Truth and the Loss of Control: On Thomas Merton’s ‘Affair’

Truth and the Loss of Control

It seems at least once in our adult lives, we must lose control to encounter truth. I’ve been deep in Volume 6 of the journals of Thomas Merton, the famous Trappist of Gethsemani Abbey who died in 1968 at the age of 53. If you are familiar with Merton’s journals, you know this volume largely orbits a year-long love relationship with a woman in which, by Merton’s own admission, he basically loses his head. Narration of the prolonged infatuation is fascinating, but what’s most fascinating is how he processes the experience after it starts to unravel—when all contact with the woman is barred by his superiors, and contact slowly tapers off. The “affair” (his word; both parties were unmarried) happens only two years before his untimely death while in Thailand.

The Necessary Unraveling

While Merton ends up regretting certain actions in the relationship and his recklessness in hiding it, he acknowledges the integrity of the love and how the unveiling of his false self is welcomed. As he says, he did not know himself before meeting “M” (the name he gives the woman in his journals). Only in loss of control over himself did he glimpse the truth about himself, and truths about the monastic life, the institution to which he was committed, his dedication to being a hermit, his fame, and what God is and is not.

Reporting on his and M’s decision not to have another secret meeting that he says would have been a “fatal mistake” with potentially “ghastly” consequences (Journal, Vol. 6, p.93), he writes this revealing statement, getting at the heart of his discovery during this season:

“There is little to be said except that [during the affair] I have been too involved in what is alien and irrelevant to this [his experiences as a hermit]. And am not quite sure I know what is relevant. It is as if I had to start learning—I don’t say over again—I have the impression of never having learned and of never having begun.” (Journal, Vol.6, p.94)

The Illusion of Wholeness

By the time of Merton’s affair with M, he had achieved much success as a writer, intellectual, and spiritual teacher, and was earning both esteem and money for his community. Besides his own vocation and reputation, Merton’s actions in the affair put many things in jeopardy—including his community’s reputation and finances. Almost everyone around him desperately wanted to control the situation. To make him stop and to bring everything back in line with the supposed equilibrium that preceded the affair. Most desperately wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

But in a letter to one of his superiors that was copied in the journal, Merton writes: …

“It is the error that you and Rev. Father both share that before I was in some measure whole and consistent and now I am not, and the thing for me to do is to recover my previous wholeness. Anyone that thinks that I was whole and consistent before simply does not know me. My fall into inconsistency was nothing but the revelation of what I am. The fact that in community this could comfortably be hidden is to me the most valid argument why I should never under any circumstances get myself back into the comfort of pseudo-wholeness.” (Journal, Vol. 6, p.106)

The Instinct to Preserve

Human institutions—and in most instances humans—are self-preserving above all (the best exposition I’ve seen of this reality and its effects is in Walter Winks’ work). And perhaps this self-preservation instinct is evolutionarily sound for institutions. But not for individuals. Self-preservation’s effects on individual spiritual formation can be regressive. Many times we are so bent on maintaining or preserving our idealized sense of self that we avoid all experience that might shake things up and dislodge our masks, that might expose our true selves. As a result, often the most preservationist/ perfectionist people are the most at risk of never truly knowing themselves—so full of false assuredness of their holiness, importance, integrity, emotional and spiritual strength, and reliability.

Conditional Love and the Fear of Failure

Most tragically, when we are staunchly self-preservationist and perfectionist, we often believe we will only be loved—by others and by God—if we keep up this perfectionism and never stumble. We fear that God will abandon us if we break and let our humanness—our unholy, dishonest, weak, flaky sides—show. Our sense of divine love is highly conditional. We might slip up a little day to day, but we avoid all risk so that only minor missteps can occur.

The Gift of Falling Apart

Letting things fall apart, such as our reputations and assuredness of our supposed goodness, is usually so costly and difficult we would never choose it. It happens to us. For Thomas Merton, that happening was M. To know the full impact of the relationship on his life and thinking, I must finish his journals. But already, I celebrate that through his writings I can glimpse some of what it gave him.

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