Merton reflects on different religious orders . . .
This is not something that is confined to the Franciscans: it is at the heart of every religious vocation, and if it is not, the vocation does not mean much. But the Franciscans, or at least St. Francis, reduced it to its logical limits, and at the same time invested it with a kind of simple thirteenth century lyricism which made it doubly attractive to me.
However, the lyricism must be carefully distinguished from the real substance of the Franciscan vocation, which is that tremendous and heroic poverty, poverty of body and spirit which makes the Friar literally a tramp. For, after all, “mendicant” is only a fancy word for tramp, and if a Franciscan cannot be a tramp in this full and complete and total mystical sense, he is bound to be a little unhappy and dissatisfied. As soon as he acquires a lot of special articles for his use and comfort and becomes sedate and respectable and spiritually sedentary he will, no doubt, have an easy and pleasant time, but there will be always gnawing in his heart the nostalgia for that uncompromising destitution which alone can give him joy because it flings him headlong into the arms of God.
Without poverty, Franciscan lyricism sounds tinny and sentimental and raw and false. Its tone is sour, and all its harmonies are somewhat strained.
I am afraid that at that time, it was the lyricism that attracted me more than the poverty, but really I don’t think I was in a position to know any better. It was too soon for me to be able to make the distinction. However, I remember admitting that one of the advantages of their Rule, as far as I was concerned, was that it was easy.
After all, I was really rather frightened of all religious rules as a whole, and this new step, into the monastery, was not something that presented itself to me, all at once, as something that I would just take in my stride. On the contrary, my mind was full of misgivings about fasting and enclosure and all the long prayers and community life and monastic obedience and poverty, and there were plenty of strange spectres dancing about in the doors of my imagination, all ready to come in, if I would let them in. And if I did, they would show me how I would go insane in a monastery, and how my health would crack up, and my heart would give out. and I would collapse and go to pieces and be cast back into the world a hopeless moral and physical wreck.
All this, of course, was based on the assumption that I was in weak health, for that was something I still believed. Perhaps it was to some extent true, I don’t know. But the fear of collapse had done nothing, in the past years, to prevent me from staying up all night and wandering around the city in search of very unhealthy entertainments. Nevertheless, as soon as there was question of a little fasting or going without meat or living within the walls of a monastery, I instantly began to fear death.
What I eventually found out was that as soon as I started to fast and deny myself pleasures and devote time to prayer and meditation and to the various exercises that belong to the religious life, I quickly got over all my bad health, and became sound and strong and immensely happy.
That particular night I was convinced that I could not follow anything but the easiest of religious rules.
When Dan began to talk about the one religious Order that filled him with the most enthusiasm, I was able to share his admiration but I had no desire to join it. It was the Order of Cistercians, the Cistercians of the Strict Observance. The very title made me shiver, and so did their commoner name: The Trappists.
Once, six years before—and it seemed much longer than that—when I had barely glanced at the walls of the Trappist monastery of Tre Fontane, outside Rome, the fancy of becoming a Trappist had entered my adolescent mind: but if it had been anything but a pure day-dream, it would not have got inside my head at all. Now, when I was actually and seriously thinking of entering a monastery, the very idea of Trappists almost reduced me to a jelly.
The irony of this passage, of course, is that Merton became one of the most famous Trappist monks of all time. Of course, being a monk AND being famous are sort of antithetical. The Trappists are all about simplicity and humility and hiddenness and service and prayer. In a lot of ways, that does not define Merton at all. Yes, he lived as a monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. Yet, he was also an international literary star, sought out by fans and fellow writers. He traveled. Attended conferences. His life was anything but hidden.
It has been a fairly quiet day for me. By "quiet," I mean that I have pretty much not left my house, except for a three-mile walk with my puppy. Aside from that, I've been grading and reading and writing. This evening, I met with my book club for a lovely two-hour discussion of Maggie O'Farrell's novel Hamnet, an uplifting novel about the Black Plague, childhood death, and William Shakespeare.
And now, I am back at grading after this little blogging respite. Heavy snow fell this afternoon. A very quick drop of four or five inches in about two hours. At one point, I looked out my living room window and could barely see the trees and bushes that mark my property line. It is now almost 9 p.m., and the precipitation has stopped. The wind has picked up. All this after a three-day thaw with temperatures approaching 40 degrees.
Today has proven to me that I could easily live a life of simplicity and prayer and service. I'm not so sure about humility and hiddenness. There's a part of most poets, I think, that craves attention and praise. I can't think of a single poet of my acquaintance who would say, "I hope nobody reads my work." No, we all want to be read. Widely.
Yet, poetry isn't a field that really attracts a whole lot of attention, except from other poets. Unless you happen to get invited to deliver a poem at a U. S. Presidential inauguration. Then, you can start asking for $100,000 for public appearances. (I can't imagine pulling down that kind of money. As a poet, I'm used to getting paid in snacks and a free poster.) I am in the wrong field if I want acclaim and wealth.
Yet, I am rich and famous in a lot of ways. I have an abundance of friends who care about me a great deal. Who send me messages like "How are you today?" and genuinely want to know. That is real wealth. And, hopefully, those same friends know that I will do anything for them if they are hurt or hungry or homeless. I want to be famous for being compassionate and generous.
Life isn't about how much you have or how many people know you. If's about how much you give and how many people you serve. That's what frightens the young Merton about the Trappists. That dying to self. But the whole world would be a better place if we all operated this way.
That is the lesson young Thomas Merton still needs to learn in the passage above.
And it's the lesson that Saint Marty lives by every day. He doesn't always succeed, but he fails trying.
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