Thomas Merton— from Theology of Creativity


thomas merton

Excerpted from an essay which first  appeared in 1960 in  The American Benedictine Review. 

The creativity of the Christian person must be seen in relation to the creative vocation of the new Adam, mystical person of the “whole Christ.” The creative will of God has been at work in the cosmos since he said: “Let there be light.”  This creative fiat was not uttered merely at the dawn of time. All time and all history are a continued, uninterrupted creative act, a stupendous, ineffable mystery in which God has signified his will to associate man with himself in his work of creation. The will and power of the Almighty Father were not satisfied simply to make the world and turn it over to man to run it as best he could. The creative love of God was met, at first, by the destructive and self-centered recusal of man: an act of such incalculable consequences that it would have amounted to a destruction of God’s plan, if that were possible. But the creative work of God could not be frustrated by man’s sin. On the contrary, sin itself entered into the plan. If man was first called to share in the creative work of his heavenly Father, he now became involved in the “new creation,” the redemption of his own kind and the restoration of the cosmos, purified and transfigured, into the hands of the Father. God himself became man in order that in this way man could be most perfectly associated with him in this great work, the fullest manifestation of his eternal wisdom and mercy.

The Literary Essays of Thomas Merton,  New Directions

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We were criminals


Willard’s great Uncle Carl had died the night before
& that same night my own Aunt Pat
Who had raised me from nine years on, passed..
Willard’s great uncle Carl had raised
Willard’s Dad & his Uncle Buck,
Both of these men had dropped from black night sky
Into Normandy, as paratroopers to liberate France

Thirteen days later my father drove a tank
onto the Norman beach for same purpose

& they all made it back, after putting fear
In the hearts of Hitler’s supermen,
Willard senior to fall timber all his life
& Buck to run his cows every summer
In the High Cascades, my father drilled oil wells

We’d somehow met up that night &
With differently the same kind of memories
& grief in our hearts we drank beer,
With our pizza at a parlor, that had been a pasture
Back in high school

Cops came in later & thought
Our demeanor somehow unfit
& being new & not knowing us as locals decided
We were criminals,
This decision struck both of us
As remarkable & when
The cops followed us into the restroom
As we were departing
We had words with them..
& we were not kind
& left them bristling as we
Got into Willard’s old ’59 Chevy
With its sideways teardrop tail lights

I told Will, ‘ We’ve not seen the last of these pricks,’
We were 70s hippies then, & I hid our pot deep
Under the car seat when we left the parking lot

One mile out of town they pulled us over,
Spot-light on us & a bullhorn
Ordering us out of the car..
I could hear the tremolo of a wavering voice
Behind the blinding light & over the
Baseness of the bull horn &
Over the roof of the car,
I loudly told Will to move slowly..
As I knew they had guns on us..
& they did..

Twenty years later I’d been hunting ducks
With Willard’s brother Greg on Nygren’s Reservoir
& afterwards we went to the old homestead,
That his Uncle Carl had left
Only shortly before His death
& the old family farm had since sold to a cattle company,
& cattle men had not gotten around to razing the place
& no one had lived there in that time
Pots & pans still hung on a wall
Above the wood cook stove, & the old man’s long johns
Creased with 20 years of gravity hung in the bedroom
From the hook in the wall
& a dusky-footed wood rat had mounded
A large four-foot high stick nest
That covered all of Greg & Willard’s old Uncle Carl’s bed
Golden light diffused through the old house that fall afternoon
& the long empty bedroom, with a few pictures &
A calendar on the wall from 1965 &
I found this sight hauntingly beautiful

& yes, the cops were afraid of us that night
Thirty-six years ago..

No. 6 by Charles Bukowski | The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor


No. 6 by Charles Bukowski | The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor.