Reflections on my Retreat, Feb 1997

I visited Christ in the Desert monastery in February, 1997. Overall, it truly was an inspirational retreat, and I hope to return at least once a year. Perhaps I'll meet you there sometime! I've written this as a series of vignettes. I believe this style best captures the atmosphere of the retreat -- a journey, a pilgrimage along the Way.

The first time I took a retreat was in Steamboat Springs in November, 1995. I reserved a timeshare condominium hoping to rent it out, but I found that there was no demand because it was too early in the season and there had been no significant snowfall. With the prospect of the condo sitting empty, I took the opportunity to use it myself. My experience there is a whole other story, but I mention it because it was such a positive experience that I resolved to take a personal retreat once a year.

I first learned about Christ in the Desert on the Web in conjunction with their modern Scriptorium, which, it turns out, is their way of marketing a web page design service! Then I read an article at the Pathfinder Web site from Life magazine. After seeing the magazine's pictures, I resolved that I would make it the destination of my next retreat.

The monastery is about fifty miles south of Chama, New Mexico, off Highway 84. I estimated it was between five and six hours from my house in the Pikes Peak region of Colorado. I resolved to get up at 3:00 a.m. so I could leave in plenty of time to arrive before prayer at noon. It turned out that my resolve was much stronger before I fell asleep than it was at three in the morning, and I finally got out of bed an hour later than I had planned. My last delay was topping off my tires with air, and I finally got out of town at 5:30. I knew I had used up all of my slack. My wife had given me some books on tape, and the time passed quickly in the cool, crisp pre-dawn. The sun rose as I entered Pueblo, Colorado, and the day promised to be perfect for travel.

The drive was beautiful. I drove through small, southwestern towns and over alpine mountain passes. As I headed south out of Chama the scenery changed to rugged New Mexico desert terrain. The red sandstone on the exposed sides of the mesas was a stark contrast to the surrounding low hills. I passed Echo Amphitheater and found the turnoff to Forest Service Road 151 just as the directions indicated.

The road is a unique journey in itself. It was 11:15 when I turned off the highway. I didn't know if driving the last thirteen miles in less than forty-five minutes was possible. I had been warned that the road was primitive. I had remained disciplined the entire trip to resist the temptation to speed. I felt that disobeying the posted limits would be a poor prelude to a spiritual retreat. But on this dirt road, I reasoned that my own judgement would be my only limit.

I was grateful that the day was sunny and the road was solid. The road looked to be treachous in the rain and melting snow. I had to straddle ruts sometimes a foot deep. I was going deep into the desert. The road followed the Chama River, and the "desert" looked like a setting out of a Western movie. The mesas dominated the rolling hills, which were populated with sage brush and pinion trees.

The monastery is nestled at the entrance to a canyon that narrows up the river. I parked my car and stepped out to hear the bell ringing for Sext (noon prayer). I had to run to the chapel and was out of breath when they started. It was all chanted, simple and beautiful. There were books for guests to participate. I had to learn some new customs, like bowing during the Gloria ("Glory to the Father, and the Son...").

I'm near the end of my first day at the monastery, writing by kerosene lamp after dinner and before Compline (the final prayer of the day). It's been just what I expected -- peaceful and slow, structured around the monks' schedule. On the way to noon prayer I met a man named Dick. He comes about four times a year. Later I met Francis and Larry. After noon prayer we all walked back to our rooms. Everyone is friendly, but there's an atmosphere of quiet, and we don't talk much to each other.

The food is incredibly good. For lunch we had homemade bread, cooked vegetables, salad, rice, and a dish that tastes like it has meat, but I was told not. We had more for dinner, and they put it in a soup as well. No rice or salad, though. For lunch the monks served the guests, but at dinner we got our own from the kitchen and washed our own dishes afterward. Dick asked the monks about the "meat." They said it was TVP (textured vegetable protein), a soy product. It may be trite to say, but it's true -- it tasted like chicken!

The Rule of St. Benedict forbids eating four-legged animals. The monks live on a simple diet, nearly all vegetarian with fish or poultry occasionally served.

The meal customs take some getting used to, too. Each guest has a cloth napkin in a numbered ring. We pick them up on our way into the dining room, and afterwards return them to the basket. At lunch a monk read biographies that seemed to be tied to the day's feast. At dinner I didn't see many monks. Maybe some passed since the main meal is at lunch. The porter quietly played chants from CDs.

