March 21: Temporal Prosperity, Young People, And a Little Child

A little rant from Thomas Merton . . .

When I think of the Catholic parents who sent their children to a school like that, I began to wonder what was wrong with their heads.  Down by the river, in a big clean white building, was a college run by the Marist Fathers.  I had never been inside it:  indeed, it was so clean that it frightened me.  But I knew a couple of boys who went to it.  They were sons of the little lady who ran the pastry shop opposite the church at St. Antonin and I remember them as exceptionally nice fellows, very pleasant and good.  It never occurred to anyone to despise them for being pious.  And how unlike the products of the Lycee they were!

When I reflect on all this, I am overwhelmed at the thought of the tremendous weight of moral responsibility that Catholic parents accumulate upon their shoulders by not sending their children to Catholic schools.  Those who are not of the Church have no understanding of this.  They cannot be expected to.  As far as they ca see, all this insistence on Catholic schools is only a moneymaking device by which the Church is trying to increase its domination over the minds of men, and its own temporal prosperity.  And of course most non-Catholics imagine that the Church is immensely rich, and that all Catholic institutions make money hand over fist, and that all the money is stored away somewhere to buy gold and silver dishes for the Pope and cigars for the College of Cardinals.

It is any wonder that there can be no peace in a world where everything possible is done to guarantee that the youth of every nation will grow up absolutely without moral and religious discipline, and without the shadow of an interior life, or of that spirituality and charity and faith which alone can safeguard the treaties and agreements made by governments?

And Catholics, thousands of Catholics everywhere, have the consummate audacity to weep and complain because God does not hear their prayers for peace, when they have neglected not only His will, but the ordinary dictates of natural reason and prudence, and let their children grow up according to the standards of a civilization of hyenas.  

The experience of living with the kind of people I found in the Lycee was something new to me, but in degree, rather than in kind.  There was the same animality and toughness and insensitivity and lack of conscience that existed to some extent in my own character, and which I had found more or less everywhere.

But these French children seemed to be so much tougher and more cynical and more precocious than anyone else I had ever seen.  How, then, could I fit them in with the idea of France which my father had, and which even I had then in an obscure and inchoate form?  I suppose the only answer if corruptio optimi pessima.  Since evil is the defect of good, the lack of a good that ought to be there, and nothing positive in itself, it follows that the greatest evil is found where the highest good has been corrupted.  And I suppose the most shocking thing about France is the corruption of French spirituality into flippancy and cynicism; of French intelligence into sophistry; of French dignity and refinement into petty vanity and theatrical self-display; of French charity into a disgusting fleshly concupiscence, and of French faith into sentimentality or puerile atheism.  There was all of this in the Lycee Ingres, at Montauban.

Merton goes a little off-the-rails in this passage.  He is passionate about this subject, obviously, this belief that, by neglecting the religious and spiritual teaching of the youth of the world, the adults of his time were raising a pack of hyenas.  Ravenous and cruel and hungry.  While I don't necessarily prescribe to the notion that lack of religious upbringing leads to lack of morality and ethics, I do see his point about adults being responsible for instilling in their young charges a strong notion of right from wrong, compassion, love for all humankind, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or identification, religious faith (or lack thereof), age, or social status.  In short, it's all about the Golden Rule:  treating others as you would want to be treated.

Unfortunately, in American society (and around the world right now), there seems to be an alarming lack of this Golden Rule value in adults.  Perhaps we are seeing the fruits of what Merton is talking about in the passage above --the youth of Merton's time have grown into the parents and grandparents and great grandparents of the current generation of adults.  So, we are dealing with racists and xenophobes and misogynists and homophobes and Islamophobes and bullies who are crawling out from under their rocks, into the sunlight, and beating their chests from the pulpits and podiums of the world.

Right now, I would say that we have the exact inverse of what Merton describes.  The majority of young people get it.  They understand the need for compassion and love and understanding and activism.  They are the Greta Thunbergs, Emma Gonzalezes, Malala Yousafzais, David Hoggs, and Desmond Napoleses of the world.  These children are leading the way because we adults have fucked things up so much.  That fills my heart with hope.

I, myself, am willing to step aside and let these young people run the show.  They will certainly do a better job than we have over the last 50 years.  They can't do much worse.  I've spent nearly three decades of my life teaching them about the power of kindness, among other things.  (They still don't understand what a comma splice is, but that's the subject of another blog post.)  When I see old, middle-aged men and women trying to minimize the concerns of young people, it fills me with shame for my generation.

Now, I'm not saying everyone around my age or older are Donald Trumps.  Absolutely not.  In my life, I have surrounded myself with friends and acquaintances who are as just concerned as I am about feeding and clothing the poor, passing sensible gun legislation, getting health care for everybody, protecting the most vulnerable inhabitants of our planet, and saving said planet from destruction.  There are adults who get it.  They are the Thomas Mertons of the world.

In this time of Covid-19, when everyone seems to be worrying only about themselves, we need to remember the Golden Rule even more, especially if you claim to be a Christian (that's pretty much the core message of Jesus Christ).  Treat each other with love and kindness.  Check to make sure your neighbors are alright.  If they don't have toilet paper, give them some of yours.  If they're struggling with money, ease that burden if you can.  If they're hungry, share some of the ground beef from your stash in the freezer.  We are all in this together.

My children give me so much hope right now.  The other night, I went up to my daughter's bedroom and spoke with her about the virus, stressing the importance of self-monitoring and social distancing.  She listened to me and finally said, "I'm already doing all of those things.  I'm just worried about the people who don't have anybody to look out for them."

