Merton contemplates the purpose of his life . . .
And so, having prayed, sitting on the floor, I began to consider the reason why God had brought me into the world:
Man was created to this end: that he should praise God, Our Lord, and reverence and serve Him, and by doing these things, should save his soul. And all the other things on the face of the earth were created for man, to help him in attaining the end for which he was created. Whence it follows that man must use these things only in so far as they help him towards his end, and must withdraw himself from them in so far as they are obstacles to his attaining his end.... Wherefore it is necessary that we make ourselves indifferent to all created things, in so far as it is permitted to our free will ... in such a way that, as far as we are concerned, we should not desire health rather than sickness, riches rather than poverty, honor rather than ignominy, a long life rather than a short life, and so on, desiring and choosing only those things which more efficaciously lead us to the end for which we were created.
The big and simple and radical truths of the “Foundation” were, I think, too big and too radical for me. By myself, I did not even scratch the surface of them. I vaguely remember fixing my mind on this notion of indifference to all created things in themselves, to sickness and health, and being mildly appalled. Who was I to understand such a thing? If I got a cold I nearly choked myself with aspirins and hot lemonade, and dived into bed with undisguised alarm. And here was a book that might perhaps be telling me that I ought to be able to remain as cool as an icebox in the presence of a violent death. How could I figure out just what and how much that word “indifferent” meant, if there was no one to tell me? I did not have any way of seeing the distinction between indifference of the will and indifference of the feelings—the latter being practically a thing unknown, even in the experience of the saints. So, worrying about this big difficulty of my own creation, I missed the real fruit of this fundamental meditation, which would have been an application of its notions to all the things to which I myself was attached, and which always tended to get me into trouble.
However, the real value of the Exercises for me came when I got to the various contemplations, especially the mysteries of the life of Christ. I docilely followed all St. Ignatius’s rules about the “composition of place” and sat myself down in the Holy House at Nazareth with Jesus and Mary and Joseph, and considered what they did, and listened to what they said and so on. And I elicited affections, and made resolutions, and ended with a colloquy and finally made a brief retrospective examination of how the meditation had worked out. All this was so new and interesting, and the labor of learning it engrossed me so much, that I was far too busy for distractions. The most vital part of each meditation was always the application of the senses (hearing the yelling of the damned in hell, smelling their burning rottenness, seeing the devils coming at you to drag you down with the rest, and so on).
As far as I remember, there was one theological point that made a very deep impression on me, greater than anything else. Somewhere in the first week, after having considered the malice of mortal sin, I had turned to the evil of venial sin. And there, suddenly, while the horror of mortal sin had remained somewhat abstract to me, simply because there were so many aspects and angles to the question, I clearly saw the malice of venial sin precisely as an offense against the goodness and loving kindness of God, without any respect to punishment. I left that meditation with a deep conviction of the deordination and malice there is in preferring one’s own will and satisfaction to the will of God for Whose love we were created.
Yes, Merton learns a lesson about indulgence versus sacrifice. His will versus God's will. The world is a pretty selfish place. Most people walk around, more worried about their own needs and wants and ambitions than about the greater good--what's better for the world and the universe. I'm just as guilty of anyone else of this "sin." Because, when you're in the midst of struggle, it's pretty hard to think of anything else. Proverbially, seeing the forest instead of the trees.
If you've read my last two posts, you know that I've been focusing on the trees. A lot. That's a pretty human thing to do. When you're lost in the woods, there's pretty much only one thing you can think about: getting back home. Hansel and Gretel, in their efforts to become unlost, made the mistake of nibbling the eaves on the witch's gingerbread house, which led to their imprisonment; to the witch being turned into a witch-kabob in the oven; to, eventually, a return home and happily ever after.
Being lost is pretty common. Nibbling on metaphorical gingerbread houses is pretty common, too. There are all kinds of temptations in the forest as you try to find your way home. Things that distract you from the path. That's what a majority of fairy tales are about. Getting lost and then getting found. Red Riding Hood meeting the wolf. Jack meeting the guy who gives him the magic beans, and all the giant stuff that follows. Aurora Rose pricking her finger on the spinning wheel. Of course, there's always happily ever afters, but they come after the wolf eats grandma or the entire kingdom is hexed into a very long nap.
I frequently fall into the trap of straying from the path that God has laid out for me to follow. Pretty much everyone from any story in the Bible does the same. Adam and Eve get kicked out of the Garden of Eden. David has a little thing with Bathsheba. Peter denies Jesus. Paul is blinded. It's a human thing. We all eat the forbidden gingerbread house at one point or another, stop to chat with hairy, fanged strangers.
Right now, I'm trying to find my way home after being lost in the woods. Life is full of wolves and spinning wheels and gingerbread houses. My particular wolf this weekend came in the form of a loved one who was lost in the forest momentarily and almost did something very permanent to find a way out. The Big Bad Wolf didn't win, but came pretty damn close.
Now, we are at the edge of the forest, can see home and a kind of happily ever after in the distance. We still have a ways to go, but there's a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.
Saint Marty is thankful for the miracle of second chances. And third chances. And fourth. And . . .
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