Why I Go to Christ in the Desert Monastery

Stacy L. Patty

So I did it again.  I left wife and job, packed basics and books, and headed up to the monastery for about two weeks.  When people learn that I am going, they always wonder why.  And for two weeks?  Here’s why:

The Location.  Christ in the Desert Monastery is described as “the most remote monastery in the Western Hemisphere.”  There are numerous monasteries in New Mexico, but none so far off the map, literally.  Drive an hour north of Santa Fe to Abiqui, then drive 14 more miles, past Ghost Ranch, to a turn-off, one-lane dirt and gravel road.  You have 13 more miles, so give yourself at least 45 minutes.  The road winds up the Chama River canyon, alternating between gentle curves and steep, hairpin turns among stunning mesa views with a kaleidoscope of colors.  The drive ends at the monastery, with guest rooms for 15 people.  The first thing one notices is the stark silence, only to be broken by a church bell marking the hours of prayer during the day.  And the deep blue sky.  And the midday clouds casting shadows on the cliffs all around.   And the afternoon shower, and the occasional rainbow.  The location makes it difficult to get to, but if you really want to have separation from the busyness and noise, there are likely few better places in the world.  If you just have to have a restaurant dinner, see that special ball game, or check up on the latest from Washington, you can certainly make the drive, but there’s that gnarly road and those lost three hours.  So settle in, and begin the adjustment to the life of the desert.

The Rhythm.  Before my first visit in 2011, a friend encouraged me to take the daily schedule seriously, and I am grateful to him.  These Benedictines follow the Opus Dei, the Divine Office, a series of seven “hours” of prayer appropriately placed throughout the day.  The prayers are largely chanting of the Psalms, punctuated with frequent doxologies, a simple hymn, and prayer.
On this visit, I did not arise for the first hour, Vigils, at 4:00 a.m.  I started at 5:00 with orange juice, two boiled eggs, and a slice of toast, followed by Lauds at 5:30.  By 6:15, I was back at my room, reading with the dawn, or walking.  At 8:45, Terce began, followed at 9:00 by work assignments (this year, I pulled weeds and oiled exterior doors).  Sext was at 1:00, followed by the main meal, with the monks serving a bounty of salad, beans, and white meat.  The meal began with hymns and prayers, and closed likewise.  The hour of None followed at 2:00, after which I enjoyed an afternoon of quiet, reading, writing, and walking.  At 5:45 I would go to Vespers, then share leftovers with the community at a light meal.  After more quiet time, Compline began at 7:30, followed by the Great Silence.  I usually sat at my door watching dusk and then dark arrive.  Over time, I find that my mind is more and more full of the day’s phrases – psalms, hymns, and prayers.

Often first-time guests come for only a couple of nights, which is sad.  It takes several days to adjust to the quiet, the stark beauty, and the day’s pattern.  But then comes something indescribable:  There is a kind of gentle inward peace and physical relaxation.  The rhythm of the hours, the walking to and from the chapel, the calls of the bell to prayer, the time to just “be,” invoke a certain kind of calm I rarely enjoy elsewhere.  I sense the presence of God, and it is as if nothing else matters – not the latest news, nor the work projects left unfinished, nor the bills still waiting to be paid, nor even rightful family concerns and responsibilities.  For now, in this sacred geography, I rest and renew.

The Limitations.  Until two years ago, the monastery did not have electricity or wi-fi.  Alas, both are available now, although the latter irregularly.  The rooms are quite simple, with concrete floors and an occasional spider web.  The climate can be cool at night and very hot in the afternoon; there are no air conditioners.   The food is basic, but given in generous supply.  Coffee is limited to instant mixes.  Adapting to these changes from normal life is at times a bit jarring but more so refreshing.  On my third day, I made the mistake of checking my email – a common computer in the breakfast room is provided for that purpose – only to find an alert about a supposedly very low bank account balance.  Immediately stress returned, until I found a way to actually verify the phish.  We typically live attached to our cell phones, going about our busyness among the noise and excess and exhaustion.  Experiencing limitations helps me to recover a sense of what matters and what does not.  It restores in me a desire to live more purposeful toward good living and being when I return from the monastery.

The Reading.  Rarely, and sadly, in the academic world do I focus on personal spiritual growth, and when not preparing for a lecture, I am drawn to contemporary issues in politics, science, and religion.  Somehow, the setting at the monastery seems not best suited for the mundane.  I brought enough theology and philosophy books to keep me going for a month, but I found myself drawn to Merton, Benedict, and the Desert Fathers instead.  How refreshing!

The Health.  At the monastery, one is not so quickly drawn to the kitchen for a late-night snack, or to the couch for an evening of numbing television.  You certainly can just sit and sleep, both of which are good and healthy.  But I found the desire to walk – at a good pace – each day.  I even went about five miles one morning.  And with only the ginger snaps made by Sharie to parcel out each day, I found the monastery fruit to actually taste good.  I only lost five pounds on this visit, but both mentally and physically I feel better.

