Merton prays and prays and prays to be a published writer . . .
When we went back to New York, in the middle of August, the world that I had helped to make was finally preparing to break the shell and put forth its evil head and devour another generation of men.
At Olean we never read any newspapers, and we kept away from radios on principle, and for my own part the one thing that occupied my mind was the publication of the new novel. Having found an old copy of Fortune lying around Benjie’s premises, I had read an article in it on the publishing business: and on the basis of that article I had made what was perhaps the worst possible choice of a publisher—the kind of people who would readily reprint everything in the Saturday Evening Post in diamond letters on sheets of gold. They were certainly not disposed to be sympathetic to the wild and rambling thing I had composed on the mountain.
And it was going to take them a good long time to get around to telling me about it.
For my own part, I was walking around New York in the incomparable agony of a new author waiting to hear the fate of his first book—an agony which is second to nothing except the torments of adolescent love. And because of my anguish I was driven, naturally enough, to fervent though interested prayer. But after all God does not care if our prayers are interested. He wants them to be. Ask and you shall receive. It is a kind of pride to insist that none of our prayers should ever be petitions for our own needs: for this is only another subtle way of trying to put ourselves on the same plane as God—acting as if we had no needs, as if we were not creatures, not dependent on Him and dependent, by His will, on material things too.
So I knelt at the altar rail in the little Mexican church of Our Lady of Guadalupe on Fourteenth Street, where I sometimes went to Communion, and asked with great intensity of desire for the publication of the book, if it should be for God’s glory.
The fact that I could even calmly assume that there was some possibility of the book giving glory to God shows the profound depths of my ignorance and spiritual blindness: but anyway, that was what I asked. But now I realize that it was a very good thing that I made that prayer.
It is a matter of common belief among Catholics that when God promises to answer our prayers, He does not promise to give us exactly what we ask for. But we can always be certain that if he does not give us that, it is because He has something much better to give us instead. That is what is meant by Christ’s promise that we will receive all that we ask in His Name. Quodcumque petimus adversus utilitatem salutis, non petimus in nomine Salvatoris.
I've been taught this lesson since I was a small boy. God hears all our prayers, and He answers each and every one of them. He just doesn't always answer them in the way that we want or expect. And if He doesn't give you exactly what you want, it's because He has something bigger and better in mind for you. Merton wants his terrible novel published. God doesn't grant him this petition. Instead, eventually, Merton writes The Seven Storey Mountain, and here we are--over seven decades after it was published--going on the second year of Saint Marty posts based on his book. I suppose that is an answer to Merton's prayer, just not in the way or time frame he had in mind.
Of course, Merton could never have realized the impact of his memoir, or even envisioned something like a blog. He didn't have that kind of long-range vision. And that's the rub. When my sister was dying of lymphoma of the brain, I prayed for her recovery. With every cell in my body, I prayed for that. It didn't happen. Now, I don't know what "bigger and better" thing God has planned for a world without my sister's physical presence. Since my sister's passing, as a matter of fact, my family has sort of disintegrated. I haven't seen a lot of good coming out of my sister's death.
But maybe that good is going to come 70 years from now, after I've written a poem or memoir or play about my sister. Through my words, maybe I'll save someone from despair. Or maybe somebody has already read the poem I wrote for my sister's funeral, and it has provided some kind of comfort or solace. I may never know what difference my sister's death made in the universe.
It's that whole trust thing. I have to trust that God knows what He's doing. My wanting God to save my sister's life--well, that's me wanting to be God. I've seen the movie Bruce Almighty enough times to know that playing God doesn't work out all that well. Human beings are too selfish and myopic. Perhaps me winning the Nobel Prize in Literature will cause a failed writer to commit genocide. That sort of thing. (Think about it. If The Apprentice had still been a top-rated show on network TV, would Donald Trump have run for President of the United States? If Adolf Hitler had been a successful artist, would the Holocaust have happened? Nobody will know the answers to these questions.)
I have trust issues--a lot of them. And I have faith. Go to church every weekend. Usually a couple times. Yet, I still question why God allows things to happen in the world and in my life. My agnostic and atheist friends who read this blog regularly are now shaking their heads at my stupid naivete. And my pastor friends are doing the same thing.
My godless friends are saying to me, "It's all chance and humanity. People get sick. People cheat on their spouses. People blindly follow hate-mongering tyrants." My pastor friends are saying to me, "God doesn't allow things like that to happen. We live in an imperfect world, full of imperfect people. Humans mess it up, and God just picks up the pieces and puts them back together in new and miraculous ways." Both groups of friends are basically saying the same thing: human beings are flawed creatures, and they inflict their imperfections on the world.
The difference, however, comes in the belief--the faith and trust--that the universe or Creator or God will somehow right what's wrong. Out of the darkness will come light. It may take a long time. We may never see that light. But, you cannot have darkness without its opposite. The two define each other. Therefore, you also cannot have despair without hope. Same principle.
This week, I've been struggling a lot with these ideas, for very personal reasons that I won't get into. That is what has kept me from blogging regularly. I've been too tired from arguing with God all day to sit down at night and string together coherent sentences. And I'm not on the other side of this battle yet. Still in the trenches.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. It's one of those holidays that come with all kinds of unrealistic expectations, sort of like Christmas. I have been married for over 25 years now, and my wife and I have been together for close to 30 years. That time has not always been easy or filled with romance and love. It has also been filled depression, separation, mental illness, and addictions. So when I went shopping for a Valentine's card for my wife today, I couldn't find a single one that exactly expressed my feelings. Instead, I settled on one card, which I will revise. That's what poets do.
I have been trying to hold things in my life together for a long time. Like Merton, I've been praying, telling God exactly how He should fix my problems. God hasn't really been cooperating. He seems to have other plans. So, I've had sleepless nights and tired days. Because where there is faith, there's also its opposite: fear. I suppose you can't have one without the other, either.
Even saints experience this struggle. Mother Teresa wrote, "In my soul I feel just that terrible pain of loss--of God not wanting me--of God not being God--of God not really existing . . . That darkness that surrounds me on all sides--" But, she also said, "If ever I become a saint, I will surely be one of 'darkness.' I will continually be absent from heaven, to light the light of those in darkness on earth."
Saint Marty believes in the miracle of light after darkness, whatever form that light may take. Who is he to argue with Mother Teresa.
And a poem written during this week . . .
A House of Sand
by: Martin Achatz
I live in a house of sandthat shivers, moves with my breath,
becomes grit in wind, shrinks
with every sparrow wing
that slaps by. I haul
bags of beach, pour them
into living room, kitchen, mold
new couch, dining table, shelves
to hold my words, a bed to sink
into at night. I am an oyster
burrowed, hidden in silt,
a grain under my tongue
that I work, worry, polish
until dawn, when I open my lips
to loose a pearl of sun, watch it
rise, rise over vast dunes, ruins
of the previous day's architecture,
just powder now, sifting through
my fingers. I understand why God
rested on the seventh day.
It's exhausting trying to hold
a world together.
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