[one must] choose life, and the things that favor life. This means respect for every living thing, but especially for every man, made in the image of God. Respect for man even in his blindness and in his confusion, even when he may do evil. For we must see that the meaning of man has been totally changed by the crucifixion: every man is Christ on the Cross, whether he realizes it or not. But we, if we are Christians, must learn to realize it. That is what it means to be a Christian: not simply one who believes certain reports about Christ, but one who lives in a conscious confrontation with Christ in himself and in other men. — Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, p 219

An extract from my annual holiday letter to family and friends…

While I type this letter, I am reminded that the Christmas season brings with it imagery of love's simplicity, of humility, and of peace on Earth. Hanging on the wall beside my computer is a small crucifix [L and S] bought for me while on their summer trip. I cannot articulate what and how much it means to me that my wife and daughter, when selecting souvenirs for me, would pick this particular item. But to put it simply, it means that apparently, in spite of all my weaknesses and shortcomings, people who know me understand that I believe in certain things, that my interior life is about certain things, and that I trust in certain things. As I sit here and stare at the crucifix, I can't avoid seeing significance in the fact that it was cut from an olive branch and handcrafted somewhere in the West Bank; that from a hot-bed of strife, contention, hatred and violence comes this ultimate image of the one who said love one another, pray for your enemies, forgive them, and blessed are the peacemakers. Think about that for a second.

I would like, in this holiday letter of 2008, to bring this image into the forefront of our thinking, with the rampant polarizations within our current culture forming a contrasting background. I would like to ask all of us, we who believe and trust in the message of the cross and of he who was hanged upon it, to deeply and profoundly internalize the call of that message. I would like to suggest that we ask ourselves what, at the end of our lives, will matter. Will it be that for a moment we once held a particular set of intellectual opinions in an ever-changing world, or will it be that we chose above all things the timeless call to love other people no matter what the cost? I would like to suggest that whether we are engaging friends, family, neighbors or enemies, our calling is obscenely and scandalously simple: to love deeply, to love profoundly, and above all to love humbly. I would like to suggest that if this crucifix means anything at all, that we must begin with it, anew, today. I would like to suggest that if we believe in peacemaking, we must allow peace to begin now, in this very moment. And I would like to suggest that for peace to begin, it must begin in your heart and mine. It is not our calling to change those who are different from us. It is, rather, our calling to be different, to be changed—to be transformed by God's love, poured out upon us through a little child born long ago, in a land we call the West Bank.

The Truth man needs is not a philosopher's abstraction, but God Himself. The paradox of contemplation is that God is never really known unless He is also loved. And we cannot love Him unless we do His will. This explains why modern man, who knows so much, is nevertheless ignorant. Because he is without love, modern man fails to see the only Truth that matters and on which all else depends. — The Ascent to Truth, prologue

We must know the truth, and we must love the truth we know, and we must act according to the measure of our love. — The Ascent to Truth, prologue

With the last two Merton Mondays, I left seven or eight months of New Seeds at a pretty good place. I now need to decide from which book I should start taking the next Merton Monday series. In the meantime, here are a few little thoughts which hang out in my brain, in the little shoebox labeled "Merton."

As I sit here working on the close of the semester, which means I am struggling as always to write a final paper, I'm thinking about the tension between taking my interest area seriously enough and taking myself too seriously. For example, I find this semester that I've started to cite my own work when writing papers. I've always found this uncomfortable when I read other people's work and they cite themselves. I'm not sure why I find it that way, but I do. It seems… ostentatious. But then again, isn't this what I'm supposed to be doing, if I take my interests seriously and believe in the idea of bringing about something new?

I think I'm taking myself too seriously just by nature of the fact that I'm worried about such things. I should just do what I do, because it's what I do. And so be it.

Merton didn't take himself too seriously. He took his subject matter extremely seriously, but not himself. I was thinking tonight about a discussion I had at the Abbey, with an old monk who knew Merton. The old monk made a remark about Merton once saying of himself that he belonged to the world. Then the old monk, in a statement that left me amazed, said something like this: "I've heard that his writings have become quite popular; that there are even little groups of people who read his books and sit and talk about them. I hear he's sort of famous. I guess, in the end, he was right. He does belong to the world."

I was left with the distinct impression that this old monk never had, and never would, learn of just how famous Merton became. And that impression left me… I don't know… emotionally and intellectually moved in a very positive, but very strange, way.

If I remember correctly, that old monk said he stood outside in the snow and waited for Thomas' casket to arrive at the Abbey one day in December of 1968. It was planted in the ground beside those of all the monks who had previously committed their lives to that place—simply, humbly, and away from the world to which they each belonged.

