Merton relates the tale of a little monk . . .
So this was the atmosphere into which the letter from Chicago dropped like a heavy stone. The abbot was pleased by the letter. He did not know what the Chicago World’s Fair was. He did not understand that all these things were simply schemes for accumulating money. The “World Congress of Religions” appeared to him as something more than the fatuous scheme of a few restless, though probably sincere, minds. He seemed to see in it the first step towards the realization of the hopes of their beloved messiah, Jagad-Bondhu: world peace, universal brotherhood. Perhaps, now, all religions would unite into one great universal religion, and all men would begin to praise God as brothers, instead of tearing each other to pieces.
At any rate, the abbot selected one of his monks and told him that he was to go to Chicago, to the World Congress of Religions.
This was a tremendous assignment. It was something far more terrible than an order given, for instance, to a newly ordained Capuchin to proceed to a mission in India. That would merely be a matter of a trained missionary going off to occupy a place that had been prepared for him. But here was a little man who had been born at the edge of a jungle told to start out from a contemplative monastery and go not only into the world, but into the heart of a civilization the violence and materialism of which he could scarcely evaluate, and which raised goose-flesh on every square inch of his body. What is more, he was told to undertake this journey without money. Not that money was prohibited to him, but they simply did not have any. His abbot managed to raise enough to get him a ticket for a little more than half the distance. After that heaven would have to take care of him.
By the time I met this poor little monk who had come to America without money, he had been living in the country for about five years, and had acquired, of all things, the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Chicago. So that people referred to him as Doctor Bramachari, although I believe that Bramachari is simply a generic-Hindu term for monk—and one that might almost be translated: “Little-BrotherWithout-the-Degree-of-Doctor.”
How he got through all the red tape that stands between America and the penniless traveller is something that I never quite understood. But it seems that officials, after questioning him, being completely overwhelmed by his simplicity, would either do something dishonest in his favor, or else would give him a tip as to how to beat the various technicalities. Some of them even lent him fairly large sums of money. In any case he landed in America.
The only trouble was that he got to Chicago after the World Congress of Religions was all over.
By that time, one look at the Fair buildings, which were already being torn down, told him all he needed to know about the World Congress of Religions. But once he was there, he did not have much trouble. People would see him standing around in the middle of railway stations waiting for Providence to do something about his plight. They would be intrigued by his turban and white garments (which were partly concealed by a brown overcoat in winter). They observed that he was wearing a pair of sneakers, and perhaps that alone was enough to rouse their curiosity. He was frequently invited to give lectures to religious and social clubs, and to schools and colleges, and he more than once spoke from the pulpits of Protestant churches. In this way he managed to make a living for himself Besides, he was always being hospitably entertained by people that he met, and he financed the stages of his journey by artlessly leaving his purse lying open on the living room table, at night, before his departure.
The open mouth of the purse spoke eloquently to the hearts of his hosts, saying: “As you see, I am empty,” or, perhaps, “As you see, I am down to my last fifteen cents.” It was often enough filled up in the morning. He got around.
How did he run into Sy Freedgood? Well, Seymour’s wife was studying at Chicago, and she met Bramachari there, and then Seymour met Bramachari, and Bramachari came to Long Beach once or twice, and went out in Seymour’s sailboat, and wrote a poem which he gave to Seymour and Helen. He was very happy with Seymour, because he did not have to answer so many stupid questions and, after all, a lot of the people who befriended him were cranks and semi-maniacs and theosophists who thought they had some kind of a claim on him. They wearied him with their eccentricities, although he was a gentle and patient little man. But at Long Beach he was left in peace, although Seymour’s ancient grandmother was not easily convinced that he was not the hereditary enemy of the Jewish people. She moved around in the other room, lighting small religious lamps against the intruder.
This is a tale about leaps of faith. Bramachari is sent on a mission by the abbot of his monastery, without any clear path to accomplishing that mission. No money. No extra clothing. No shelter. He is simply given a command, and he follows it, with absolute trust that God will show him the way.
I struggle with trust all the time. I've faced some pretty difficult decisions and times in my life, when God seemed distant, silent, dark. A lunar eclipse. I'd like to say that I was like Bramachari at those times, boarding the ship to America without a cent in his pocket. I wasn't. Worry comes more naturally to me than blind faith.
Tonight, I found out that my sister, Rose, is doing much better. She is currently still an inpatient, but her cardiologist recommends treating with medication versus a pacemaker. Good news. Answered prayer.
It's a strange thing. You see, I'm kind of a control freak. I don't like surprises, and I structure my life so that I don't have to experience too many of them. I know what I'm going to have for breakfast tomorrow morning. Two eggs with a piece of toast. I know what I'm going to have for dinner. Thai food from one of my favorite restaurants. And I know how I'm going to spend my day at work. Publicity and promotion for some upcoming library programs, and the creation of a document about January's events. A blog post tomorrow night, and work on this year's Christmas essay.
Two days ago, I had similar plans, and then I received a text message about Rose being at the ER. Structure went out the window. Plans went out the window. I had no way of controlling my sister's fate, whether she got better or worse. So, I asked people to pray for her. I suppose, in a way, that was my attempt to control the situation. I don't like feeling powerless, either.
Here is the truth of the matter: I'm not in control of anything. Sure, I can make all the plans in the world, from now until next Christmas. However, those plans are human, based on human assumptions that I will remain healthy and gainfully employed. That my financial situation will remain the same. My marriage, stable. My children and loved ones, happy and healthy.
Of course, things happen. Pandemics. Heart attacks. Recessions. Depressions. Any and many kinds of catastrophes. No amount of planning can prepare for all the possibilities that the future may hold.
Truth be told, my sense of control is simply an illusion fabricated by me to allow me to sleep at night. I am more like Bramachari than I care to admit. A stranger in a strange land, dependent upon heaven to take care of me. That pretty much describes every single one of us. We aren't masters of our own destinies. Nope. We are corks bobbing in an ocean, subject to winds and waves and rains and sharks.
But, tonight, heaven has taken care of my sister. I received another text a little while ago: "Rosey is almost back to Rosey. She is talking, and she stood today with help . . ." I had nothing to do with that, other than offering up my meager request to the universe. Writer Anne Lamott says this: "You know, we're often ashamed of asking for so much help because it seems selfish or petty or narcissistic, but I think, if there's a God--and I believe there is--that God is there to help. That's what God's job is."
I am selfish sometimes. Petty and narcissistic, too. I try to control my life. Play God. Yet, when push comes to shove, I can only raise up my hands, surrender, and say, "Help." Or "help, help." Or, if I'm really desperate, "Helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp." I get that prayer from Anne Lamott, too.
Tonight, however, I'm going to say another prayer. It's just as powerful as "help," but it's not said as much, because the world is selfish and petty and narcissistic. I gave my sister up to God two days ago, and it appears that God has given her back. That's what God's job is.
For that miracle, Saint Marty says, "Thanks."
