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"Today the concept of truth is viewed with suspicion, because truth is identified with violence. Over history there have, unfortunately, been episodes when people sought to defend the truth with violence. But they are two contrasting realities. Truth cannot be imposed with means other than itself! Truth can only come with its own light. Yet, we need truth. ... Without truth we are blind in the world, we have no path to follow. The great gift of Christ was that He enabled us to see the face of God".Pope Benedict xvi, February 24th, 2012

The Church is ecumenical, catholic, God-human, ageless, and it is therefore a blasphemy—an unpardonable blasphemy against Christ and against the Holy Ghost—to turn the Church into a national institution, to narrow her down to petty, transient, time-bound aspirations and ways of doing things. Her purpose is beyond nationality, ecumenical, all-embracing: to unite all men in Christ, all without exception to nation or race or social strata. - St Justin Popovitch

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Tuesday, 24 April 2012

THOMAS MERTON AND DOROTHY DAY: A SPECIAL FRIENDSHIP


Lecture for the annual conference of Thomas Merton Society of Great Britain and Ireland meeting at Oakham, England in April 2012Thomas Merton and Dorothy Day: a Special Friendship
By Jim Forest


Jim Forest is an American Orthodox writer, friend and biographer of Thomas Merton, who worked with Dorothy Day in his youth.   He is a pacifist and member of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship.   He has his own blog, the link for which is given above, and writes for "In Communion" (click title) which belongs to the Orthodox Peace Fellowship.

What initially put Merton on the world map was the publication in 1948 of his autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. It was an account of growing up on both sides of the Atlantic (part of his adolescence right here at Oakham), what drew him to become a Catholic as a young adult, and finally what led him, in 1941, to become a Trappist monk at a monastery in rural Kentucky, Our Lady of Gethsemani. He was only 33 years old when the book appeared. To his publisher’s amazement, it became an instant best-seller.


For many people, it was truly a life-changing book. I have lost count of how many copies of the book have been printed in English and other languages in the past 64 years, but we’re talking about millions.Merton was and remains a controversial figure. Though he was a member of a monastic order well known for silence and for its distance from
worldly affairs, Merton was outspoken on various topics that many regard as very worldly affairs. Merton disagreed. He was a critic of a Christianity in which religious identity is submerged in national or racial identity and life tidily divided between religious and ordinary existence.

Merton got into hot water for his writings on war and peace as well his
participation in both inter-Christian and inter-religious dialogue. In the sixties, there was a Berlin Wall running between Catholics and Protestants.
To the alarm of a good many people on both sides of the divide, Merton climbed over that palisade. Even worse, he regarded friendly conversation with people of other religious traditions —Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam — as a useful and necessary, not to say Christian, activity. Some people were scandalized — some still are — that a Trappist monk would engage in dialog with the Dalai Lama. 





Both among critics and as well as admirers, the idea got around that, if only Merton had lived a slightly longer life, he would have waved goodbye to the Catholic Church and become a Buddhist. In fact Merton’s religious practice centered on Liturgy, the eucharist, the rosary, the Jesus Prayer, and daily offices of monastic prayer.


How did Dorothy Day and Merton intersect? And who is Dorothy Day?
What put Dorothy on the map was her effort to weave together radical
convictions about the social order with the Christian faith. This endeavor
occurred after she became a Catholic when she was thirty years old. Less
than six years after that event, in 1933, she founded and began editing a
newspaper which she christened The Catholic Worker. From that eightpage journal, the Catholic Worker movement quickly emerged, a movement known for its many houses of hospitality for people who are generally unappreciated and unwelcome.

If books by Merton have sold millions of copies, Catholic Worker communities have served millions of meals. But the Catholic Worker is also well known for its acts of protest against war and social injustice.
Many people associated with the Catholic Worker have served periods in jail for acts of civil disobedience or for refusing to take part in war.
Dorothy herself was jailed at least eight times. The first time was for taking part in a Suffragist demonstration in front of the White House in 1917
when she had just turned twenty. Her last arrest and confinement was with striking farm workers in California in 1973 when she was seventy-five. If Thomas Merton was at times controversial, Dorothy Day was controversial pretty much full-time.

