Merton gets serious about being a priest . . . sort of . . .
The Franciscan monastery on 31st Street, New York is a grey unprepossessing place, crowded in among big buildings, and inhabited by very busy priests. Not the least busy of them in those days was Father Edmund, Dan Walsh’s friend: and yet he was not too busy to talk to me practically any time I came around to see him. He was a big amiable man full of Franciscan cheerfulness, kind, disciplined by hard work yet not hardened by it, for his priesthood, which kept him close to Christ and to souls more than softened and humanized him.
From the first moment I met him, I knew I had a good friend in Father Edmund. He questioned me about my vocation, asking me how long it was since my Baptism, and what it was that attracted me to the Franciscans, and what I was doing at Columbia, and when I had talked to him for a while, he began to encourage me in the idea of becoming a Friar.
“I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t eventually make application to enter the novitiate next August,” he said.
Next August! That was a long way off Now that my mind was made up, I was impatient to get started. However, I had not expected to be admitted immediately by any Order. But I asked him:
“Father, isn’t there some chance of my entering sooner?”
“We admit all our novices together, in a group,” he said. “They start out at Paterson, in August, then they go on together all the way through until ordination. It’s the only way we can handle them. If you entered at any other time, you would miss out all along the line. Have you had much philosophy?”
I told him of Dan Walsh’s courses, and he thought for a moment.
“Perhaps there might be a chance of starting you out in the novitiate in February,” he said, but he did not seem to be very hopeful. No doubt what he was thinking of was that I might skip a half-year of philosophy and so catch up with the others at the house of studies up-state, where they would be sent after the year’s noviceship.
“Are you living with your parents?” he asked me.
I told him they had long been dead, and that none of my family was left, except an uncle and a brother.
“Is your brother a Catholic too.”
“No, Father.”
“Where is he? What does he do?”
“He goes to Cornell. He is supposed to get out of there next June.”
“Well,” said Father Edmund, “what about yourself? Have you got enough to live on? You aren’t starving or anything, are you?”
“Oh, no, Father, I can get along. I’ve got a chance of a job teaching English in Extension at Columbia this year, and besides that they gave me a grant-in-aid to pay for my courses for the doctorate.”
“You take that job,” said the Friar; “that will do you a lot of good. And get busy on that doctorate, too. Do all the work you can, and study a little philosophy. Study won’t hurt you at all. After all, you know, if you come into the Order you’ll probably end up teaching at St. Bona’s or Siena. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, and that was the truth.
I walked down the steps of the monastery into the noisy street, with my heart full of happiness and peace.
What a transformation this made in my life! Now, at last, God had become the center of my existence. And it had taken no less than this decision to make Him so. Apparently, in my case, it had to be that way.
I understand Merton's obsession here. Yes, I used the word "obsession" instead of "calling." Because I don't think that he has quite gotten to the place where he's willing to simply surrender to God's will in his life. If he was at that point, he wouldn't have pushed Father Edmund about entering the Franciscan Order on some kind of advanced placement plan. He would have just said, "August? Okay." Merton still wants to be in charge here. His mind is set on becoming a priest. Right now.
I totally get this kind of obsession. It happens to me when I write poems or read books. I don't want anything to get in the way. Last night, I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. revising the poem I posted on my blog. This morning, I started revising it some more. Off and on, all day long, that poem has been with me. I think I'm on about my 25th or 26th iteration of the ending lines. Since 6 a.m. Sometimes, I changed one word. Moved a line up or down. Eliminated an image. Put an image back in. Sent it to friends for their advice. Got their advice and did another revision. Now, I think that it is done.
Maybe.
And I'm fairly exhausted. That's what obsession does to you. It sort of sets you on fire, and you blaze brightly for a while. Two hours. Two days. Two months. Two years. Whatever. After that, the fire settles down to ash or ember, and it becomes work to keep it stoked and burning. Then, you have a choice: find a new obsession or put in the effort to keep your old one going.
Of course, this rule applies to almost anything. A job. Writing a book. Parenting. Owning a car. A friendship. A marriage. There's always the initial excitement of the first date. First draft. Wedding night. First eight hour shift. First road trip. First time holding your newborn child. Firsts are easy and exciting.
After first, however, comes second. Then third. Fourth, Fifth. Eventually, new becomes old. Worn. Comfortable. You stop trying so hard. Take things for granted. That is the mistake most people make. For a first birthday, you throw a big party. Invite relatives and friends. Hang streamers and balloons. Video the child smashing birthday cake with fists. It's a big deal. Eventually, though, the birthday parties become less and less elaborate. Until, one year, it becomes a text message sent in the morning because everyone is so busy with their lives: "Happy birthday, sweetheart! Hope it's great!"
In a marriage, when one spouse simply stops trying, the relationship is doomed. It becomes a mechanical series of days, with "I love you" said like "pass the salt." It's the easy thing to do. Because, as with anything that lasts for a long time, maintaining love is hard work. That's why affairs happen. A match that's just been struck burns bright and hot and fast. It's beautiful and fleeting.
I am tired of working on the poem that I wrote yesterday. After thirty or so drafts, it has become a stone worn smooth. Maybe it's still beautiful, but I just can't tell anymore. So I toss it into the lake, where it will tumble and shine in the waves. Become wonderful again. Hopefully.
Here's my advice to everyone reading this post tonight: say "I love you" and mean it. Every day. Take your dog for a walk, every day, and let her be a puppy again. Write a letter or note or e-mail or text to a friend, and in that message, tell that person why they are important to you. Do this every day. Eat Fruit Loops like you've never tasted them before. Reread The Catcher in the Rye, and remember when it was the most important book in your life.
If you do the hard work of making everything new, every day, you will be that match burning bright and hot. The word "boring" will never enter your vocabulary. Sure, your heart may get broken. Many times. Every day. But a broken heart means that you have loved. Do love. Deeply.
And new poems will pour out of you.
Tonight, Saint Marty gives thanks for the hard work of love.
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