The fight went on in my mind.
By now, the problem had resolved itself into one practical issue: why don’t I
consult somebody about the whole question? Why don’t I write to the abbot of
Gethsemani, and tell him all about my case, and ask him his opinion?
More practical still, here at St. Bonaventure’s there was one priest whom I had
come to know well during this last year, a wise and good philosopher, Father
Philotheus. We had been going over some texts of St. Bonaventure and Duns
Scotus together, and I knew I could trust him with the most involved spiritual
problem. Why did I not ask him?
There was one absurd, crazy thing that held me up: it was a kind of a blind
impulse, confused, obscure, irrational. I can hardly identify it as it actually was,
because its true nature escaped me: it was so blind, so elemental. But it
amounted to a vague subconscious fear that I would once and for all be told that
I definitely had no vocation. It was the fear of an ultimate refusal. Perhaps what I
wanted was to maintain myself in an equivocal, indefinite position in which I
would be free to dream about entering the monastery, without having the actual
responsibility of doing so, and of embracing the real hardships of Cistercian life.
If I asked advice, and was told I had no vocation, then the dream would be over:
and if I was told I had a vocation, then I would have to walk right in to the
reality.
And all this was complicated by that other dream: that of the Carthusians. If
there had been a Carthusian monastery in America, things would have been
much simpler. But there is still no such place in the whole hemisphere. And there
was no chance of crossing the Atlantic. France was full of Germans and the
Charterhouse in Sussex had been bombed flat to the ground. And so I walked
under the trees, full of indecision, praying for light.
In the midst of this conflict, I suddenly got a notion which shows that I was
not very far advanced in the spiritual life. I thought of praying God to let me
know what I was going to do, or what I should do, or what the solution would
be, by showing it to me in the Scriptures. It was the old business of opening the
book and putting your finger down blindly on the page and taking the words thus
designated as an answer to your question. Sometimes the saints have done this,
and much more often a lot of superstitious old women have done it. I am not a
saint, and I do not doubt that there may have been an element of superstition in
my action. But anyway, I made my prayer, and opened the book, and put my
finger down definitely on the page and said to myself “Whatever it is, this is it.”
I think everyone struggles with unanswerable questions. In this passage, Merton wrestles with his call to monasticism. For me, this last month, I've been dealing with grief and all of its accompanying sadness and anger and confusion. The pain of loss is one of those imponderables. No answers. Just lots of questions.
This afternoon, I attended the funeral of one of the most decent men I have ever known in my life. He died unexpectedly four days before Thanksgiving. I've known him for over 15 years (closer to 20). A devout Christian, devoted son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, uncle, and friend. There's not many times I can say this about a person--I never heard anyone say anything bad about this man.
And now he's gone at the age of 65, and I don't understand it.
Many times this past year (and even more this past month), I've had this thought: God seems pretty greedy for angels right now. So many good people that I know have died in 2021. Decent, honest, loving people. Some had long, meaningful lives (my mother). Others had short, meaningful lives (the man we said goodbye to today). I thought 2020 was a pretty terrible year. Lots of senseless loss and suffering. Its sequel has been worse in many ways.
Trying to make sense of a life ended too soon is a pretty fruitless endeavor. It's sort of like trying to understand racism or homophobia or Trump supporters. Rationally, you can identify the root causes of all of these problems (poverty and white supremacy and fear and plain stupidity). However, that doesn't help a young black man who's pulled over by police because of the color of his skin. Or a gay middle schooler who's the target of cyberbullying. And it certainly doesn't help a family grieving the sudden loss of a loved one.
We can get stuck on the question "why," as in "Why did [insert name here] have to die?" or "Why does [insert name here] have to suffer?" It's one of the most basic questions humans ask, along with "how." The sciences answer the "how" questions. Religions attempt to answer the "why" questions. Science can explain how photosynthesis works. Religion, however, approaches plants a little differently, according to the gospel of Luke:
Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?
God gives us lilies. We can pull them apart, put them under a microscope, examine and label their parts. Understand how they function. Or we can admire them, write psalms about them, be happy they exist. Have faith that they will return every spring, dressed in glory and beauty.
I don't believe in coincidence. The universe is not ruled by chaos. There are reasons for everything, even if we, as humans, can't comprehend them. That's what faith is all about. Trusting. Believing. Even in the face of great loss and grief.
I celebrate the man whom we laid to rest this afternoon. His life was full of love and purpose. That doesn't make his absence any easier for his family and friends. But faith tells us that God cares wonderfully for all his flowers--the ones still blooming today and the ones gone to seed, waiting for the return of the sun in due season.
Saint Marty finds solace in that. Comfort. Meaning.
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