For those who think of saints as, generally speaking, law-abiding folk, it may strike them as remarkable that the Catholic Church is currently considering a proposal from the Archdiocese of New York that Dorothy Day be officially recognized as a saint. More than ten years have passed since the late Cardinal John O’Connor launched the process. It has now reached the point of Dorothy being given the title “Servant of God Dorothy Day” by the Vatican. After that comes “Blessed Dorothy” and finally “Saint Dorothy.” It would not astonish me if there are people here today who will one day be present for her canonization.

I first met Dorothy in December 1960. I was in the U.S. Navy at the time,
stationed in Washington, D.C. After reading copies of The Catholic Worker
that I had found in my parish library, and then reading Dorothy’s  autobiography, The Long Loneliness, I decided to visit the community she had founded. Arriving in Manhattan for that first visit, I made my way to Saint Joseph’s House, the Catholic Worker’s house of hospitality on the Lower East Side. It’s now an area that has become fashionable, repackaged as the East Village. In those days it was the  Bowery, an area for the desperately poor — many of them penniless alcoholics — people so down -and-out that some of them were sleeping, even in winter, on the sidewalks or in tenement hallways.

A few days into that first encounter with the Catholic Worker, I visited the
community’s rural outpost on Staten Island, the Peter Maurin Farm. Crossing the New York Harbor by ferry, I made my way to an old farmhouse on a rural road near the island’s southern tip. In its large, faded dining room, I found half-a-dozen people, Dorothy among them, gathered around a pot of tea at one end of the dining room table. I gave Dorothy a bag of letters addressed to her that had been received in Manhattan. Within minutes, she was reading the letters aloud.

The only letter I still recall from that day’s reading was one from Thomas
Merton. I was amazed. Having read The Seven Storey Mountain, I knewTrappist monks wrote very few letters and that generally these were limited to family members. But here was Merton writing not only to a nonrelative but to  someone who was as much in the world as he was out of it.

On reflection, I should have been less surprised. I had read both their
autobiographies and they revealed a great deal of common ground. Both
had lived fairly bohemian lives before becoming Catholics. Like Dorothy,
Merton had wrestled with the issue of war, deciding that, if Christ had
given an example of a nonviolent life, he would attempt to do the same.
Both had thought long and hard about the sin of racism. Both were writers.
Both were unburdened  by any attraction to economic achievement. Merton, like any monk, had taken a vow of poverty — there were things he had use of but nothing he actually owned — while Dorothy was committed to what she called “voluntary poverty.” Though in different circumstances, they both lived very disciplined religious lives — Merton’s day beginning with Mass before dawn and ending not long after sunset with Compline, Dorothy’s including daily Mass, daily rosary, daily periods of prayer and intercession, and weekly confession. Both had a marked interest in “eastern” — or Orthodox — Christianity. Both had a degree of pastoral care for others. Though their vocations were different, it wasn’t only
Merton who was a contemplative.

They never actually met. Theirs was a friendship of letters. In their exchanges the topics included  peacemaking, observations about social change, problems in the Catholic Church, obedience and disobedience, the Cold War, community life, marriage, their hopes and frustrations, their
current reading, the meaning of love, and a wide range of issues for which
advice was sought.

