in one uncompromising rush, and to walk around barefooted in the simple confidence that if they get into trouble, God will come and get them out of it again." (Emphasis mine.)
I think it's that word "again" that really strikes me. It hints at the fact that these Franciscans have gotten into trouble more than once. In fact, it pretty much seems to say that they have screwed up over and over and over. And God, like a good parent, has rolled out of bed each time they've called home, put on his coat, climbed behind the wheel of the car, and driven down to the police station to bail them out.
I like that version of God. The tired parent who always shows up in times of crisis. Always forgives. Doesn't yell or make you feel shittier than you already feel. This God is simply a divine version of Michael Landon in Little House on the Prairie. In the end, you know he's always going to be there to help his neighbor raise the new barn or slog through a blizzard to find a lost dog.
I think that's the version of God everyone should have. All-loving and with really good hair. It's the version that I cling to in times of difficulty. Nobody really wants an Old Testament God showing up when you've just gotten pulled over for drunk driving. Nope. I want Pa Ingalls, with a warm blanket and a plate of Ma's stew.
A couple evenings ago, I got home late from cleaning at church. I was exhausted and ready to just sit down and try not to think about anything. My mind has been running like a gerbil on a wheel for many days now. As I climbed out of my car and grabbed my belongings from the back seat, I heard the sound of car wheels spinning on ice. Like a belt sander whirring and whirring and whirring. I looked across the street.
My neighbor's car was stuck in his driveway. It had stormed heavily that day, and the city snowplows had roared by in the afternoon, scraping piles of what I call white cement into driveways and sidewalks. My neighbor had obviously underestimated the amount of snow in his driveway, tried to barrel through it with his car, and gotten solidly stuck. He and his significant other were pushing and rocking the vehicle, trying to get it unstuck.
But it just wasn't moving.
I noted the situation as I reached my front step. Let me repeat: I was pretty exhausted. I didn't feel like peopling at all. Yet, there was God, planting the seed in my brain. I went inside my house, put my car keys on the dining room table, slipped a facemask on, and headed back outside.
As I crossed the street, I called out, "Do you need a hand?"
The neighbor looked over at me and said something like, "I'd really appreciate it, man. I didn't think it was that deep."
"I'll get behind and push," I said.
"Don't get run over," said my neighbor's significant other.
I got behind the car and started pushing and rocking the vehicle. It inched forward, rolled back, inched forward, rolled back. It stayed stuck.
"Just a minute," I called.
I went back to my house and asked my wife to come help.
In a few minutes, the neighbor's significant other, my wife, and I were all behind the car, lifting and pushing as my neighbor gunned the accelerator. The car inched forward, rolled back. Inched forward a few more inches, rolled back. Inched forward, inched forward, inched forward, and then . . . the wheels caught traction, and the car rolled out of the driveway into the street.
As I walked back across the street to my house with my wife, my neighbor waved and called out, "Thanks, man."
I waved and climbed the steps to my house.
That's what God does for us sometimes. We get stuck in bad habits or situations or illnesses. Addictions. Depressions. Joblessness. Cheating boyfriends or girlfriends or spouses. Poverty. Our wheels keep spinning and spinning and spinning. Digging deeper and deeper and deeper.
And then God shows up, gives us a shove in the right direction, and we start moving. Slowly. Really slowly. Until, eventually, you're free.
It felt good to help my neighbor out this week. It reminded me that I can be someone's light.
Yes, there is darkness in the world. We all make mistakes, get sick, experience loss. But God will show up to help you. Every time. He may look like your sister, brother, best friend, spouse. A complete stranger. Nurse. Police officer. Teacher.
Or he may look exhausted and stressed, as if he hasn't slept in five days. Like Saint Marty.
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