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In preparation for next Sunday's Adult Christian Education Class concerning desert spirituality (9:15 a.m. at St. Paul's, Chattanooga--come one, come all!), I stumbled upon James Cowan's book, Desert Father: A Journey in the Wilderness with Saint Anthony (Boston: Shambhala, 2004). I was initially struck by the fact that something contemporary had been written on St. Anthony the Great. Since Anthony is the patron of my Order, I was sold in wading through the book, and I'm about half-way finished.These were the questions that I brought to Lazarus's attention on my occasional climb up the mountain. I did not make such trips often, believing that it was important to contemplate questions myself before inflicting them on my friend. I was conscious of not imposing myself on Lazarus in a way that might interfere with his life. He had a right to his solitude, as he had fought hard to acquire it. As a practicing hesychast, Lazarus deserved more than to have his world examined by someone like me.Cowan paints vividly the Roman world in which Anthony and the desert fathers and mothers fled the cities in silent rebellion. The desert, the great metaphor for the human soul, is the background in which Anthony overcomes the temptations of the adversary. Again, Cowan writes:
In my desire to deepen my knowledge of Anthony and the Desert Fathers, I had wandered into a cenobium of spiritual masters. These men weren't recluses who chose the desert simply to escape Roman oppression. They were men in possession of a vision unique to the world. The fact that the desert was the place where they developed their knowledge was incidental. What they had been looking for was a metaphor to enter and inhabit. Here at the foot of Mount Colzim lay that metaphor: every stone and cave in the mountainside was testament to the life of men who had come here to test themselves in, and against, the desert. Most of their names were anonymous, their their silence was like a chorus. I could hear them uttering the eulogy of the solitary: 'We are the katachoi, the withdrawn, the God-possessed.' It was a eulogy of promise.So rather than reading some dry, arid history of a desert saint, Cowan manages to bring to life Anthony's legacy through the text. In fact, I have learned quite a lot about Abba Anthony through Cowan, things that I missed in Athanasius' account.
When the great god Tupa made the world, there was only day. In the beginning there was no night. The daughter of the great cobra, Cobra Grande, was concerned for her husband, the Caboclo. Mother Earth provided him with game, fish and rich soil, but he worked constantly. Since the night did not exist, he did not know when to rest.
One day, the Caboclo's wife asked his friends to search for her mother, Cobra Grande. She would know the secret of the night. They paddled their canoe a long distance and found the great cobra curled in the sun on the shore of a lake. The caboclos told her of her daughter's worry and of her request to learn the secret of the night.
The cobra slithered to the bottom of the lake. After a long time she surfaced with a nut – the fruit of the tucuma palm – in her mouth.
"You must not open the nut. Only my daughter will have the power to open it so that the darkness, and nothing else, will escape from inside."
As the caboclos paddled home, they became very curious because of the strange sounds that came from the tucuma nut. Although the great cobra had warned them not to break it open, they were overcome by curiosity. Unable to resist the mysterious noises, they broke open the nut.
Darkness immediately fell on the world. Not only darkness, but also from inside the nut there emerged the night creatures, swooping bats and screeching owls, crawling creatures and wild forest cats. The great cobra did not know the secret of how to put the night creatures back inside the nut.
"Someday," she said, "the son of Tupa will come to visit us. Then all that our people fear will be hidden again in the tucuma nut."
translated by Bishop George Marskell, SFMDeep in the Amazon, the Tucuma palm tree produces a thick, black nut which is fashioned locally into jewelry as a poignant symbol of solidarity. Roman Catholic Bishop George Marskell, SFM, a Scarboro Missioner from Canada, landed in Brazil in the 1960s and stayed until his death in 1998. The bishop turned the black ring into a personal reminder for the preferential option for the poor. There is a story that he traded in his gold episcopal ring for one of these simple black rings to make the point of his commitment to the poor. He was the bishop serving the rural Amazon in Brazil for over 19 years.
But to my surprise, that was not the moment. It came when my abbot placed the black habit of our Order over me. Trying to find my way through the dark, hooded garment was the moment--I distinctly recall a feeling of being lost and alone. I remember saying to myself, "this isn't supposed to be the moment!" But alas, it was. Inside the clothing was my journey, my journey from death to life, from darkness to light. It all happened in the space of a minute or so, but inside it felt as though time stood still. It all became clear when I peaked my head through the hood, it was true. 