The date their correspondence got underway isn’t certain. The oldest
surviving letter in their exchange, dated December 26, 1956, is from Dorothy to Merton. She has received a card or letter from him the news that he had offered Christmas Mass for her and the Catholic Worker. Dorothy wanted him to know that this “made me very happy indeed.” She goes on to say, “We have had a very beautiful Christmas here, and quite a sober and serious one too. There have been occasions in the past when the entire kitchen force got drunk, which made life complicated, but you must have been holding them up this year, and please continue to do so.”
The next letter that escaped the vicissitudes of time is also from Dorothy. Dated the 4th of June, 1959, it’s a reply to a letter from Merton. In it she apologizes for not having answered more quickly and also recalls with
gratitude the copies of The Seven Storey Mountain Merton had sent to her
way back in 1948. She went on to ask Merton’s prayers for a member of
the Catholic Worker staff, Charles Butterworth, who was about to be
sentenced for harboring a military deserter at the Catholic Worker and
then, by warning him that FBI agents had arrived with an arrest warrant,
playing a part in the young man’s escape. “We have done this before,”
Dorothy explained, “giving [deserters] the time to make up their own minds; one returned to the army and the other took his sentence.” She mentioned to Merton another member of staff, Bob Steed, formerly a  novice  at  Gethsemani, whom she worried might be arrested for having
torn up his draft registration card. In her letter Dorothy didn’t say a word
of explanation or justification for such actions — miles off the beaten track
for American Catholics. Clearly, in Merton’s case, she felt this wasn’t
needed.

In the same letter Dorothy thanked Merton for gifts he had sent to the
Catholic Worker. I wasn’t there when that particular box arrived from
Gethsemani, but two years later, when I became part of the Catholic
Worker staff after being discharged from the military as a conscientious
objector, such boxes were not rare. The contents varied — sometimes cast-off clothing monks had worn before taking vows, often his most recent book, and also monk-made cheese and even a fruitcake flavored
with Kentucky bourbon. (For many years the monks have helped support
themselves by making and selling very tempting food products. Merton
didn’t quite approve of the business aspect of Trappist life, but he had no
qualms about giving the results away.) I recall the gift card inside one such
box was signed, in Merton’s easily recognizable handwriting, “from Uncle
Louie and the Boys.” “Uncle Louie” was Merton — the name “Louis” was
given him when he became a Trappist monk. Dorothy always addressed
him in her letters to him as “Father Louis.” The “boys” would have been his
novices — Merton was Master of Novices at the time.

It’s remarkable that, in his overfull life, he occasionally found the time and
motivation to fill a box to be sent off to the Catholic Worker. This says as
much about his bond with Dorothy as any of his letters. He felt a deep
sense of connection with what the Catholic Worker was doing — its
hospitality work, its newspaper, its protest activities. His gifts
communicated to all of us working at the Catholic Worker a deep sense of
his of solidarity.

This sense of connection with houses of hospitality went back Merton’s days volunteering at Friendship House in Harlem, a house of hospitality whose existence was in large measure inspired by the Catholic Worker. It had been founded by a close friend of Dorothy’s, Catherine de Hueck Doherty, or “the Baroness” as she was often called due to her family’s aristocratic Russian roots. In reading The Seven Storey Mountain, one sees the important role the Baroness had played in Merton’s life. “She had a strong voice, strong convictions, and strong things to say,” Merton wrote, “and she said them in the simplest, most unvarnished, bluntest possible kind of talk, and with such uncompromising directness that it stunned.”

One could say the same about Dorothy Day. Few choices Merton ever made were so difficult as deciding between a Catholic Worker-like vocation at Friendship House and becoming a monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani. “The
way [the Baroness] said some things,” Merton wrote in his journal in August 1941, “left you ready to do some kind of action renounce the world, live in total poverty, but also doing very definite things: ministering to the poor in a certain definite way.”

In one of his letters to Dorothy, Merton remarked that the reason he volunteered at Friendship House rather than at the Catholic Worker housein lower Manhattan was because, “I was at Columbia, F[riendship] H[ouse]
was just down the hill and so on. [The] C[atholic] W[orker] stands for so much that has always been meaningful to me: I associate it with similar trends of thought, like that of the English Dominicans and Eric Gill, who also were very important to me. And [Jacques] Maritain…. [The] Catholic Worker is part of my life, Dorothy. I am sure the world is full of people who would say the same…. If there were no Catholic Worker and such forms of witness, I would never have joined the Catholic Church.” [TM to DD, December 29, 1965, italics added]

In the first surviving letter from Merton to Dorothy, dated July 9, 1959, he starts out by letting her know that another gift box is on its way — some “sweet-smelling” toothpaste. He then goes on to tell her that he is “deeply
touched” by her witness for peace, which had several times resulted in her arrest and imprisonment. He continues: “You are right going along the
lines of satyagraha [Gandhi’s term for nonviolent action]. I see no other
way, though of course the angles of the problem are not all clear. I am
certainly with you in taking some kind of stand and acting accordingly.
Nowadays it is no longer a question of who is right but who is at least not
criminal, if any of us can say that anymore.”

