Merton gets drunk and falls in love with the idea of religious life . . .
I not only accepted all this, intellectually, but now I began to desire it.
And not only did I begin to desire it, but I began to do so efficaciously: I
began to want to take the necessary means to achieve this union, this peace.
I began to desire to dedicate my life to God, to His service. The notion was
still vague and obscure, and it was ludicrously impractical in the sense that I
was already dreaming of mystical union when I did not even keep the
simplest rudiments of the moral law. But nevertheless I was convinced of
the reality of the goal, and confident that it could be achieved: and whatever
element of presumption was in this confidence I am sure God excused, in
His mercy, because of my stupidity and helplessness, and because I was
really beginning to be ready to do whatever I thought He wanted me to do
to bring me to Him.
But, oh, how blind and weak and sick I was, although I thought I saw
where I was going, and half understood the way! How deluded we
sometimes are by the clear notions we get out of books. They make us think
that we really understand things of which we have no practical knowledge
at all. I remember how learnedly and enthusiastically I could talk for hours
about mysticism and the experimental knowledge of God, and all the while
I was stoking the fires of the argument with Scotch and soda.
That was the way it turned out that Labor Day, for instance. I went to
Philadelphia with Joe Roberts, who had a room in the same house as I, and
who had been through all the battles on the Fourth Floor of John Jay for the
past four years. He had graduated and was working on some trade magazine
about women’s hats. All one night we sat, with a friend of his, in a big dark
roadhouse outside of Philadelphia, arguing and arguing about mysticism,
and smoking more and more cigarettes and gradually getting drunk.
Eventually, filled with enthusiasm for the purity of heart which begets the
vision of God, I went on with them into the city, after the closing of the
bars, to a big speak-easy where we completed the work of getting plastered.
My internal contradictions were resolving themselves out, indeed, but
still only on the plane of theory, not of practice: not for lack of good-will,
but because I was still so completely chained and fettered by my sins and
my attachments.
I think that if there is one truth that people need to learn, in the world,
especially today, it is this: the intellect is only theoretically independent of
desire and appetite in ordinary, actual practice. It is constantly being blinded
and perverted by the ends and aims of passion, and the evidence it presents
to us with such a show of impartiality and objectivity is fraught with
interest and propaganda. We have become marvelous at self-delusion; all
the more so, because we have gone to such trouble to convince ourselves of
our own absolute infallibility. The desires of the flesh—and by that I mean
not only sinful desires, but even the ordinary, normal appetites for comfort
and ease and human respect, are fruitful sources of every kind of error and
mis-judgement, and because we have these yearnings in us, our intellects
(which, if they operated all alone in a vacuum, would indeed, register with
pure impartiality what they saw) present to us everything distorted and
accommodated to the norms of our desire.
And therefore, even when we are acting with the best of intentions, and
imagine that we are doing great good, we may be actually doing
tremendous material harm and contradicting all our good intentions. There
are ways that seem to men to be good, the end whereof is in the depths of
hell.
The only answer to the problem is grace, grace, docility to grace. I was
still in the precarious position of being my own guide and my own
interpreter of grace. It is a wonder I ever got to the harbor at all!
What Merton is talking about here is how, even with the best of intentions, our humanity gets in the way. We are imperfect creatures, and, therefore, we can fuck up the purest impulses. Merton has become convinced that he wants to dedicate his life to God. Yet, he goes out with friends, gets drunk on Scotch, and ends up in a speakeasy. (I would argue that there is no better place for a religious conversion than a bar. There's a reason why Christ hung out with tax collectors and lepers and fishermen.)
I do not have much time this afternoon for reflection. This may sound like s strange statement coming from a person in quarantine. However, I have quite a list to to-dos left in my day. I worked for the library this morning and afternoon. Then, I had a telehealth appointment that lasted an hour. This evening, I'm attending a Zoom open mic, and I still haven't picked out the poems and essay that I'm going to read. After that, I will labor away on my new Christmas essay, which needs to be done and recorded by Monday.
As I've said in recent posts, COVID has sort of stripped away a lot of the craziness of Christmas. I simply am not going to be able accomplish everything by December 25th due to the limitations of quarantine and isolation. Christmas cards will be going out after Christmas. My annual Christmas poem will be written before Christmas, but it won't be framed and delivered to friends and family until after the holiday. If I'm not able to fix my stove, I won't be preparing a turkey or ham dinner. Instead, it will be pancakes or eggs or Hamburger Helper--something that's skillet-friendly.
I won't be playing three or four church services next week. Won't be sitting in a pew on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve to celebrate the birth of Jesus with candles and the singing of "Silent Night." Christmas day will be a quiet affair, without the usual chaos of family gatherings and consumption of alcohol. (Well, I will drink, but I will not cause any chaos.)
Everything will be different.
Yet, there is grace in all of it. The usual frenzy leading up to Christmas will be nonexistent. Maybe I'll be able to make Christmas cookies. Maybe not. Maybe there will be white meat and gravy and potatoes and stuffing. Maybe not. Maybe there will be a pineapple-studded ham. Maybe not. I accept all of this uncertainty. I have been the recipient of so much grace this holiday season.
Here are some snapshots from my day:
- Many beautiful Christmas cards from many beautiful friends have arrived these last few days. Their handwritten messages have made me cry.
- My family has received love offerings from many beautiful people. They have made this season of light so much brighter.
- My beautiful daughter is feeling much better today. Almost normal. Her sense of smell and taste have not returned, but her fever, chills, body and headaches have abated.
- My beautiful friend Helen picked up a prescription for my son this morning and dropped it off at our house.
- Tonight, I will virtually gather with some beautiful friends to share stories and poems and laughter.
- The wonderful nurse from my son's school called today to check on our family and offer free breakfasts and lunches for my son.
- My beautiful sister Rose came home from the hospital a day ago, and she walking and playing cards and eating.
- My beautiful mother continues to do well in the nursing home, despite being COVID-positive.
I could embrace my humanness and focus on the fact that my stove is broken, that I'm stuck in isolation until January, that I've run out of Cosmic Brownies. All the things that are lacking in my life. If I did that, I would probably finish off the wine that's in my fridge right now.
Instead, I will focus on grace. My life is overflowing with it right now, which may sound strange coming from a person dealing with COVID on the home front. But, I am and continue to be blessed with the grace of friends and family. My kids are healing. Grace. My wife and I are healthy. Grace. Next week is Christmas. Grace. I am able to work from home. Grace.
Saint Marty's life is filled with miracles, despite that fact that he fucks up and a daily basis. For that, he gives thanks.
