Following the rioting in Baltimore City, my wife, Marian, and I headed to the airport. The National Guard now patrolled in the city. We had committed ourselves to a trip to the southwest to visit friends we had not seen in years. We also planned to spend a few days in the solitude of a Benedictine monastery in the Chama River Gorge in New Mexico. I had misgivings about leaving our home with the situation in the city still tense. My concerns eased by the time we drove south on the interstate from Albuquerque, partly because the first three people we met picked up right away on our concerns about the rioting. The man at the car rental desk, the high school student at the fast food counter and the young teller in the bank were very much aware of the situation and expressed their warmest concerns for the people of Baltimore.
Marian and I spent our first days with our old friends. What a lift they were for our spirits; they were for us that reassuring reminder that it is the solid bonds of our relationships that hold our whole human thing together. Then we were on our way, off the grid, to the Monastery of Christ in the Desert.
Life is different there for the thirty-five monks and the guests who spend time with them. It is a life of work and prayer, of offering hospitality. We joined the monks throughout the day as they chanted the psalms and celebrated mass. There were no TVs to fill gaps, and days slowed to a different pace. An hour, a day would not slip by like a second or a minute. It felt as if we were living the fullness of the day that had been given us. I did not fret about the tasks awaiting me if I am ever to publish my book. I just needed to be sitting in the chapel before the altar as first light colored the rim of the cliffs above the monastery and peacefully descended into the valley.
The monks hailed from a multitude of countries and cultures. A newly-wed couple interrupted their canoe trip down the river to attend mass. A family with three young children from France visited as did a woman from Italy. There were times of community when the rule of silence was waived allowing monks and visitors to talk. Meals were taken in silence; there was an awareness of each other and of the food we were eating that is often lost around the kitchen table at home with our chatter about the laundry that’s still in the dryer, the phone ringing and the evening news anchor vying for our attention amidst the barrage of commercials. Our days at the monastery were just what we needed. Within the silence of the desert a voice as gentle as the breeze could be heard. Be still, and know that I am God (from Psalm 46.)