In the same letter Merton confided to Dorothy his attraction to a vocation
of greater solitude and deeper poverty, though he realizes that “the hopes
of gaining such permission, humanly speaking, are very low.” Deep
questions about where, as a monk, he ought to be was not a topic that
Merton touched on with many of his correspondents. It’s clear that he saw
in Dorothy someone capable of helping him discern God’s will.
There is not time in a single lecture to look letter by letter at the complex
exchange between them between 1956 and 1968, but I would like to read
some extracts and briefly comment on several of the major themes.
One of these themes was perseverance. “My constant prayer,” Dorothy
confided to Merton just before Christmas in 1959, “is for final
perseverance — to go on as I am trusting always the Lord Himself will take
me by the hair of the head like [the prophet] Habakkuk and set me where
he wants me.”

Anyone who has ever been part of any intentional community will recall
how stressful it can be even when there are no dark clouds, but when it is a
community that opens its doors day and night to people in urgent need,
people who would not often be on anyone’s guest list, and when it is a 9
community with very strong-willed, sometimes ideologically-driven
volunteers, it can at times be like life in a hurricane.
In one letter to Merton, Dorothy speaks in detail about the bitterness
animating some of the criticisms directed at her by co-workers. She senses
the motivation of some of those who come to help at the Catholic Worker
is less love than a “spirit of rebellion.” [DD to TM, October 10, 1960] Many
who knew her and were aware of the emotional and physical strains of
Catholic Worker life were astonished that Dorothy persevered from the
founding of the Catholic Worker in 1933 until her death in 1980 — fortyseven years as part of a community of hospitality.

In his response, Merton noted that “more and more one sees that
[perseverance] is the great thing,” but he also points out that perseverance
is much more than “hanging on to some course which we have set our
minds to, and refusing to let go.” It can sometimes mean “not hanging on
but letting go. That of course is terrible. But as you say so rightly, it is a
question of [God] hanging on to us, by the hair of the head, that is from on
top and beyond, where we cannot see or reach.”

This was a matter of acute importance to Merton personally, a monk with
itchy feet who repeatedly was attracted to greener monastic pastures.
Dorothy was all for Merton staying put. In a later letter, Dorothy remarks,
“I have a few friends who are always worrying about your leaving the
monastery but from the letters of yours that I read I am sure you will hold
fast. I myself pray for final perseverance most fervently having seen one
holy old priest suddenly elope with a parishioner. I feel that anything can
happen to anybody at any time.” [DD to TM, March 17, 1963]10
Both Merton and Dorothy remain remarkable models, not just for
persevering — barnacles can do that — but for continually putting down
deeper roots while rediscovering a sense of its being God’s will not to
uproot themselves.

In one letter Merton reflects on the levels of poverty that he sees the
Catholic Worker responding to. “O Dorothy,” he writes, “I think of you, and
the beat people, the ones with nothing, and the poor in virtue, the very
poor, the ones no one can respect. I am not worthy to say I love all of you.
Intercede for me, a stuffed shirt in a place of stuffed shirts…” [TM to DD,
February 4, 1960]
Merton goes further with this topic in his next letter to Dorothy. “I was in
Louisville at the Little Sisters of the Poor yesterday, and realized that it is
in these beautiful, beat, wrecked, almost helpless old people that Christ
lives and works most. And in the hurt people who are bitter and say they
have lost their faith. We (society at large) have lost our sense of values and
our vision. We despise everything that Christ loves, everything marked by
His compassion. We love fatness health bursting smiles the radiance of
satisfied bodies all properly fed and rested and sated and washed and
perfumed and sexually relieved. Everything else is a scandal and a horror
to us.” [TM to DD, August 17, 1960]