I understand this is part of being human, and therefore not really sad, but usually I wish I was beyond such things. I offer it as an example of the human creature. Submitted for your approval, in the twilight zone.

A recent discussion, entirely within my own skull, while browsing this web site:

Voice 1 (Creative, Passionate, Carnal): Oh. My...

Voice 2 (Reason): What? That?

Voice 3 (Spiritual, Higher Reasoning): Awwww man… things were so quiet here in the moment. Here he goes again…

Voice 1:     Yes. That. The one on the right. Oh my…

Voice 2:     You don't need that. You…

Voice 1:     I know. I don't care. Geez. That's. So. Cool.

Voice 2:     You do not need that. You don't even...

Voice 1:     I know. But that's, just, cool. Don't you think?

Voice 2:     Well, yes, but, do you have any idea how much that must cost?

Voice 1:     Does it matter?

Voice 2:     Hah! Uh-yeah… Let's see… Uhhh-yep. As I expected. This is four or five grand. Four or five thousand dollars…

Voice 3     Good Lord!! You shouldn't even be thinking about this. You should be way beyond…

Voice 1+2:     We know.

Voice 3:     It's humanly criminal for you to think about that. You don't even…

Voice 1+2:    WE KNOW!

Voice 2:     But yes, one. Three's right. And look… Seriously... Come on. You don't even play.

Voice 1:     I know. (That hurts, by the way) But that's… that's not the point. If I did play, I'd play that. This. Just like David Gilm…

Voice 3:     This is sad. Just, really, really sad.

Voice 2:     I know. Very.

Voice 3:    Is this humbling you, two? It should be. I mean, one's completely out of the question, but you...

Voice 2:    I know. Yes. Yes it is. Well, I hope it is…

Voice 1:    I am going to learn. I want to. I really do. And I am. Soon. I'm not getting any younger, you know.

Voice 2:     Aw geez. Blah, blah, blah. Why are you always in a hurry? Why do you have to do things now, instead of…

Voice 1:     I see. I desire. I feel. I imagine. I create. It's what I do. You know this.

Voice 2:     Yes. (sigh) Yes, yes I do. Fine. I can give and take. So do it, but do it later, after…

Voice 1:     Helloooo! There may not be a laterrrr…

Voice 3:     Well, that's true. There really is no later; there is only an eternal now, and…

Voice 2:     Stow it, three.
Helloooo yourself, two: if there isn't a later, do you really want to spend now on this trivial crap, instead of, oh, I don't know… Your family? Writing?

Voice 1:     Well I…

Voice 2:     Has it ever occurred to you that maybe later is the proper time for frivolity?

Voice 3:     (Excellent point, two. Excellent, excellent point.)

Voice 1:     Well I… But I…

Voice 2:     And for Pete's sake: did you even notice that this thing doesn't come in a lefty?

Voice 1:     Huh? It… what? Oh. (Damn!) Right. Of course it doesn't.

Voice 3:     I think I see an easy resolution to the moment coming…

Voice 2:     Um-hmmm… me too...

Voice 1:     That's… that's good, I guess. That's a good thing. Yes. That's… that solves a lot…

Voice 2+3:     Yes. Yes it does…

Voice 1:     Well, sure, and better, I mean, I can be sensible. I can give and take. We'll just get an American Standard lefty for a quarter of that, you know, replace the pick guard, change the electronics…

Voice 2:     Oh gawd… We're losing him…

Voice 3:    (Charging…) CLEAR!!

And now for the second part of last week's Merton Monday:

Yet we must not deal in too negative a fashion even with the "external self." This self is not by nature evil, and the fact that it is unsubstantial is not to be imputed to it as some kind of crime. It is afflicted with metaphysical poverty: but all that is poor deserves mercy. So too our outward self: as long as it does not isolate itself in a lie, it is blessed by the mercy and the love of Christ. Appearances are to be accepted for what they are. The accidents of a poor and transient existence have, nevertheless, an ineffable value. They can be transparent media in which we apprehend the presence of God in the world. It is possible to speak of the exterior self as a mask: to do so is not necessarily to reprove it. The mask that each man wears may well be a disguise not only for that man's inner self but for God, wondering as a pilgrim and exile in His own creation.— New Seeds, chapter 39

These words of Merton are very near the end of New Seeds, and although he goes on immediately to echo St. Benedict by making a statement about seeing Christ in every person, I chose to end the quote where I did. I find the last sentence in the above to be one of the most lovely statements I have ever read concerning Christian spirituality and doctrine, and quite ingenious for everything that is wrapped up, neat and tidy, within it. Seriously. It's brilliantly insightful. I am also very much taken by the simplest of statements: all that is poor deserves mercy. I am not far from being willing to claim, at the moment, that these two statements could, on their own, comprise a wholly sufficient personal Christian faith.