It was getting downright hot in here when I began to write. I put a large log in the stove, and it was too much. After I got back from a walk, I was tired and cold. I started a fire and fell asleep. I missed None (afternoon prayer). When I woke up, it was cold again. I had to restart the fire. Then my goal became keeping the fire going through the night. I stoked it before leaving for Vespers (evening prayer), and when I got back there were enough embers to start kindling again. It reminds me of Boy Scouts. The last room I remember heated with a wood stove was sixth grade outdoor school. This is certainly the first time in my adult life I have started a stove fire. The stove's air system made it relatively easy to start. There's a vent on a screw that controls air flow. It seemed easier than I remember starting fires on camping trips and in my home fireplace.

The guest rooms are in the first building past the parking lot. Seven rooms are along two sides of a courtyard, which has a low wall on the other two sides. Two more guest rooms are on the second floor above the information center. I stayed in room 5. All seemed the same. My room ("cell") has a stone floor and flat tongue-in-groove ceiling with exposed beams. It's very simply furnished with an armoire, table, and chair. The bed is made on a thick pad on a raised adobe platform shaped into the corner of the room. The door is split so the top half can be opened for ventillation, and there is one small window on the opposite wall. A sign on the door asks guests to keep the lower half closed so that reptiles don't intrude. One guest told me he startled a rattlesnake on the path one summer. He said the fear between him and the snake seemed to be mutual.

The afternoon of the second day of my stay I hiked around the monastery. The monks want the guests to know that once a young guest died while climbing along the canyon walls behind the monastery. He is buried on the grounds. I could appreciate the danger as I walked along the steep terrain.

The monastery's own feast day is tied to the first Sunday in Lent because in the Catholic lectionary (a traditional ordering of Scripture readings during worship services throughout the year) the Gospel is always about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness -- "Christ in the desert." They served turkey and dessert today for the special occasion.

The third and last day of my visit I helped the construction crew by cleaning up a storage trailer, organizing building supplies. The monks have nearly completed a cloister for twenty-two brothers. My work was one task they had for guests who volunteered to work that day. They encourage guests to work to take part in the discipline of monastic life.

I left after the noon meal.

Where was God all this time? He was certainly present during the seven common prayers throughout the day. The Psalms were the common prayers of the Old Testament Jews, and time seemed to stand still during the monks' devotionals as we all chanted God's Word in the form of various Psalms. I could imagine monks a thousand years ago gathering as we all did to worship God throughout the course of the day. The monks retain the ancient custom of incense -- the smoke is traditionally thought to carry the prayers of the saints to God in Heaven. The Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation -- that the bread and wine become the substantial Body and Blood of Christ -- would assert that Jesus Himself was there during the Eucharist.

God was present in the natural surroundings of the monastery. I have never been to a more quiet and peaceful place. There were signs of wildlife all around. I imagine in the summer the desert teems with life. I saw only birds and tracks from elk and deer. At night the moon was waxing, so there was light to walk by. When the moon set in the early morning it was black except for the multitude of stars in the sky.

God was present in the simple accommodations. I imagined Thoreau at Walden Pond in his cabin with a fire burning for heat, the smell of kerosene lingering in the air as he wrote. (At least, I smelled kerosene as I wrote. For all I know, Thoreau wrote by the light of whale oil or lard-based candles.) There was something transcendent about leaving modern conveniences behind and relying on lamps to see and fire to stay warm.

God was present in my heart. I was concentrating on making myself a living sacrifice for Him during my retreat, and with no worldly distractions I felt very much at peace with my Lord.

As a Protestant, I felt left out during Eucharist. I was not welcome to share in the Lord's Supper because the Roman church is not in communion with other denominations. Both days I attended Eucharist, I felt keenly aware of the slow progress made between my own denomination's Archbishop Carey and Pope John Paul II. Recently, the Pope conceded that the two churches were indeed one body in Christ, but he added that the body was broken. Now more than ever, I pray for the unity of Christians around the world. The hospitality of the Benedictine monks reminded me of the common bond all Christians have with the historic Church. To my regret, it seems the principles of sola fide and sola scriptura continue to leave Christ's body "broken."

I decided to go home through Santa Fe. I hoped it would be quicker than the six and a half hour approach to the monastery. It seems God had another reason for sending me home along I-25. I met a man outside Las Vegas, New Mexico who was hitchhiking to Denver. His name is Ace Daniel. Whenever I am driving alone, I strive to act on my own faith by giving rides to people who are asking for one, so when I saw Ace's thumb out, I stopped. He was a good companion for the trip back. I dropped him in Colorado Springs.

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