The Opening Idea in Thomas Merton's Opening the Bible

"What kind of book is this?" Such a question cannot be answered without taking into account the very peculiar claims that have been made for the Bible by Christian, Jewish and even Muslim believers: claims which, to many modern men, are outrageous. Claims that this book is unlike any other, and that man's very destiny depends on it.

We cannot understand anything about the Bible unless we face the fact that these claims are made seriously, and that the outrage taken at them is also fully serious. Neither can be discounted. It is of the very nature of the Bible to affront, perplex and astonish the human mind. Hence the reader who opens the Bible must be prepared for disorientation, confusion, incomprehension, perhaps outrage.

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Thus begins a little volume by Thomas Merton titled Opening the Bible.

What I like about Merton's opening setup is that for many Christians the Bible has ceased to be a challenge or a problem. We (and I include myself here) can easily fall into the trap of reading the Bible in a non-engaged way, superficially grazing its contents on auto-pilot.  

This weekend I was looking again at one of my journals from our year in Mexico. (My wife and I worked at an orphanage south of Monterrey beginning in late 1980.) I noticed that my approach to daily Bible study at that time included (1) identifying a passage, (2) recording the message it contained, (3) identifying the larger context, (4) questions it raises, and (5) application.

When I look at the questions I was asking myself, I saw honesty and real searching. For example, in an Old Testament passage from I Kings  we read that God raised up an adversary against Solomon from the royal line of Edom because Solomon's heart had turned away from God. 

Among the many questions raised then (4 November 1981) I find these of special interest: "Was Solomon being punished, or disciplined? If Solomon was so wise (he was called the wisest man on earth) then how did he fail so badly?

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For those unfamiliar with Merton (1915-1968), his book Seven Storey Mountain was a worldwide bestseller. I remember being introduced to the book by a social studies teacher who lived across the street from us in Bridgewater back in the 60s. Like Saint Augustine, Merton was a roustabout in his youth. When God got hold of him he joined the Abbey of Gethsemani, a Trappist monastery in Kentucky. 

In the 1990s, while doing research for my story The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston, I had a desire to visit Gethsemani in order to accurately portray the setting. The central character in my story had escaped to this place for murky reasons that can be deduced from the story's ambiguous end. While there I saw where Thomas Merton's remains are buried. The memory is still vivid. (What my children probably remember most is the stinky cheese I bought there, something akin to Lindbergher, which I ate in the car, much to their displeasure.)

Thomas Merton spent 27 years here in this remote community of ascetics. Daily Bible reading and reflection left him a changed man. He writes, "The Bible is without question one of the most unsatisfying books ever written--at least until the reader has come to terms with it in a very special way."

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Trivia: Thomas Merton died 10 December 1968, 54 years ago this weekend.

Here is a link again to my story The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston. Feedback welcome. Maybe one day I'll publish an anthology of my own unfinished stories. 

Slow Living and Quotes About Art (A Baker's Dozen)

It's kind of funny how the most disorganized people seem to be the ones who buy the most books about dealing with clutter and getting organized. I've bought a few myself, and even when we are told what to do it's not always so easy.

In the same way the "Slow Living" movement seems to be attracting increasing numbers of adherents reading increasing numbers of books on this theme. Why? Because we're all too conscious of the wearisomeness created by our increasingly fast-paced lives. 

So it is that I began listening to the audio book Slow Living this week. In the intro our author shared several stories about his own excessively manic life, and the "aha!" moment that awakened him to his need for a life change. 

All good so far. But then, he went too far. He stated that one of the bad things fast-living people do is adopt lifestyles of multi-tasking. He said we should listen to this audiobook not while driving our car, but while doing nothing else. Naturally I was driving my car when he said this, as I am eating breakfast while I write this. Multi-tasking is a way of life. Tonight I will balance the checkbook while watching a movie. And a minute after he said that I ejected the tape and began listening to Grover Gardner narrating The Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume Two. I'll slow down some day. I promise.

* * * *

A Dozen Quotes On Art

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” ― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island

 “I dream my painting and I paint my dream.” ― Vincent van Gogh

“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” ― Pablo Picasso

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.” ― C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

“Creativity takes courage. ” ― Henri Matisse

“One eye sees, the other feels.” ― Paul Klee

“Deliver me from writers who say the way they live doesn't matter. I'm not sure a bad person can write a good book. If art doesn't make us better, then what on earth is it for.” ― Alice Walker

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” ― Pablo Picasso

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” ― Banksy

“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work.” ― Émile Zola

“Artistic talent is a gift from God and whoever discovers it in himself has a certain obligation: to know that he cannot waste this talent, but must develop it.” ― Pope John Paul II

“In the haunted house of life, art is the only stair that doesn't creak.” ― Tom Robbins

“Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable.” ― George Bernard Shaw

Do you have a favorite quote about art? I'd like to hear it.

