Merton learns something about Catholicism from a Hindu monk . . .
There is no doubt in my mind that plenty of our missionaries are saints:
and that they are capable of becoming greater saints too. And that is all that
is needed. And, after all, St. Francis Xavier converted hundreds of
thousands of Hindus in the sixteenth century and established Christian
societies in Asia strong enough to survive for several centuries without any
material support from outside the Catholic world.
Bramachari was not telling me anything I did not know about the Church
of England, or about the other Protestant sects he had come in contact with.
But I was interested to hear his opinion of the Catholics. They, of course,
had not invited him to preach in their pulpits: but he had gone into a few
Catholic churches out of curiosity. He told me that these were the only ones
in which he really felt that people were praying.
It was only there that religion seemed to have achieved any degree of
vitality, among us, as far as he could see. It was only to Catholics that the
love of God seemed to be a matter of real concern, something that struck
deep in their natures, not merely pious speculation and sentiment.
However, when he described his visit to a big Benedictine monastery in
the Mid-West he began to grin again. He said they had showed him a lot of
workshops and machinery and printing presses and taken him over the
whole “plant” as if they were very wrapped up in all their buildings and
enterprises. He got the impression that they were more absorbed in printing
and writing and teaching than they were in praying.
Bramachari was not the kind of man to be impressed with such
statements as: “There’s a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of stained glass
in this church ... the organ has got six banks of keys and it contains drums,
bells, and a mechanical nightingale ... and the retable is a genuine bas-relief
by a real live Italian artist.”
The people he had the least respect for were all the borderline cases, the
strange, eccentric sects, the Christian Scientists, the Oxford Group and all
the rest of them. That was, in a sense, very comforting. Not that I was
worried about them: but it confirmed me in my respect for him.
He did not generally put his words in the form of advice: but the one
counsel he did give me is something that I will not easily forget: “There are
many beautiful mystical books written by the Christians. You should read
St. Augustine’s Confessions, and The Imitation of Christ."
Of course I had heard of both of them: but he was speaking as if he took
it for granted that most people in America had no idea that such books ever
existed. He seemed to feel as if he were in possession of a truth that would
come to most Americans as news—as if there was something in their own
cultural heritage that they had long since forgotten: and he could remind
them of it. He repeated what he had said, not without a certain earnestness:
“Yes, you must read those books.”
It was not often that he spoke with this kind of emphasis.
Now that I look back on those days, it seems to me very probable that
one of the reasons why God had brought him all the way from India, was
that he might say just that.
After all, it is rather ironical that I had turned, spontaneously to the east,
in reading about mysticism, as if there were little or nothing in the Christian
tradition. I remember that I ploughed through those heavy tomes of Father
Wieger’s with the feeling that all this represented the highest development
of religion on earth. The reason may have been that I came away from
Huxley’s Ends and Means with the prejudice that Christianity was a less
pure religion, because it was more “immersed in matter”—that is, because it
did not scorn to use a Sacramental liturgy that relied on the appeal of
created things to the senses in order to raise the souls of men to higher
things.
So now I was told that I ought to turn to the Christian tradition, to St.
Augustine—and told by a Hindu monk!
Still, perhaps if he had never given me that piece of advice, I would have
ended up in the Fathers of the Church and Scholasticism after all: because a
fortunate discovery in the course of my work on my MA thesis put me
fairly and definitely on that track at last.
That discovery was one book that untied all the knots in the problem
which I had set myself to solve by my thesis. It was Jacques Maritain’s Art
and Scholasticism.
Bramachari (and Merton) are not impressed by money or stained glass or pipe organs with five registers. Notre Dame's Rose Window wouldn't have caused either of them to pause. But an old woman, sitting in the back pew, head bent, praying, begging for forgiveness or asking for healing, she would have made them both fall to their knees.
Shortly after I woke today, I received a phone call from the hospital. This past Tuesday, my son slept in until almost noon. He never sleeps in. When he woke up, I took his temperature. It was 100.7°. He went back to bed for most of the day. The next day, he still had a temperature, but he was feeling a little better. By Thursday, he was feeling fine, but I had already made an appointment for him to have a COVID test. He had the test. Last night, my daughter came down from her bedroom and told me that she had been feeling achy and tired for two days. "You probably just have the same cold your brother had," I said to her. "You'll be better soon. He's alright now."
"Hello," the nurse on the phone said this morning, "can I speak to the guardian of--?" She said my son's name.
"I'm his father," I said. I sort of already knew what was coming. It had only been two days since my son's test. It was the weekend. It was only 9 a.m.
The nurse informed me that my son was COVID-positive. She asked if any other family member was symptomatic. I told her about my daughter. We worked out the time frame for quarantining and isolating for everyone. I thanked her for her help, and she said, "Best of luck." I hung up the phone.
I sat there for a few minutes, a little stunned. I know that the virus is spreading like Christmas fruitcakes, but I honestly didn't think it was going to cross our threshold. I've been so careful since the start of the pandemic. I was wrong.
My son is blaming himself, started crying when I told him that he was positive. He kept saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I did the best I could to comfort him and make him realize that it wasn't his fault.
"Buddy," I said, "it's okay. You're going to be okay. Everyone's going to be okay."
I spent the rest of the morning, into the afternoon, making phone calls and sending texts. I was supposed to play the pipe organ/keyboard at two different churches this weekend. I have four library events coming up this week. I have to finish writing my Christmas essay, address my Christmas cards, and finish my Christmas shopping. Not to mention planning library events for next month.
Now, I am supposed to isolate until January 2. That will mean the loss of quite a bit of money, at a time of year when things are already getting tight. The checks from the university will stop. Now, no church cleaning or organ playing.
Yet, all of that seemed stripped of its urgency and importance after that phone call. Sort of like the way I feel on Christmas Eve. After all of the wind up and preparations, the best part of the entire holiday isn't the presents or cookies or decorations or parties. It's that moment, sitting on the couch in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. After a candlelight church service that ends with the singing of "Silent Night." Everything just falls away, and what's left is a holy kind of silence.
What remains for me tonight, after all the urgency and worry of that early morning phone call, is this: wellbeing and love. The wellbeing of my kids and wife. The love of my friends and family. It's that simple. I don't need fractured stained glass light or a forty-voice choir backed up by pipe organ. Just health and love.
My sister-in-law (who's been like my little sister for over 30 years) brought us dinner and groceries. Close friends have sent me text messages and emails, expressing love, concern, and support. My boss at the library offered to drop off anything we needed. I have felt upheld these last twelve hours. Reminded of God's all-encompassing intimacy.
My son and daughter and wife are going to be alright. I'm going to be alright. We're going to be surrounded by answered prayer every minute of every day.
As Merton says in the above passage, that is the vitality and nature of true faith. It's not about pious speculation and sentiment. It boils down to surrender. Trust.
And for that miracle, Saint Marty gives thanks.