I can easily imagine Merton in the act of writing letters like this, some of
them with an “on the road” abandon. At Merton’s invitation, I made my
first visit to the abbey early in 1962, hitchhiking from the Catholic Worker
in Manhattan to Gethsemani. Sitting one day in the small office Merton had
next to the classroom where he gave lectures to the novices, I watched
while he banged out a response to a letter I had brought him from a friend
at the Catholic Worker. I have rarely if ever seen paper fly through a 11
typewriter at such speed. When you read Merton’s letters, you have to
keep in mind that he was used to making the best use possible of relatively
small islands in time. If you wanted deep silence at Gethsemani, a place to
avoid was the area of the monastery where Merton might be working on
his gray office typewriter (now on display at the Merton Center in
Louisville).

In the Merton-Day correspondence, a theme that was occasionally mentioned, more in passing than at length, was their mutual debt to Russian literature and Orthodox Christianity. They shared a high regard for Pasternak and Dostoevsky, with Dorothy mentioning that the novels of Dostoevsky are “spiritual reading for me.” [DD to TM, June 4, 1960] Merton responded by mentioning that Staretz Zosima, a saintly monk in The Brothers Karamazov, “always makes me weep.” [TM to DD, August 17, 1960]  So significant was Dostoevsky’s influence on Dorothy’s basic vision of Christianity that I sometimes wonder whether Dostoevsky ought not to be listed among the co-founders of the Catholic Worker.

The fact that they both were writers may have been what drew Merton to confess to Dorothy his skepticism about the value of his own writing.
“There has been some good and much bad.” He fears that his books too easily “become part of a general system of delusion,” a system that ultimately feels it is practically a religious duty to have and, if necessary, to use nuclear weapons. In the sentences that follow, Merton says that he finds himself “more and more drifting toward the derided and probably quite absurdist and defeatist position of a sort of Christian anarchist. This of course would be foolish, if I followed it to the end… But perhaps the most foolish would be to renounce all consideration of any alternative to the status quo, the giant machine.” [TM to DD, July 23, 1961]12

This letter is, so far as I am aware, one of only two places in his vast body of writings in which Merton refers to anarchism. With Dorothy, it was a connecting word — for her, it meant someone like herself whose obedience was not to rulers, states, or any secular or ideological system, but to Christ. The other place is in an essay on the Desert Fathers, the fourth-century ascetics who created the monastic vocation, living in places that people generally avoided. Here Merton sees the Desert Fathers as being “in a certain sense ‘anarchists’ They were men who did not believe in letting themselves be passively guided and ruled by a decadent state, and who believed that there was a way of getting along without slavish dependence on accepted, conventional values.” [introduction to The Wisdom of the Desert]

If Merton sometimes expressed to Dorothy his frustrations about his
writing, wondering what good his words did, Dorothy was a source of
deep gratitude for all that he published or privately circulated. In one
letter she mentioned the spontaneous comment of a struggling young
woman staying at the Catholic Worker who had borrowed The Thomas
Merton Reader, an anthology that Dorothy kept on her desk, and said in
Dorothy’s hearing, “Thank God for Thomas Merton.” In a 1965 letter to
Merton, Dorothy said much the same: “You will never know the people you
have reached, the good you have done. You certainly have used the graces
and the talents God has given you.” [DD to TM, June 24, 1965]

They weren’t always in agreement. In one letter Dorothy takes note of how
often Merton uses the word “beat” in his letters. For him it was a very
positive word, suggesting his sense of connection with “the beat
generation,” as it was called — people who had moved toward the edge of
society, felt alienated from the mainstream, people who didn’t want to
have “careers,” and regarded the pursuit of money as a dead-end street. 13
They were, Merton said, people “challenging the culture of death.”
Probably he was aware that Allen Ginsberg, leading bard of the beats, had done a reading his poem “Kaddish” at the Catholic Worker. In the sixties,
Merton had some correspondence with the beat novelist, Jack Kerouac.
Kerouac had coined the phrase “beat generation.” Catholic that he was, for
Kerouac the word “beat” was probably clipped out of the word “beatific,”
as in “beatific vision,” a very Catholic phrase.