The Encounters.  The monastery is supposed to be quiet.  One does not talk to a monk, nor do monks generally talk to each other.  All meals are eaten without conversation, though a reader does share from a designated book.  The guesthouse policy is silence, except for a common room.  But along the way, there are whispered hellos, after-meal exchanges, and short inquiries and answers.  And every time I have visited here, there have been unexpected but special meetings.  A young man appeared very unfriendly and sad until I realized he was there grieving the loss of his father in the previous week.  A woman knew Lubbock because she had played in an all-girl rock band at the air force base there in the early 1970s.  Once I ran into an old college friend there with his wife.  This time I paused to realize that a neighboring guest and I had once served on a spirituality and health committee in Lubbock.  And then there is Paul, a lanky, intelligent, octogenarian who works here each summer slathering shingle oil on exterior doors and exposed wood.  A Catholic theology teacher entering his 50^th year at a Philadelphia prep school, he invites me for coffee once or twice each year; I ask him about the rituals, and he updates me on the brothers (monasteries have their own drama).  This year, on a final day at None, Leander – the oldest monk -- shuffled over to me after prayers, leaned in, expressed hope that my visit had been a blessing, and added that he knew I had been a blessing to Paul.  These kind of moments of grace coming through chance encounters are serendipities that even this introvert treasures.

The Takeaway.  While I am learning to be simply grateful, I do come back home with a bit of guilt that I get this rare pleasure in the summers.  My hope is that I come back different – less stressed, more resolute toward kindness, renewed in spirit and body, less caring about the urgent, and more committed to developing and maintaining habits of attentiveness to the presence of God in all of life.  In time, I have learned, I do not succeed.  But with each visit and return, perhaps I become a little more consistent over the long haul.

So why not just become a monk?  Oh, goodness, no!  I like beef too much.  Seriously, I cannot imagine being distant from my wife and family, nor from the life of the university, nor the engagement with social justice in the public arena.  But I am grateful that there are monks in the desert, and I am thankful for the blessing they give.

 

               

 

On Christian Identity as a Trump Card Regarding Political Critique

On Christian Identity as a Trump Card Regarding Political Critique

Stacy Patty

Today a couple of friends questioned me on Facebook for two reasons.  I had posted a response letter from Senator John Cornyn regarding my very respectful email that he consider not voting to name Betsy Devos as Secretary of the Department of Education.  In my post I was a bit sarcastic, making the point that, as the senator implied, we should be happy to have someone who would do so much good for education in America.  To a reply, I posted a note that said essentially that I would be happy to see Sen. Cornyn after he was voted out of office.

One reply stated that we should give Sec. Devos a chance.  Another reply was aghast at my disrespect for such good Christians.  I have three replies, and considerations.

1.       Sarcasm is not a good Christian approach, if it means to cast personal disrespect on a person.  I did not mean that.  I meant that there are inconsistencies with the senator’s lofty endorsement of Sec. Devos and the history of her actions.  His letter seemed to me to be disingenuous and even condescending in tone.   But that is a “seem,” and Christians should be above sarcasm toward personal offense.  So I tried to edit that response of mine, and when I realized I could not do so, I pulled down the chain.  But the larger issue is that so many who quickly criticize fail to see their own inconsistencies.  I have failed at times to be equally and perfectly Christian when making a post.  Would that others see the same in their own lives.

2.       Those who are shocked that a Christian would challenge the political actions or statements of a Trump-designee or congressional leader who is a Christian so often seem to have been challengers of former president Obama, Sec. Clinton, and many others whose history of Christian faith and action is clear and rich.  Yes, they sinned.  No, they should not be so easily discredited or disrespected.  Please, realize that there is no monopoly of “good” Christians in any political party.

3.       To question one’s right or one’s choice to challenge a Christian civil servant or politician simply because she/he is a “good” Christian is a failure of logic by association.  Being a Christian is an important, even transformative matter.  But if I had heart trouble, I’d rather have an atheist heart surgeon with a medical degree than the best good Christian who has simply read some books on heart surgery, or to make a fairer analogy, a “good” Christian businessman who has donated billions to a private hospital.  To play the Christian Trump card with regard to political critique is irresponsible and dismissive of the complex realities of civic discourse and leadership in a world not so simply black and white.  Being a good Christian does not make one a good physician, diplomat, economist, soldier, governor, senator, or president.  Being a good Christian does not negate the need for careful and sustained preparation and practice within any specific field of professional action.

Nor does critiquing current government leaders mean that one is not “giving them a chance.”  It simply means that one is practicing a fundamental American right, the right to free speech with regard to commenting on  and questioning of one’s government leaders.

  

Avila, Spain: After One Month

9:45 p.m., Avila, Spain.  17 November 2016.

