Of Saints and Padres
Yesterday, John Mateer and I set out with Sam from the Library, or rather the Embassy of Knowledge as they call it here, to visit the Monasteries of Saint Anthony and Saint Mark, roughly 250 kilometers from El Gouna. We left at 4:30 in the morning to get there before the heat, as the first thing we planned to do was climb up to the cave where Saint Anthony spent a good many years, until his death, fending off demons, incubi (or rather succubus, surely?) satyrs, centaurs, and other chimera that plague holy gentlemen in the desert. A cool breeze nearly chilled the air when we started our 2 km. climb up into the mountain – a welcome change from El Gouna’s heat. Though we passed other pilgrims – all Egyptian – along the way, when we finally reached the cave, we had St. Anthony the Great’s dwelling to ourselves. The opening of the cave is long and narrow and many a corpulent soul has got stuck in it, requiring some tugging and even oil to dislodge, or so I’ve been told. A small winding staircase takes us down to the belly of the cave, now a tiny chapel with icons and an altar. The space is exiguous and redolent of Eastern church incense; surprisingly, some daylight makes its way in, but mostly the cave is dark, very quiet, fragrant. I sit on a rock looking down into the chapel and absorb the silence of the hermit’s abode, where mass is still celebrated on occasion. People pen their prayers and push them into chinks between rocks or set them in nooks — so many desires, aspirations, gratitudes, sorrows, pains and joys destined for this once solitary saint who seems to attend to all with mysterious equanimity. Despite so many busy supplications, a soothing quiet pervades the cave.
Outside, the total lack of vegetation gives the impression, at first, of a harsh, mineral world, yet the soft earth tones, camel hues and a caressing breeze recalibrate the landscape. What I sense, strangely, is its gentleness and wonder how that can be.
The Padre
When we reach the monastery below we are greeted by a lush oasis of roses, palm trees, oleanders, and grape vines, and by Father Anthony, a distinguished monk with a patriarch’s long white beard who will give us the tour. He takes my hand and says, with a trace of didacticism, “Anne, the mother of Mary.” Father Anthony’s mouth hides beneath a frothy upper lip garment but does its share of talking, and his eyes are clear and steady. The first thing he does is usher us into the monastery’s boutique for shopping, shutting the door behind us. Father tells us to take our time, but finding us spending too long at the book selection grows impatient and gathers us to the cashier for our purchases, mainly monk-make honey and wine. Here we are privy to a home-made parable that teaches us the importance of curiosity and question asking. We also learn that Father Anthony was once a VIP monk on the Pacific coast of Canada and the US, herding Coptic flocks in the New World.
Our second stop is the original entrance of the monastery, essentially a trap door through which visitors and monks were lowered and raised by a gripping a thick rope. “Silence! This is a holy place. A place of silence,” Father Anthony admonishes us. I didn’t realize we were making noise, but a monk’s ears are mighty sensitive. We hush and follow our Père to the trap door. Here he grabs my hand, passes my camera to Sam with instructions to take a photo when indicated, then puts a thick rope in my hand and around my waist. Sliding in next to me he poses for the photo. Sam snaps. A brief explanation ensues: “This way of entering allowed us to keep out the Bedouin and the terrorists.” Then he commands: “Close your eyes!” We do, opening them only when told and to a blast of white light. Father Anthony has opened a door that leads onto the roof. “Go forward! Go!” he ushers us out. Standing on a ledge eagle-eyeing the monastery Father Anthony once again asks for my camera. “I’ll take a picture of you, Anne, please take five steps back.” I look behind me and see that even one step back will put me over the edge. “Smile now.” Father Anthony snaps.
When we get to the old mill where the monks used to grind their wheat, I notice that Father Anthony suddenly has a handful of homemade bread. Where does it come from? Is this like the miracle of the loaves and fishes? “Come, come, Anne,” orders Father, awaiting me at the mill. “Sit here, put your hands here,” I do as he says, pretending to hold some lever that activated the wheat grinders. “Open your mouth.” Before I can protest, the priest has stuffed my mouth with a whole pita bread. He takes my camera from my hand, backs up and snaps.
Eventually we get to the 4th century chapel and take off our sandals before the door. Inside, Father Anthony looks at us sternly and orders us to be quiet for one minute. He peers down at his watch and starts timing. Since I’ve become quite practiced at meditation I enter into one rapidly and could have happily remained in my humble now-state, but Father Anthony has been clocking this. “That’s enough. A minute and a half,” he pronounces. “Come,” he ushers us to a side chapel, making a gesture to hurry. “I should not have to tell you every time to come along. This is tiring. You must keep up.” His irritation is visible but mutates quickly to mischief. He takes my camera, points it to a frescoed ceiling and snaps. “This has been restored by Italians. Anne, you should not have used a flash.”
Throughout the visit of this extraordinary church, Father Anthony is either stealing my camera (and my sun glasses, strangely) or grabbing my hand for reassurance, comfort, I don’t know what, perhaps because I am Anne the Mother of Mary. “Please, Anne, you’ll remember me. Please pray for me” he repeats. When we leave the church, John who has wisely parked himself in the back row of Father Anthony’s ambulatory classroom, is called to the blackboard. Père takes his arm and holds it up against the wall, snaps out a pen and proceeds to draw Saint Anthony the Great on his inner forearm. Quite expertly I’ll add.
There’s a great deal to say about priests and I’ve already devoted pages to them in my books. What a strange mix of mischief, sadism, benevolence, loneliness and control. Before we left, Father Anthony gave me his card with an email address and cell phone number. “Don’t forget me, Anne.” He sounded forlorn. But then a group of Coptic pilgrims came by and each one bent down to air-kiss his hand while he stood proudly above them. He might be lonely, our padre, but at least he has respect.