"And a little child shall lead them . . ."  Thomas Merton would have been proud.

Even though things seem dark right now (Saint Marty is sitting masked at hospital entrance, stopping visitors) the future is going to be bright.

May 24: Love Poems, Carol Ann Duffy, "Warming Her Pearls"

I find myself drawn to love poems this week for some reason.  Perhaps it's the heat of them.  Or the hope.  Or the passion.  Reading a good love poem makes me feel like the world is okay.  That the Donald Trumps aren't going to build their walls.  That more people will embrace compassion and understanding and charity.

As John, Paul, George, and Ringo said, "All you need is love."

Saint Marty believes in the gospel of the Beatles.

Warming Her Pearls

by:  Carol Ann Duffy

          for Judith Radstone

 

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress

bids me wear them, warm them, until evening

when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them

round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk

or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself

whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering

each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her

in my attic bed; picture her dancing

with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent

beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,

watch the soft blush seep through her skin

like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass

my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see

her every movement in my head.... Undressing,

taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching

for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does.... And I lie here awake,

knowing the pearls are cooling even now

in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night

I feel their absence and I burn.

March 4: A Siren, Pro-People, Good Samaritan

Billy turned his attention to his desk.  There was an open copy of The Review of Optometry there.  It was opened to an editorial, which Billy now read, his lips moving slightly.

What happens in 1968 will rule the fate of European optometrists for at least 50 years!  Billy read.  With this warning, Jean Thiriart, Secretary of the National Union of Belgium Opticians, is pressing for formation of a "European Optometry Society."  The alternatives, he says, will be the obtaining of professional status, or, by 1971, reduction to the role of spectacle-sellers.

Billy Pilgrim tried hard to care.

A siren went off, scared the hell out of him.  He was expecting World War Three at any time.  The siren was simply announcing high noon.  It was housed in a cupola atop a firehouse across the street from Billy's office.  

Billy closed his eyes.  When he opened them, he was back in World War Two again.  His head was on the wounded rabbi's shoulder.  A German was kicking his feet, telling him to wake up, that it was time to move on.

Billy Pilgrim, with his time-hopping, has a different perspective on the past, present, and future, because they all exist at once.  He doesn't necessarily fear for his life as a German P.O.W., because he knows that he will survive.  He doesn't necessarily fear the reduction of his professional status to that of a spectacle-seller, because he knows that there's a plane crash in his future, which he will survive, as well.  Like I said, it's all a matter of perspective.

Certainly, the choices we make now affect the future.  For some reason, the voters in the United States elected Donald Trump as President of the United States.  For good or bad, that choice will affect the country in which I live.  I wish that I could jump forward a few years, like Billy, to have a little insight as to what a Trump presidency means for the future.  In my mind, I see a totalitarian state with Donald Trump as Adolf Hitler and Steve Bannon as Joseph Goebbels.  Trump stormtroopers knocking on doors across the country to round up "illegals."

I wish that I had a Billy Pilgrim perspective.   Perhaps then I wouldn't panic every time I pick up a newspaper or watch a news broadcast.  Or maybe I would panic more,  I don't know.  The best I can do is listen, watch, and, when appropriate, take action.  I want to see a future where the Donald Trumps of the world are stripped of their power and money.  Where they are forced to pick crops in the field.  Where they are cleaning rooms at the local Holiday Inn.  Where they are working for minimum wage at McDonald's, and they have a family of four to support. 

I don't think that I'm being pro-Democrat or pro-Republican here.  I'm being pro-people.  I want to live in a place where everybody is treated with respect and kindness.  I don't want to live in a place where, in order to feel "safe," a wall has to be built to keep out "undesirables," when the undesirables seem to be in charge of the country already. 

As a life-long Christian, I was raised with stories about forgiveness and love.  I'm thinking of the parable of the Good Samaritan, in particular.  A devout Jewish man is stripped, robbed, beaten, and thrown in a ditch, left to die.  A rabbi and a Levite pass by him, ignoring his pain and distress.  Not wanting to get involved.  Then a Samaritan shows up.  A sworn enemy of the Jewish people.  But the Samaritan stops and helps.  Brings him to an inn.  Tends to his wounds.  Pays the innkeeper to care for him. 

I was taught to be a Samaritan.  To always care for people in need.  African American.  Mexican American.  Legal immigrant.  Illegal immigrant.  Refugee or citizen.  Christian or Jewish or Muslim.  Gay or straight.  Treat everyone the way you want to be treated.  It's a really simple rule.  Don't say things that hurt.  Don't do things that hurt.  And always help the less fortunate.

There are way too many Donald Trumps in the world, not enough Good Samaritans.

Today, Saint Marty is thankful for the Good Samaritans in life--sisters, brothers, friends, sisters-in-law who bless his life with kindness every day.  They make the future seem brighter.

November 2: Make America Great Again, Walt Whitman, "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night"

Walt Whitman worked as a nurse during the Civil War, caring for wounded and dying soldiers.  As I said last night, he saw the very best and very worst of humanity.  And he still believed in America, in the hope and ideals of democracy.

I'm not sure that Uncle Walt would recognize The United States right now, with its racism and homophobia and hatred.  Or maybe he would.  After all, I would bet the Civil War was full of Donald Trumps, fighting to "make America great again," whatever that means.

Saint Marty is tired of people trying to make America great again.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night

by:  Walt Whitman

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.