But for Dorothy “beat” was not a connecting word. She felt Merton was
seeing the beats through too rosy a lens. In one letter she described how
unbeat several long-term members of the Catholic Worker staff were.
There had only been a few people Dorothy regarded as beat-types at the
Catholic Worker, she continued, and her blood pressure shot up when she
thought of them. She described them as “a fly-by-night crew who despised
and ignored the poor around us and scandalized them by their dress and
morals. I am afraid I am uncharitable about the intellectual who shoulders
his way in to eat before the men on the line who have done the hard work
of the world, and who moves in on the few men in one of the apartments
and tries to edge them out with their beer parties and women. They can
sleep on park benches as far as I am concerned. Unfortunately we are left
with the women who are pregnant for whom I beg your prayers. As far
as I am concerned, I must look on these things as a woman, and therefore
much concerned with the flesh and with what goes to sustain it. Sin is sin
[but] the sentimental make a mystique of it…”


For all their common ground, Dorothy could be testy even with Merton. [DD to TM, June 4, 1962]
The danger of nuclear war and the vast destruction of cities and life was a
major concern for Merton as it was for Dorothy. Much of his writing on
war and peace was published in The Catholic Worker, starting in October
1961 with his essay, “The Root of War is Fear,” an expanded version of a 14
chapter for New Seedsof Contemplation. This was not a case of worrying where no worrying was needed. A third world war fought with nuclear weapons seemed not just a possibility but a probability. Open-air nuclear weapon tests by the United States and the Soviet Union were frequent. Planning for nuclear war was built into military practice. In 1961, while I was working with a Navy unit at the U.S. Weather Bureau just outside Washington, one of our regular exercises was to plot fallout patterns over
a three-day period if a nuclear explosion were to occur over the nation’s
capital that day.

For Merton is was clear that Catholics would be no more hesitant that other Americans to play their part in initiating a nuclear war with the Soviet Union and regard themselves as doing God’s work. It was a grim topic — Christians crediting God with willing a storm of killing that would make every other war in history look like a water-pistol fight. There is a letter in which Dorothy consoles Merton with the reminder that Dame Julian of Norwich, the medieval mystic, had written that “the worst has already happened and been repaired. Nothing worse can ever befall us.”
[DD to TM, August 15, 1961]

Not all Trappists were pleased with Merton writing on such topics and
doing so in the pages of The Catholic Worker. Everything Merton wrote had
to pass his order’s censors, some of whom thought the war issue was
inappropriate. There is a document in the archive of the Merton Center in
Louisville that may give you a sense of those times. Here we have an
unnamed American Trappist monk writing to the order’s Abbot General in
Rome, Dom Gabriel Sortais, warning him of the scandal being caused by
Merton’s anti-war writings. Let me read a few extracts:
“There is one further matter, Reverend Father, which I hesitate to speak of but which I feel I should. We have, in the United States, a paper called ‘The Catholic Worker.’ This is a very radical paper, which some Americans believe is a tool of the Communists. Fr. Louis (under the name Thomas Merton) has been writing for it frequently…. The name ‘Thomas Merton’ is almost synonymous in America with ‘Trappist.’ Thus quite a number of people believe that he is expressing the Trappist outlook…”
Later in the letter, the writer reports that a military intelligence officer had
visited his monastery and had spoken with him “concerning Father Louis.”
He concludes his letter by acknowledging that many have benefitted from Merton’s “spiritual works,” but “it is difficult to understand how he can express himself so strongly on questions as to whether the United States should test nuclear weapons and also the wisdom of building fallout
shelters. It is hard to see how — as an enclosed religious — he has access to enough facts to pass a prudent judgment on such matters.” It is unlikely that this was the only such letter sent to the Abbot General.

