Thomas Merton described our societies and communities as a body of broken bones, failing to fit together, purposefully, meaningfully, practically, as they should in the wake of a resurrection that laid waste to sin and death. I think of my own odd angles, that only seem to fit and work, leaning in close with a conspiratorial whisper, or an admission of misspent love, affection, concern. It’s as if I only fit at a distance, or intensely close, personally. There seem to be two settings of sorts: one that is intimate, present and effortlessly available. The other is driven away, a sea of distraction and self obsession separating me from the people I love.
There are times that words fail me, or the rules of engagement escape me, so I flee, or fall away, seeming insensitive, or disinterested. I remember a dear brother of mine, sitting in silence amidst us, day after day. He’d smile, reach out warmly in embrace, or contact, and leave the rest left unsaid. I get it now, more than ever. Words fail us. They fail me, actually, and I know few people who can fail in a given moment as tragically as I can. The temptation to sit in silence, getting nothing wrong, in a spirit and presence of love and benevolence, is certainly alluring.
Then you have the question of truthful engagement. Another friend, wonderful in her exuberance, unpredictability and unparallelled empathy, doesn’t do small talk. An open policy, and I love it. She’ll only talk about the things that matter, in moments that matter, and each moment matters more and more now, of course, with a beautiful child in her arms. But her refusal to waste time, energy and emotional theatricality on the baseless and the banal is a wonderful quality, aptly matched by her vivacious charm and intellectual acumen.
My children, God bless them, like so many others, will hide, evade, slink around for a couple of hours at any given event before they feel safe and relaxed enough to start climbing on tables and tearing around the room in an impromptu reenactment of the battle of Yondu. They read the room, carefully, methodically, as I tend to. Picture us in the corner, two of them strapped to my legs, another two wrapped around my arms, my practiced Eastwood scowl scanning the crowd for any potential awkward conversations. If the threat is there, I’ll place another child on my head and assume the position of a park bench. Because in the moment, if there’s really nothing in the conversation that I can draw from, I feel like peeling my skin off.
Now, the caveat. There are few people on this earth with whom I cannot have a valuable conversation. It is simply the choice, in the moment. We can sit at awkward angles, painful, askew, or we can hit that click and I want to know. Your story. Your family. Your life and how you see it. Your faith. Your truth. I want to know about the dirt under your nails; the things that plague you when you wake; your reasons for breathing, for being. What you love and loathe, what sets your heart racing, your blood running cold. Let’s skip the conversation about the car, or the holiday, or the tv shows.
Let’s talk about a thirteenth century order living atop a mountain in the holy land. Let’s talk about the miracle of the Word made flesh, in a salvific grace that transcends all that came before it. Let’s talk about the ways in which you buckle, bend, test and train your arms for the toil and battle of daily life. Let’s talk about the tragedies of a culture unmoored from the truth of it’s origins, its anchor, its rock. Let’s talk about love, language, art, literature, so I can learn something, anything from the wondrous people I encounter that can teach me about something, anything.
I think about an old friend, pointing me to ‘Threnody for Hiroshima.’ I think about a student, pointing me to Ibsen. I think about a good man, pointing me to Tom Woods. I think about my dear wife, pointing me to Sheehan. I think about Anthony Esolen, pointing me to Beowulf, Agamemnon, Milton. I think about Merton, eleven years ago now, pointing me to St John of the Cross, who brought me to the Discalced Carmelites and changed my life, irrevocably. I think about art, faith, music and these works that set us in relation to something good, true and beautiful. Works that elevate the human condition, to redeem the memory, the intellect, the will, in a manner that raises us above our broken nature.
These works that draw us in close, to lean in, to whisper, to marvel and wonder. In those moments, I don’t feel askew and at odds, because I am elevated, redeemed, by a beauty that takes me beyond the fickle and finite distractions, ticks and traces of every inconsequential burden. I don’t feel askew and at odds, because rather than occupying a transitory self that is bound by the wonderful burdens and duties that give meaning and purpose, I can step aside, into a contemplative space that sees the wonder and dignity of the human person, made in the image and likeness of God. With His beauty, His grace, His wisdom living, breathing through a multitude of arts that care little for utilitarianism, for efficiency, for wealth, honour and banality.
I step aside, step out of the way, and feel alive, sitting beneath the warm glow of a lamp, with ‘my house being at rest,’ in the calm, the quiet, the peace of His presence, reflected in the work and process of creation that we’re blessed to participate in. No less today, no less tomorrow. Those who forget, or who never find this space, this peace, this beauty, this faith, need every pointer that He places in the world for them. So try to make something, that points to something else, beyond us, without measure.
Reset this body of broken bones, with word, with truth, with a beauty only you can bring into the world - any way that you can.