Monastery of Christ in the Desert

I left the Colorado desert and headed south into New Mexico.  As often happens when you cross state lines, the landscape changed dramatically.  Still dry and dusty, but out of the dust rose wonderful multicolored mesas, canyons and hills.  I was headed for Lake Abiquiu (A-bit-cue) and the Army Corps of Engineers campground.  Abiquiu has some history – it was the outpost for artist and cultural icon Georgia O’Keefe.  I’m no art historian, but one can imagine how the sunlight and colors of this place would attract an artist.  Her home in town is now a museum, but I did not have time to visit, with only 2 nights in the campground.  My goal was Mass at the Monastery of Christ in the Desert.

A summer Sunday some years ago, Mass at St. Vincent Ferrer in New York City had a visiting priest, as often happens in summer to give the regulars a break.  The priest was from the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, an outpost of contemplative prayer in the mountains of New Mexico.  His message was simple … their mission was to pray for the intentions of the people who petition their help.  He asked for our prayer requests and for a small donation.  At this point in our lives, we were struggling with a difficult personal problem.  After Mass, as the Priest greeted the parishioners, we gave him the small petition card and a donation.  Frankly, I didn’t think about it much as I left.

But every year, like clockwork, we would get a note from the monastery asking for a small donation ($10!).  Not a surprise, it is a Catholic operation after all.  What was a surprise was the small handwritten note mentioning our problem and that the monks of the monastery continue to pray for our intention. They never forgot.  These notes piqued my interest – what was going on at this place.  When I checked out the website, it was a place of startling beauty, and as I was planning this trip it seemed to be just the kind of destination I was looking for, off the beaten track.  I didn’t realize how far off it was.

The beauty of the place is no accident.  I found out a few weeks before leaving that some or all aspects of the building design were done by George Nakashima.  Mr. Nakashima is a renown American woodworker, based in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, who used traditional Japanese techniques to execute an exquisite modernist furniture style.  Although he has passed away, the work continues with his daughter Mira.  Mira and her husband Jonathan are parishioners of my parish at home.  What a connection.  And, they had just visited the monastery a few weeks before.  Remarkable.

When Sunday morning rolled around, I packed Rosie into the van and headed out for Mass.  The Monastery was only about 22 miles away, but GPS said it would take an hour.  Uh oh.  About 9 miles up the highway I turned left and was greeted with a rough gravel road, a sign indicating it was one way with “turnouts” and that it was 13 miles to the Monastery.  The road was in a gorge carved by the Chama River.  It was a bumpy, harrowing, beautiful drive.  In certain spots you were high above the river, with nothing to protect you from rolling right off. (Are guardrails illegal in the West?) I have to think the monks don’t get out much.  About two thirds of the way in, I came across a forest ranger, consulting with a driver whose car was in a ditch.  When I rolled down my window the driver asked if I had a compressor – his tire was completely flat.  He had a certain cheerful instability about him, a huge man wearing a hat about 3 sizes too small. The look on the ranger’s face was priceless.  I hopped out the van and gave him my portable compressor, telling him I would be at the monastery. 

When I reached the Monastery, the parking lot was a bit of a walk, so you could not see the buildings.  As I walked ahead, my first impression as I rounded a curve was buildings were much smaller than I expected, and how it just blended into the landscape.  (The pictures I took do not do it justice … go the website).   I made my way into the Chapel, a perfect example of beauty in simplicity.  Maybe 750 square feet, roughly hexagonal in shape.  The monks pews were on either side of the center altar, with an iconic altarpiece behind, and maybe 10 small pews for worshippers (I guess the road keeps our the riff raff).  When I came in the sun was behind the building, and the mountains rose up in the glass windows behind the altar that appear foggy or dirty in my picture.  I did not immediately take a picture as there were already some others in the pews.  It was sacred space.

After a few minutes, the monks filed in from behind the altarpiece.  Other than the entrance door, there are no doors visible.  Soon they began the midmorning prayer, or Terce, of the Divine Office.  I had the books, but apparently visibly disoriented.  One of the monks walked over to me, and, without speaking, directed me to the appropriate page and returned silently to his position. When the prayer concluded, the monks retired again to prepare for Mass.  As they processed out from behind the altarpiece, they were led by a monk with incense.  Soon the celebrant began incensing the entire space, the altar, the statues, the people, everything – filling the space with smoke that filtered the sunlight pouring in the windows.  Mystical.

The entire Mass, with the exception of the Homily (the “natural” state of man is love and foregiveness)  was chanted. The readings, the prayers, the Gloria, everything. The 6 or 7 other worshippers must have been regulars, they knew the book drill.  I did a lot of lip syncing.  Although it was the modern liturgy, you felt the step back in time to some long-forgotten ritual.  After Mass, light refreshments were offered and a gift shop.  The selection of books was dominated by the writings of Thomas Merton – there he is again.  As I was leaving, I felt as though I had been given a glimpse of perfection … in space, time and word.

I was at my furthest point west, and as I left the monastery it was actually my turn east towards home.  As I drove out the gravel road, my friend with the tire problem flagged me down.  Cheerful as ever, he told me the tire had popped the bead and the compressor did not help.  He had spent the night in the ditch but seemed remain happy.  That evening, in the campground as the sun set, I got a reminder again of perfection. That problem on the petition card — not a problem anymore.