During my first visit with Merton early in 1962, I recall a bizarre incident
that occurred when Merton and I were walking down a corridor that connected the guest house kitchen to the basement of the main monastery
building. Standing next to a garbage container was an older monk, Father
Raymond Flanagan, the probable author of the letter to the Abbot General. Father Raymond who was not so much reading as glaring at the latest issue of The Catholic Worker, which included an article of Merton on the urgency of taking steps to prevent nuclear war. Father Raymond looked up, saw us coming his way, balled the paper up in his fist, hurled it into the garbage container, turned his back and strode away without a word, leaving a trail of smoke. Merton’s response was laughter. He told me that Father Raymond had never had a high opinion of his writings and often denounced him at the community’s chapter meetings. “In the early days Father Raymond said I was too detached from the world,” Merton
said, “and now he thinks I’m not detached enough.” The tension between Merton and Father Raymond never abated. In March 1968, just nine
months before Merton’s death, Merton recorded in his journal a furious
verbal assault on himself by Father Raymond, who was enraged with
Merton’s opposition to the war in Vietnam. [The Other Side of the
Mountain, entry of March 7, 1968, p 62]

Dorothy was one of the people to whom Merton could complain about the
increasing problems he was having with censorship. The issue wasn’t that
he was being charged with writing anything at odds with Catholic doctrine,
but the feeling, in Merton’s words, that “a Trappist should not know about
these things, or should not write about them.” He found the situation
exhausting and demoralizing. “Obedience,” he wrote Dorothy, “is a most essential thing in any Christian and above all in a monk, but I sometimes wonder if, being in a situation where obedience would completely silence a person on some important moral issue a crucial issue like nuclear war if it were not God’s will to change my situation.

In the spring of 1962, Merton received an order from Dom Gabriel Sortais not to publish any more writings on war and peace. As a consequence, a book Merton has just finished writing, Peace in the Post-Christian Era, was published more than four decades after it was written. Merton found the gagging order not only outrageous but at odds with the prophetic dimension of the monastic vocation.If you ever want to read a letter hot enough to heat a castle in January, I recommend one he sent me at the end of April in 1962. Here’s a very brief
extract:
“[The Abbot General’s decision] reflects an astounding incomprehension of the seriousness of the present crisis in its religious aspect. It reflects an insensitivity to Christian and Ecclesiastical values, and to the real sense of the monastic vocation. The reason given is that this is not the right kind of work for a monk and that it ‘falsifies the monastic message.’ Imagine that: the thought that a monk might be deeply enough concerned with the issue of nuclear war to voice a protest against the arms race, is supposed to bring the monastic life into disrepute. Man, I would think that it might just possibly salvage a last shred of repute for an institution that many consider to be dead on its feet… That is really the most absurd aspect of the whole situation, that these people insist on digging their own grave and erecting over it the most monumental kind of tombstone.” [TM to Jim Forest, April 29, 1962, full text in The Hidden Ground of Love]

Yet Merton obeyed. Explaining his decision to do so in the same letter, he
stresses that “blowing off steam” is not what’s important. The real
question is what response was most likely to bring about a change of heart
among those — monks and others — who were threatened by Merton’s
thoughts regarding war. “Disobedience or a public denunciation,” he said,
would be seen by his fellow monks “as an excuse for dismissing a minority
viewpoint and be regarded by those outside [the church] as fresh proof
that the church had no love for private conscience.” Very soberly, he asked
the crucial question: “Whose mind would be changed?” In his particular
case, Merton concluded, public protest and disobedience “would backfire
and be fruitless. It would be taken as a witness against the peace
movement and would confirm these people in all the depth of their
prejudices and their self complacency.”

