Trust on a Cliff
In 1972, I spent 40 days in a hermitage a mile from Christ
in the Desert Monastery, in Abiquiu, NM. “Hermitage”? Please translate into
standard modern English. That is, I went camping with a friend for a couple of
weeks, then alone for a few weeks more.
I had no agenda for the summer, just an idea that felt like
an invitation. Jesus says we should call his Father, the creator of the
universe, Our Father. What does that mean? It’s not a proposition; it’s
supposed to be a way of life, a fundamental attitude toward everything. So,
mull it over and try it out.
I had no agenda, but I ended up doing this and that. I read
the Bible cover to cover, again. I tried some vigils. I visited the monastery
most days, to listen and watch and pray; I learned a great deal from Fr.
Aelred, Fr. Gregory, and Br. Anthony. I drafted a letter to a friend, over and
over (check out Jim Risen’s “Wrath of Angels” for that story, if you want). I
listened to coyotes and elk, and watched 13 buzzards. I met the angel of the
river (see Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life”). And I climbed around in the
canyons and mesas.
One day, I went up the Rio Chama, past the monastery, past
their fields, past their hermitage (which looked like a real one, with stone
and adobe), and a distance farther. Then I examined the north wall, to plan a
route up the cliff, and tried to climb out of the canyon. Halfway up, I got
came to a dead end. Any serious rock-climber could have kept going easily, but
I couldn’t; I had to back up. I had run out of ledges and hand-holds that would
work for me. I turned around, and froze.
Coming up, I had reached easily over a gap, grabbed rock a
few feet up, and clambered across. Going down, I had to stand on a ledge and
jump forward and down three or four feet to a ledge that was perhaps 15 inches
wide. An easy jump. Picture standing on the kitchen table, with three cinder
blocks lined up on the floor, a yard away from the table. Jump from the table
to the cinder blocks. Easy.
Easy, except that if I missed the jump, I would die. I would
fall 200 feet, bouncing off the cliff a little but mostly just falling, onto
sandstone boulders. No one would look for me for a couple of weeks, or maybe
months. And when they did look, they wouldn’t have any idea where to look in an
area of 314 square miles, assuming they found my tent and looked within ten
miles of it. Buzzards and coyotes might scatter my bones before anyone found
me, and I would disappear without a trace. Easy jump, if you just do it. But I
was scared.
I sat there for a very interesting 45 minutes. If you’re
scared, then you have something to be scared about; if you’re all shaky, you
can mess it up, and fall. If you’re not scared, there’s nothing to be scared
of; it’s an easy jump.
Q: Lord, am I going to be okay?
A: Yes.
Q: I’m not going to fall and die?
A: I didn’t say anything about that.
Him: Do you trust me?
Me: Yes.
Him: Then jump.
Me: No.
I sat a while, enjoying the incredible beauty of the canyon,
the same colors as the Grand Canyon. I listened to the silence, with an
occasional bird. I smelled the hint of mesquite on the hint of a breeze. I
prayed the Rosary, thinking about Mary’s incredibly eventful life. Then I made
an easy peasy little jump.
Attitude.
The story is on my mind, because I’ve been thinking about my
friend Phil Lawler, who is promoting his book about Pope Francis, the wayward
shepherd who’s killing off his flock parish by parish. Phil was on EWTN shortly
after the book was released, being interviewed by that polished pink guy. And
the interviewer set up a question. A gaggle of bishops got all gussied up for a
synod, and everybody who really knows anything about anything that matters knew
that the real issue at the meeting was how to interpret and enforce footnote
734 in Latin-Latin about how to handle sinners who come to Mass with their
toupees crooked and a tangled marital history which has already been completely
explained by the ancient and venerable bishops of Latvia and Timbuktu. Something
like that.
And I thought, no. The Pope thinks that marriage is joyful. Start
there.
If you’re scared, there’s good reason to be scared. If you’re
not, there’s not.
I choose to trust my Father.