It is early evening here for many.  Dinner is over for most, and the night is yet still young.  Or so the standard narrative is.  There is no doubt about the day:  Expect to rise by 7:30 or 8:00, and put in a morning until 2:00 p.m.   Then there is lunch, and after, siesta.  Many businesses still close, and life slows down.  For a brief few hours, things start up again about 4:30, or 5:00.  But don’t expect to find a place to buy bottled water at 9:30 p.m.  I just tried.

Before coming to Spain, I am sorry to say I expected dry flat dirt and dusty towns.  Alas, I am a victim of human pre-conditioning.  My West Texas world and understanding of Latinos, with Mexico not too far south, gave me an impression – a wrong one for many West Texas and Mexican Latinos at that – of what I would expect.  I was so wrong.  Spain, in different but no doubt equally valuable ways, is so wonderful and interesting.

For the most part, Sharie and I have stayed in Avila, a relatively small town in southern Castille-Leon, historically an important region for a variety of reasons.  Even during the height of the Muslim Golden Age of tolerance and progressive civilization, this region was a kind of no-man’s land, with Christians coming from the north and Muslims coming from the south.  Avila had been a Roman outpost, and it is likely that indeed the apostle James sent Segundus, who is buried here, to Avila in the first century.  But until the late middle ages, Avila did not shine.  And then it did for both good and bad reasons.  It became a key north-central Christian outpost, and then important walled city, and progressively, the Jewish and Muslim populations were “inquisitioned out.”  The beauty of the walls and the churches hides the intolerance and politics of the late middle ages.  But this is also the city of Teresa, the founder of the reformed order of the Discalced Carmelite nuns, who sought to take spirituality and faith seriously, and of John of the Cross, from nearby, whose insights into mystical Christian union with God pass through a dark night of the soul.  And it is the region of Moses of Leon, who wrote the key Sefer Zohar, the central Jewish mystic Kabbalah texts.  And of Maria of Agreda, the Christian mystic who “bilocated” to West Texas to evangelize the Jumano Indians in the 16^th century.  The city and region are ripe with religious history and architecture.  Our daily walk to the university where we teach takes us through a part of the old medieval Jewish cemetery, restored in part after some of it was literally built over by the Christians in the 15^th century for the important Teresian monastery of the Incarnation.  Many key churches that remain show signs of prior “Roman” foundations, and likely Moorish/Muslim in between.

All history aside, this is a wonderful way to meet today’s Spain.  It is not modern, business busy Madrid, nor cutting edge international Barcelona.  Nor any number of nameless towns and cities in Spain.  But even here, in a town literally bathed with Teresian names and buildings, one finds some sense of beauty and peace. 

Our apartment sits in the south central area, with a marvelous simple 2d floor balcony looking southwest, with a relatively clear view, due to the demolition of an earlier building.  Below the balcony sit 6 bins – 2 for trash, 2 for plastics, 1 for paper, and 1 for glass.  It is really fun to watch people drop things off.  Often, there are bags left aside, or boxes placed on top.  Perhaps someone else can use these pants?  What about this food I did not like?  How about this broken briefcase?  So cool; within five minutes my briefcase was gone.

There are cars, indeed.  But people walk.  Really walk.  I think the one thing that has most surprised me, each day on the about 2-mile up and down the hills and steps trek to the university, is the number of canes I see.  Canes, as it walking canes, attached most often to people of age, as in old age.  It is cold here some days; no difference.  We walk.  It is 9:30 and dark in the evening.  What?  We walk.  We walk.  We just walk, and see others walking.  We walk.

But what if it is midday, or on the way in the morning or during siesta or in the early evening, and I am ready not to walk?  Well, we go to the bar.  But really, while there is beer, wine, and liquor there, we go for coffee.  We get a café con leche – milk, with a little dark stuff (well, my West Texas interpretation).  I have been utterly amazed at how few people in the ‘bar” are drinking anything except coffee.  Well, and eating tapas – usually breads, and variations of pork.

The Spanish here are not effusively friendly, but they are not rude.  One passes another.  Olah!  All is good.  Traffic moves on.  But wonderfully, no matter the time or the number of cars, a pedestrian approaches a crosswalk, and she is queen.  I have yet to find this custom not honored.

There is a kind of quiet here, a kind of lack of busy-ness, that I will miss when I leave soon.  There is a kind of generous hospitality, combined with caring respect for privacy, that is really rare.  Unemployment here is over 25%.  Life is not easy.  I see many men in the “bars” playing cards for long hours.  But there does seem to be a sense of community, of common shared decency together, that despite the realities of politics and life in the U.S., may be worth paying attention to.

I have been blessed to travel widely – to Western Europe, but also to India, Central America, and Turkey.  Rarely have I been as delightfully surprised as I have been with Spain. 

Perhaps it is Avila.  Come.  You will see.