In fact Merton wasn’t quite silenced. He continued to write for The Catholic
Worker but under such transparent pseudonyms as Benedict Monk. On
one occasion he signed himself Alfred J. Frisbee. He remained a member of
the advisory board of the Catholic Peace Fellowship, often giving its staff
extremely helpful guidance. His abbot, Dom James Fox, decided that what
the Abbot General had banned was publication of mass market editions of
Merton’s peace writings. With his abbot’s collaboration, Merton was able
to bring out several mimeographed editions of Peace in the Post-Christian
Era and another called Cold War Letters plus a succession of essays. Via
Dorothy Day, the staff of the Catholic Peace Fellowship, plus a number of
other friends, these were widely distributed, including to various people in
the White House as well as to bishops and theologians taking part in the
Second Vatican Council. Ironically, in the end Merton’s peace writings
were given a much more attentive reading by many more people than
would have been the case with a commercial edition. It has often been
observed that nothing makes a reader so interested in a book as its being
banned.

Being a lay-edited and lay-published journal, Dorothy didn’t have to work
within the censorship labyrinth that Merton did, but her views about
obedience were the same as Merton’s. Again and again, in similar
circumstances, Dorothy quoted from the Gospel: “Unless a grain of wheat
falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much
fruit.” [John 12:24]
Not all enemies are across national borders. Sometimes your enemies are
people who, in principle, are your friends and neighbors, even your
brothers and sisters in religious life. Christ taught his followers to love
their enemies and in his own life demonstrated such love. Christians in the early Church gave a similar witness, even at the cost of their lives. But in
Christianity today, too often what is most striking is zealous hatred of
enemies, in fact not only enemies but anyone who is seen as too different
or too inconvenient. For Dorothy and Merton, the refusal to hate anyone
was basic Christianity. It’s not surprising to find one of Merton’s finest
meditations on enmity is in one of his longer letters to Dorothy. Listen to
this:
“Persons are not known by intellect alone, not by principles alone, but only
by love. It is when we love the other, the enemy, that we obtain from God
the key to an understanding of who he is, and who we are. It is only this
realization that can open to us the real nature of our duty, and of right
action. To shut out the person and to refuse to consider him as a person, as
another self, we resort to the ‘impersonal law’ and to abstract ‘nature.’ That is to say we block off the reality of the other, we cut the
intercommunication of our nature and his nature, and we consider only
our own nature with its rights, its claims, it demands. And we justify the
evil we do to our brother because he is no longer a brother, he is merely an
adversary, an accused. To restore communication, to see our oneness of
nature with him, and to respect his personal rights and his integrity, his
worthiness of love, we have to see ourselves as similarly accused along
with him and needing, with him, the ineffable gift of grace and mercy to
be saved. Then, instead of pushing him down, trying to climb out by using
his head as a stepping-stone for ourselves, we help ourselves to rise by
helping him to rise. For when we extend our hand to the enemy who is
sinking in the abyss, God reaches out to both of us, for it is He first of all
who extends our hand to the enemy. It is He who ‘saves himself’ in the
enemy, who makes use of us to recover the lost groat which is His image in
our enemy.” [TM to DD, December 20, 1961]

Here one sees in high relief what was at the root of Christian life for both Dorothy and Merton and shaped their friendship. We know God and we know each other only by love. What is most unique about Christianity is its special emphasis on the vocation to love — a love whose only real test is the love of opponents and even the love of enemies. This is not sentimental love, and certainly not romantic love, but love in the sense of recognizing our family ties with each and every human being and doing whatever is in
our power to protect each life, hoping that in the process both we and those whom we regard as enemies may experience a conversion of heart. No one has ever been threatened or bludgeoned or terrified or bribed into
conversion. Such a deep change of heart is something only love can obtain. Without love, we become inhabitants of hell long before we die. With love,
we already have a foretaste of heaven. One of Dorothy’s most often repeated quotations summarizes this basic truth. It is a sentence that comes from one of her favorite saints, Catherine of Siena. “All the way to heaven is heaven,” she said, “because Jesus said, ‘I am the way.’”
* * *
Jim Forest is the author of quite a number of books, including All is Grace: a
Biography of Dorothy Day and Living With Wisdom: A Biography of Thomas
Merton.
* * *
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