Merton becomes a non-combatant objector in World War II . . .
Towards the beginning of March, I wrote to the Trappists at Gethsemane asking if I could come down there for a retreat during Holy Week. I had barely received their reply, telling me they would be glad to have me there, when another letter came.
It was from the Draft Board, telling me that my number was up for the army.
I was surprised. I had forgotten about the draft, or rather I had made calculations that put all this off until at least after Easter. However, I had thought out my position with regard to the war, and knew what I had to do in conscience. I made out my answers to the questionnaires with peace in my heart, and not much anticipation that it would make any difference to my case.
It was about eight years since we had all stood under the banner in the gymnasium at Columbia, and the Reds had shouted and stamped on the platform, and we had all loudly taken a pledge that we weren’t going to fight in any war whatever. Now America was moving into position to enter a war as the ally of countries that had been attacked by the Nazis: and the Nazis had, as their ally, Communist Russia.
Meanwhile in those eight years, I had developed a conscience. If I had objected to war before, it was more on the basis of emotion than anything else. And my unconditional objection had, therefore, been foolish in more ways than one. On the other hand, I was not making the mistake of switching from one emotional extreme to the other. This time, as far as I was able, I felt that I was called upon to make clear my own position as a moral duty.
To put it in terms less abstract and stuffy: God was asking me, by the light and grace that He had given me, to signify where I stood in relation to the actions of governments and armies and states in this world overcome with the throes of its own blind wickedness. He was not asking me to judge all the nations of the world, or to elucidate all the moral and political motives behind their actions. He was not demanding that I pass some critical decision defining the innocence and guilt of all those concerned in the war. He was asking me to make a choice that amounted to an act of love for His Truth, His goodness, His charity, His Gospel, as an individual, as a member of His Mystical Body. He was asking me to do, to the best of my knowledge, what I thought Christ would do.
For a war to be just, it must be a war of defense. A war of aggression is not just. If America entered the war now, would it be a war of aggression? I suppose if you wanted to get subtle about it, you could work out some kind of an argument to that effect. But I personally could not see that it would be anything else than legitimate self-defense. How legitimate? To answer that, I would have had to be a moral theologian and a diplomat and a historian and a politician and probably also a mind-reader. And still I would not have had more than a probable answer. Since there was such strong probable evidence that we were really defending ourselves, that settled the question as far as I was concerned.
I had more of a doubt on the question of whether it was really necessary or not. Did we really have to go to war? A lot of people were asking themselves that question, and argument about it was rather hot among some of the Friars at St. Bonaventure’s. As far as I could see, it was a question that no private individual was capable of answering: and the situation was getting to be grave enough for it to be necessary to leave the government to make its own choice. The men in Washington presumably knew what was going on better than we did, and if, in a situation as obscure as this one was, and as perilous, they thought war was getting to be necessary—what could we do about it? If they called us to the army, I could not absolutely refuse to go.
The last and most crucial doubt about the war was the morality of the means used in the fight: the bombing of open cities, the wholesale slaughter of civilians.... To my mind, there was very little doubt about the immorality of the methods used in modern war. Self-defense is good, and a necessary war is licit: but methods that descend to wholesale barbarism and ruthless, indiscriminate slaughter of non-combatants practically without defense are hard to see as anything else but mortal sins. This was the hardest question of all to decide.
Fortunately the draft law was framed in such a way that I did not have to decide it. For there was a provision made for those who were willing to help the country without doing any killing. As I say, I couldn’t tell just how much those provisions would mean in actual practice, but they looked nice on paper, and the least I could do was take advantage of them.
And therefore I made out my papers with an application to be considered as a non-combatant objector: that is, one who would willingly enter the army, and serve in the medical corps, or as a stretcher bearer, or a hospital orderly or any other thing like that, so long as I did not have to drop bombs on open cities, or shoot at other men.
After all, Christ did say: “Whatsoever you have done to the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.” I know that it is not the mind of the Church that this be applied literally to war—or rather, that war is looked upon as a painful but necessary social surgical operation in which you kill your enemy not out of hatred but for the common good. That is all very fine in theory. But as far as I could see, since the government was apparently holding out an opportunity to those who wanted to serve in the army without killing other men, I could avoid the whole question and follow what seemed to me to be a much better course.
After all, I might be able to turn an evil situation into a source of much good. In the medical corps—if that was where they put me—I would not be spared any of the dangers that fell upon other men, and at the same time I would be able to help them, to perform works of mercy, and to overcome evil with good. I would be able to leaven the mass of human misery with the charity and mercy of Christ, and the bitter, ugly, filthy business of the war could be turned into the occasion for my own sanctification and for the good of other men.
If you set aside the practically insoluble question of cooperation that might be brought up, it seemed to me that this was what Christ Himself would have done, and what He wanted me to do.
I put down all my reasons, and quoted St. Thomas for the edification of the Draft Board and got the whole business notarized and sealed and put it in an envelope and dropped it in the wide-open mouth of the mailbox in the Olean post office.
And when it was done, I walked out into the snowy street, and an ineffable sense of peace settled in my heart.
When you struggle with a question for some time--like Merton does here with his role in World War II--it can be pretty torturous. But then, when you finally come to a decision, it feels as if a great weight has been lifted off you. As Merton writes, "an ineffable sense of peace settled in my heart" after he decides to become a non-combatant objector. He will serve in the military as a medic or stretcher carrier, doing what good he can for the war effort, without having to fire a gun or drop a bomb.
That ineffable peace is hard won. In my case, I've wrestled with various difficult decisions for months, even years. At the present moment, I'm trying to come to a final decision regarding a huge question that I've been dealing with, off and on, for close to 15 or 16 years. And now, it seems like I'm being forced into making a choice. Because, if I don't, I may be miserable. On the other hand, if I do, I may be miserable, as well. It's pretty much a lose-lose situation. Both options have the potential to create intense sadness in my life for quite some time.
Today, I have some peace of mind. Not ineffable peace, because I haven't really made up my mind about anything. But, I don't find myself obsessively thinking about my options all day long. I can focus on other things, which is better than I was doing two or three days ago. Time and distance have a way of providing not exactly clarity. Maybe objectivity. I can step back right now and look at myself and my life.
What do I see? I see a person who is thinking about the bag of Bugles in his kitchen cupboard. A person who saw his therapist this afternoon. Someone who loves his kids madly and would do anything for their happiness. And, I think, a person who doesn't want anyone to suffer or hurt because of his actions.
That last one is the most difficult. Because you don't always know what kind of butterfly effect you may cause by taking one course of action over another. Throughout my life, that thought has often paralyzed me. I'm sort of like Schrodinger's cat. I exist in all possibilities at once, and, by doing so, harm no one. However, I also help no one, either. Including myself.
At the moment, I'm engaging is something my therapist warns me against doing--thinking too far into the future. But, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you also know that I can't help myself. I try to envision all possible outcomes. But, really, I can't. That is an exercise in playing God. Never a good idea. If I look inside the box, I may discover the cat is alive. Or I may discover the cat is dead. If I don't look in the box, the cat is both alive AND dead at the same time. Both realities exist at once.
Until I make a decision, both realities still exist. Yet, eventually, I have to open the box and look inside. When I do that, something lives. Or something dies. I'm not sure I want to be responsible for either of those outcomes.
I know this whole post is probably frustrating for most of my disciples, because I am talking in the abstract and relying a little too much on philosophy. Who cares about Schrodinger's cat? Most people don't give a rat's ass whether that feline is cold and stiff or ready to claw its way out of that fucking box.
However, when Saint Marty's the cat, waiting for that box to be opened, it matters. A lot.
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