Merton feels abject rejection . . .
I got into New York that evening and called up Father Edmund, but he was too busy to see me.
So I went out to the house at Douglaston.
“When are you going to the novitiate?” my aunt asked me.
“Maybe I’m not going,” I said.
They did not ask me any questions.
I went to Communion and prayed earnestly that God’s will should be done—and it was. But I was far from being able to understand it then.
Father Edmund listened to what I had to say. I told him about my past and all the troubles I had had. He was very friendly and very kind.
But if I had had any hope that he would wave all my doubts aside with a smile, I was soon disappointed. He said:
“Well, Tom, listen: suppose you let me think it over and pray a bit. Come back in a couple of days. All right?”
“In a couple of days?”
“Come back tomorrow.”
So I waited for another day. My mind was full of anguish and restlessness. I prayed: “My God, please take me into the monastery. But anyway, whatever You want, Your will be done.”
Of course I understand the whole business now. My own mind was full of strange, exaggerated ideas. I was in a kind of a nightmare. I could not see anything straight. But Father Edmund saw clearly enough for all that.
He saw that I was only a recent convert, not yet two years in the Church. He saw that I had had an unsettled life, and that my vocation was by no means sure, and that I was upset with doubts and misgivings. The novitiate was full, anyway. And when a novitiate is crammed with postulants year after year it is time for somebody to reflect about the quality of the vocations that are coming in. When there is such a crowd, you have to be careful that a few who are less desirable do not float in on the tide with the rest....
So the next day he told me kindly enough that I ought to write to the Provincial and tell him that I had reconsidered my application. There was nothing I could say. I could only hang my head and look about me at the ruins of my vocation.
I asked a few faint-hearted questions, trying to feel my way and find out if my case were altogether hopeless. Naturally, Father did not want to commit himself or his Order to anything, and I could not even get what might seem to be a vague promise for the future.
There seemed to me to be no question that I was now excluded from the priesthood for ever. I promised
I would write at once, and that I would proclaim my undying loyalty to the Friars Minor in doing so.
“Do that,” Father said. “The Provincial will be pleased.”
When I walked down the steps of the monastery, I was so dazed I didn’t know what to do. All I could think of was to go over across Seventh Avenue to the Church of the Capuchins, next to the station. I went inside the church, and knelt in the back and, seeing there was a priest hearing confessions, I presently got up and took my place in the short line that led to his confessional.
I knelt in the darkness until the slide snapped back with a bang and I saw a thin, bearded priest who looked something like James Joyce. All the Capuchins in this country have that kind of a beard. The priest was in no mood to stand for any nonsense, and I myself was confused and miserable, and couldn’t explain myself properly, and so he got my story all mixed up. Evidently he decided that I was only complaining and trying to get around the decision that had been made by some religious Order that had fired me out of their novitiate, probably for some good reason.
The whole thing was so hopeless that finally, in spite of myself, I began to choke and sob and I couldn’t talk any more. So the priest, probably judging that I was some emotional and unstable and stupid character, began to tell me in very strong terms that I certainly did not belong in the monastery, still less the priesthood and, in fact, gave me to understand that I was simply wasting his time and insulting the Sacrament of Penance by indulging my self-pity in his confessional.
When I came out of that ordeal, I was completely broken in pieces. I could not keep back the tears, which ran down between the fingers of the hands in which I concealed my face. So I prayed before the Tabernacle and the big stone crucified Christ above the altar.
The only thing I knew, besides my own tremendous misery, was that I must no longer consider that I had a vocation to the cloister.
Not exactly the most comforting depiction of going to confession. It has been many years since I've received the sacrament of penance. I don't find it an easy thing to do--speaking aloud all of your deepest shames. Yet, it can be incredibly healing, as well. To hear someone say "you are forgiven" is an amazing experience, especially if your guilt has been deep and heavy.
Merton experiences none of the healing in the above passage, and he leaves the confessional even more broken than when he entered it. That's just not supposed to happen. While you have to atone for your transgressions in some way, that atonement should feel liberating, like a gift even. Merton leaves the confessional even more burdened than when he entered it.
As I said, my last experience in a confessional was many years ago, and I had been carrying around the burden of a particular shortcoming for a very long time. It had been eating away at me. When I entered that small space, I couldn't help myself. I started to weep, could barely speak. As I gulped out my story between sobs, the priest sat and listened to me, his face not a mask of judgement. After I was done with my waterfall of misery, he started talking. He began this way: "God loves you . . ."
I left the confessional that night feeling as if I could fly. Literally.
I wish that I could say I went away and sinned no more. That would be a lie, and I would have to confess that. No, I'm just as flawed and broken as the next person--several steps ahead of Donald Trump, but still way behind Mother Teresa. But that's not my point this evening.
Forgiveness is a powerful force--not just for the forgiven, but the forgiver, as well. It can set both of you free, if entered into willingly and with an open heart. I am in a life situation at the moment where I'm struggling with forgiveness. Mainly because the person I need to forgive doesn't want to be forgiven. Sees nothing wrong in what she's done/is doing. Her actions are hurting many people, but she doesn't care.
So, there is the dilemma. Can you forgive a person who isn't seeking forgiveness? My answer to that question, for tonight anyway, is "yes." You can forgive that person. Keep on forgiving that person. Because that forgiveness is a way to bring peace into your life and heart. Most times, when somebody disappoints you, it's because you have put your own expectations on that somebody, and your expectations weren't met. Cue the sense of betrayal and victimhood.
I can go through my life feeling disappointed. Being a victim. Or I can say "I forgive you" over and over until it sinks in. Until I release that person to make her own mistakes and live with the consequences of her actions, even if it means she ends up alienated and alone. Or worse. It's her choice.
When my daughter and son were in preschool, their teachers always did a roll call in the morning. If one of the children was absent, the teacher would say, "She isn't here today. We wish her well." And all the kids would repeat, "We wish her well."
I am still struggling with forgiveness right now. I sort of feel like that priest who literally kicks Merton out of the confessional, unforgiven and abandoned. Anger and betrayal are not easy emotions to let go of. Yet, everybody deserves forgiveness. Even the people who aren't seeking it, or don't even realize they need it. Especially them.
So, I will say it now, tonight before I go to sleep, when I wake up in the morning, on my drive into work, and all day tomorrow: "I forgive."
Maybe Saint Marty will also eventually be able to say, "We wish her well."
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