Meditations, December 23-30, 1941
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3 Meditations, December 23-30, 1941 By Thomas Merton Introduced by Jonathan Montaldo As the editor of Merton's jounzalsfor 1941-1952, published in 1996 as Entering the Silence, T included what I believed to be the only extant remnant of a journal Merton had kept as a novice at Gethsemani. I had found this remnant in a folder of the Thomas Merton Collection at Columbia University. On a small card included with these few pages Merton had written to Sr. Therese Lentfoehr: "/ found these old copies ofpoems & some fragments ofa novitiate journal long since torn up & so I send them to you, assuming you might be interested." Howeve1; in October 1997, as I researched Merton '.s published and unpublished work in order to gather together all his prayers, my pupils dilated as I read in The Road to Joy Merton :s letter to Mark Van Doren dated April 14, 1942: "Also, l enclose a page or two of a journal I have been keeping: it is [sic] completely to do with religious experience - & so are the poems, & so is my life. naturally" (p. 14). Returning to Columbia Univer sity and researching the Mark Van Doren Collection, I found the text included below. It is a nine page typescript with the headings "JMJT I MEDITATIONS. Gethsemani." It was too late at that point to have this material included in the paperback edition of Entering the Silence. After I had alerted Patrick Hart, the general editor ofthe Merton Journals, and the Merton Legacy Trustees, it was decided that T would include these meditations in a forthcoming collection ofM erton '.sprayers. Then work on The Intimate Merton unexpectedly intervened. Now, three years after its discovery, and after I had decided to include only a small section ofthe material in the book ofM erton '.sprayers and drawings to be published in 2001, this Text of the earliest known monastic journal of Thomas Merton, written during the Christmas season fifty-nine years ago, two weeks after his entrance into Gethsemani, appears in prim for the first time. ft is included in this final twenty-fifth anniversary issue ofTh e Merton Seasonal with the permission ofthe Thomas Merton Legacy Trust. (Dec. 23rd 1941) In the middle of myself, so to speak, (because it is reall y in no place at all. but in the infinity of the spirit) there is an emptiness without any features at all, without stars or light or any w ind, without movement, without walls. It is an emptiness fu ll of silence sometimes cool and sometimes sweet and sometimes frightening. There, with the grace of God, I retire and walk, wondering: "Where is Jesus? He is here, somewhere: not in the other parts of my mind, but really here. But where?" For there is absolutely no way of finding Him, that I can control or regulate. I cannot will to find Hirn, and instantly know that He is there. On the contrary, the more conscious effort of will. on my part, to find Him, the less I find Him. Yet sometimes He is very near to me in this darkness, and not until afterwards do I realize how near He was. Why is this? Sometimes I cry out so much in the emptiness, that it is entirely filled with the sound of my own voice: (I mean all the vocal prayers and protestati ons of faith and love on my part, by which I am trying to force Him to come to me), and when I am making so much noise myself, how can I expect to hear anybody answer? And all the time, too, when I look for Hirn, am I not insisting 4 that He come lo me the way I expect Him to come, and be what I imagine He ought to be, and tell me what I imagine He ought to say. It is not the least of Hi s mercies lo me, that he should not only tolerate such animal selfishness in me. such brutal and coarse and infantile pride, but that He should do no more than refuse to appear when I call Him in this way. What if He should suddenly answer me? What if He took me at my own word? I would be instantly annihilated. In His infinite goodness He does not choose to let me see Him as He could not possibly be. (that is. the way I think He is) but remains hidden in His own perfection until I grow quiet - and then, it sometimes pleases Him lo give me. and from the most unexpected quarter of all, some news of Him, such news as I had never thought of or bargained for. That is why it is so important to be humble and obedient 0111side of mental prayer, obedient to exterior authority, to the Rule, to common usages governing all those whom God has brought into thi s house to seek Him by the communal life of Trappi sts. Because without this training in exterior obedience and humility, the wi ll that is not humble wi ll never humble itself interiorly before God either, nor obey Him within itself. Therefore. blind obedience in apparently trivial and silly things, in those si tuations which are the most removed of all from the Choir and from mental prayer, never theless has an awful lot to do with contemplation. fn giving ourselves up lo the Rule. we also give ourselves up to Him - and that is. after all, what I am always protesting I want, in my prayer. And we never possess Him by trying to catch Him: we only catch Him by letting ourselves be caught We only possess Him by being His prisoners, because He is too mighty and too infinite to let us catch Him in any but the most paradoxical sense. And when we think we have captured Him, He has captured us. As long as we remain intellectually preoccupied. wilfully preoccupied with trapping Jesus in our own favorite trap, he wi ll leave us to o urselves; he will leave us to gel tangled up in our own nets: the nets of our pride, or of our sentimentality, or of our own self-deceptions. Supposing I look down into the deep well of my own soul , wondering where God is, and de manding a parti cular answer, "here" or "here" or in this feeling, or in this idea, I am asking to be deceived, because I am asking God to limit Himself to some conception that I can grasp and see and hold and possess. But from the instant the notion of Him becomes thus limited, it is no longer Him: it may remotely say something of Him: but that cannot satisfy me. because I am li ving for only one thing, and that is God Himself. But if l fai l to get such an answer, and then become disappointed. I am also deceiving myself. Because God is there, and. in a way, I possess Him before I even ask to possess Him. For it is only because He is present in me that I am even capable of thinking, or daring, 10 ask Him where He is! If I cry out, in the darkness and quiet of this depth I speak of. "O Jesus, where are You?" it means nothing more certainly than that He is there already. I will see Him today a hundred or a thousand times, and will probably not have eyes to see Him. I shall have passed Hi m in the cloister. seen Him in chapter, worked beside Him in the woodshed. He shall have come in clouds of glory at the High Mass. He shall have given me bread with His own hand. He shall have died for me, and raised me up to His eternal Father. And if in all this I have been humble and quiet and gentle and obedient, and prayed for the world and for those who are now what I myself have been, then I shall see Him too, obscurely. And, in a way, I shall know I have seen Him. too. But if I go through all thi s demanding to see him. and protesting that I am humble, 0. so humble that I am the scum of the earth, and protesting a lot of other things besides, and weeping and wringing 5 my hands in Lhe hope that He will display some sort of magic lantern slide of Truth and Beauty in the depth of myself, in spite of the fact that I have been proud and selfish and disobedient, then I am asking to be deceived. It is not the least of Hi s mercies to men that He even bears with such prayers as these, and turns them into good. For if we had to pray all of us humbly and unselfishly and purely from the start, what one of us would ever be heard? Christmas, 1941. (Before Midnight Mass) Lord. it is nearly midnight. and I am waiting for You in the darkness, and the great silence. I am sorry for all my sins. Do not let me ask any more than to sit in the darkness and light no lights of my own and be crowded with no crowds of my own thoughts, to fill the emptiness of the night in which I await You. And in order to remain in the sweet darkness of pure Faith, let me become nothing to the pale, weak light of sense: and, as to the world, become totally obscure from it forever.