Local Art Seen: Second Friday Art Crawl, August 9

Many pieces by Chris Dunn caught my eye.

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” ― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island

I visited the grave of Thomas Merton once. Merton was a Trappist monk whose remains can be found at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Northern Kentucky, a little southeast of Louisville. I was doing research for a story about a writer that I titled "The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston" which can be found in my second volume of short stories, the eBook Newmanesque. I needed to see the place, to understand the life one of my characters had escaped to, to feel the earth, to taste the stinky cheese and bourbon fudge.

I could have learned a lot by means of photos and details from books and the Gethsemani website. But visiting, being there, walking the grounds, getting a sense of the atmosphere, the geography and the proximity to surrendered lives, this was far more vivid and enabled my story -- a total fiction -- to have a level of veracity that I can't imagine having generated otherwise. I consider it one of my best stories as a result.

A Navajo Boy by Rustan

All this to say that when I write about the local art scene here in Duluth, whether it's gallery hopping or visits to openings, or just bringing out of town friends to places where there is public art, I would suggest that there's a quantum difference between the first hand experience and what you see online in various places where Minnesota artists show their work.

Friday night was another beautiful evening for art. If you haven't been down in Bayfront Park at the Blues Fest, the weekend seemed ideal for nearly everything you could think of, from sailing to picking berries to grilling steaks or just sitting with friends on your patio drinking a beer. I attended art openings both Friday evening and Saturday afternoon, sharing some of it with a long-time writer friend and meeting many other friends along the way.

Chris Dunn

We started at Washington Gallery, the joint show called Hootenanny featuring work by Emma Rustan and Chris Dunn. I know well how invigorating it is when you're hosting an art opening, but this room was packed and absolutely charged with electricity because it was more than just a show. It was a celebration. The evening before, Rustan and Dunn were married and their many friends were on hand to use this occasion to celebrate. 

This was Rustan's third show here, but Dunn's first. He seemed to be enjoying the occasion as she certainly was. Dunn, who drives a delivery truck by day, graduated from UWS with a degree in Industrial Design. His work, featured in the North Wing of the gallery, shows a confident hand and keen eye.

Rustan is clearly living for art, enjoying a phase of creative production that one looks for in a painter/artist. Her paintings filled Gallery 1 (the South Wing) with color and boldness, a style that reminds me of stained-glass windows at times. She works in acrylics on canvases varying in size from 18"x 24" to 40"x 30". 

Down the street at the PRØVE Gallery the theme was Papyiri. Works in paper and on paper proved to be the cohesive element. Having failed to bring home a show summary I can only comment weakly that many details will be missing here. The first section of the gallery featured intricate layered images that I found fascinating. These works by Tara Austin dealt with perception, geometric reiteration, plant taxonomy and beauty. This was followed by some unusual conceptual expressions from the exploded imagination of Donna Miller. Further back in the gallery space there were a series of hermaphroditic pencil drawings by Venus de Mars, re-staging in my mind memories of scenes from Fellini's Satyricon. The back wall featured colorful works and paper designs and pedestals in the gallery featured art on boxes or created with books.

Even the restroom had an original work of note in it. Rob Adams created a touch-free optically-activated art dispenser in there. Apparently most people chose to wipe their hands on his art, rather than taking it home. His response? "That was part of the social experiment anyway!"

Last month I accidentally discovered the art on display at Minnesota Wine Exchange. I encourage you to check out this space and I have been encouraging Deb Fellman and Brent Johanson to keep it going. They have a wonderful space in a great location, next door down from Double Dutch on the corner of Lake and Superior. Paintings by Philip C. Jones and the late John Peyton are currently featured, but I have been told there will be rotation of artists here and if you're picking up a bit to eat at 7 West or Pizza Luce, it's a space worth checking out.

This city has a lot going for it. Were I able to achieve a successful clone of myself I'd take more of it in. The music options are phenomenal -- this weekend being Blues Fest -- but there's some strong theater talent here as well. Boredom is not an option.

Peyton was best known for his landscapes before his passing.

