Into the desert

I have been thinking about the desert fathers again, and spent part of last night re-reading sections of Derwas Chitty’s The Desert a City, trying to put my finger on something. There are probably too many contingencies in history to draw direct parallels, but it surely seems that Religion has saturated the air in a way that has a lot folks wondering where and how faith is practiced. Things feel…well, not exactly unhinged, but definitely not settled. Claims are being made, victories recorded, and frisson seems to be the order of the day.

A sort of dualism has taken over completely - us and them, the pure and the impure, in and out. What’s more the conversation happens and re-happens hourly, every event read in terms of signs and symbols, every pause is an opportunity to assert, fight, and claim. We have filled our spaces with noise and have forgotten silence, if indeed we ever really knew it. Our connections to one and another have created a city of the entire world. No silence, only city. Only an endless marketplace of shouting and infinite walls of graffiti.

The answer to the city is the desert. The desert is where the demons lived and where the fathers went to fight them once the cities had been made Christian. To go into the desert was to confront the devil in your own sins, in ways that were somestimes fantastic and grotesque and in other ways that were subtle. Maybe those were the hardest. One thing the fathers learned was a sort of detachment, and the silence that was necessary to listen to God.

In Scetis a brother went to Moses to ask for advice. He said to him, ‘Go and sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.’

We need this silence now more than ever. We can’t go to the desert, not physically anyway. We can, however rediscover what Martin Laird calls the “silent land,” which is the place of silence and stillness deep within us. You laugh - I can hear it, but it’s there. It’s always been there, though it may take a bit of effort to find it.

Getting to a place of silence - contemplative prayer - is difficult, at first, because we have trained ourselves to move and think and react constantly. The world we’ve built for ourselves demands it, but we can also remake small parts of it. And in those small parts, we can rediscover that our union with God - the matrix of our very existence - this union can never be lost or buried beyond reclamation. It is yours and can never be taken away any more than you can cease to suddenly exist. There, you will find the silence of the desert, and there you can build a hermitage, Carmel, or interior castle.

Antony said, ‘He who sits alone and is quiet has escaped from three wars: hearing, speaking, seeing: but there is one thing against which he must continually fight: that is, his own heart.’

The more someone enters this silence, the more they become accustomed to it, and the fainter the noise around them becomes. And then the city is not quite as noisy, and the currents are not as strong and suddenly the swirling motion of modern life begins to break a bit against the eternal things.

Evagrius wrote: a soul which has apatheia is not simply the one which is not distrubed by changing events but the one which remains unmoved at the memory of them as well.