Author John Prin and myself at the Papyri show.

Be well. Embrace the arts and broaden your horizons.

Unfinished Stories (Part 9)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

"And the Poor Brothers of God, in their cells... tasted within them the secret glory, the hidden manna, the infinite nourishment and strength of the Presence of God. They tasted the sweet exultancy of the fear of God, which is the first intimate touch of the reality of God, known and experienced on earth, the beginning of Heaven." --Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain

The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (Part 9)

Dialogue Three

I woke Wednesday with the sense that Gary Spencer, or Father William as he was now called, was himself a fascinating story teller. I wondered what kinds of stories he had written, or if he was still writing. I wondered, too, what exactly in Garston's stories so pierced his conscience that he would denounce the world and all that is in it to retreat here to this place.

Did he have regrets? Had he found what he was looking for here?

I can understand Garston's suicide. He was desperate to free himself from his burden of living. But I do not understand this other path, of what provoked this man to take it. Not that I haven't at times felt an occasional longing for solitude and for release from the burdensome wheel of existence.

I stood in the outdoor corridor facing opened doors to the chapel. To my right is an iron gate that blocks entrance to the sacred garden where monks can enter but lay persons cannot. The words GOD ALONE have been engraved into the wall. The blockade created in me an uneasy feeling of Paradise Lost, but I didn't dwell on it.

At last Father William / Gary Spencer emerged to greet me. He looked tired, and I almost commented on it.

"Shall we go for a walk?" he asked and I submitted to his lead.

We crossed the road as we had before but instead of going up across the first hill we veered down along the road and then down to a less travelled forest path. He did not speak a word as he led me through a remote passage to a picturesque brook. Most of the time I only saw the back of his head so that I could only imagine his thoughts.

When he turned his appearance unsettled me. He looked distraught, even deranged, but I said nothing.

"Don't stare at me like that," he commanded. He seated himself on large fallen tree, a big log.

"I'm not staring at you. And I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

He began to sob.

I placed my hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. "It's all right," I said.

"No, you don't understand," he said, pushing my arm away.

I had no idea what was going on. I felt something akin to a hound dog waiting outside a rabbit hole wondering when, or if, something would emerge. There was no telling what would happen next.

"Gary!" I said, my hand clutching the folds of his robe and shaking him. He tore himself free and fell to his knees, gripping the furled bark and squeezing till his knuckles were white.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I kept repeating it. Something deep had suddenly come to the surface and it was sweeping over him with vengeance.

I don't know what I was apologizing for. Probably because I didn't know what to say or how to help. I felt responsible, too, in some way.

After a time and a half time he began to be at peace with himself, or whatever it was. He pulled himself from the ground, his eyes averted. We began walking again, only at a much slower pace. His mouth was moving and I believe he was praying. The syllables bubbled forth, incoherent, barely audible. Suddenly he turned and said, "We live in order to forget." His eyes glanced up and then he turned away to continue his walk.

I followed, making no reply.

At one point we paused, though at first I could not see what it was. Father William sensed the presence of something ahead of us and he waited till a grey fox crossed the path and rushed into the brush on the other side.

Finally, I could not restrain myself. This was my last day and it was slipping away from me. "Well, this is a fine way to use our last evening."

He slowed but did not turn. "I'm sorry if I've been wasting your time."

"Where are we going?" I asked."

Our conversation? Or our hike?"

"Whichever."

The crickets chirped and all about us peepers and pond frogs proclaimed their presence. Birds, too, sang and twittered, whistled and screeched. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?" he said.

It was.

As we stood there drinking it in I remembered the discussion about the frog that longed to reveal itself but remained hidden. From the reedy marsh on my right a large bullfrog gave sudden voice. I took a step forward to behold this extroverted amphibian. The noise was immense. Quietly stepping nearer, I fully expected his grandstanding to cease. Instead, like a blustering windbag, the little monster kept up a torrent of sound. To my surprise, I found myself directly above him. The frog, with swollen neck and wide eyes, made no attempt to conceal himself or terminate his performance. I'd never seen anything like it.

"He's not afraid of anything," I said.

"He's not like me and you," Brother William said.

"He's a maniac," I said.

"No," said he, "he's an exhibitionist. And he's practically dying to be seen."

I stood to my full height and stared at Brother William.

"Follow me," he commanded.

We hiked for near an hour across hills and valleys. With each step he seemed to gain strength. My mind raced ahead to where he was leading us.

CONTINUED