I’ve been asked to weddings and sadly funerals, but I’ve never been to a consecration.
Of all my friends, I would never have predicted Damien Moshe would suddenly convert, become a monk and choose to live in the desert as a hermit.
But here I am in Beersheba, in the central Negev, witnessing Damien making his public vows.
I knew Damien was serious when he submitted to tonsure.
He actually allowed Abba Arsenius to cut his precious, long, black hair.
The four locks of hair are cut in a cruciform pattern to symbolize Damien’s vow to leave the world and its passions and dedicate his life to God.
He’ll live in a community first, on the edge of the desert, and then, after testing and spiritual growth, he’ll become a solitary anchorite, or hermit.
After the ceremony, I ask Abba Arsenius about his need for preparation to live as a hermit monk.
“It’s necessary to be spiritually mature,” he tells me, “because the wilderness is the abode of demons”
It brings to my mind a picture of Christ in the wilderness being tempted by Satan.
As we’re talking, a man from the town approaches the abbot—and begins talking excitedly in Arabic.
“This man,” the abbot tells me, “has found a strange artifact in a cave in the desert. “Would you be interested in seeing it?”
“Definitely,” I respond, “I’d be more than happy to accompany you.”
“Good, then the three of us can go in the monastery’s jeep. We’ll be met there by a Bedouin who will direct us to the cave.”
I couldn’t help but notice the excitement in Damien’s eyes as once again, we were heading out on another adventure.
We drive south for about half an hour until we come to a cluster of tents. The abbot gets out and approaches a man. A flurry of excited talk follows.
The man keeps pointing up a dry wash to a ridge beyond. I can’t understand him, but it’s evident he’s agitated.
I ask Damien. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s very upset—keeps repeating, no go back—no go back.”
A woman comes out—probably his wife—and calms him. She offers him wine from a wineskin.
The man begins speaking very solemnly. Damien translates:
“He says there’s an eerie presence in the cave – there’s a stone statue there—an idol. Says he feels evil coming from it.”
The abbot continues talking to the man and then eventually rejoins us.
“The Bedouin are very superstitious,” he tells us. “He thinks there’s djin—a genie up there.”
“What exactly frightened him?” I ask.
The abbot sighs. “He says while he was in the cave, it grew dark—something big and evil came in. He also said he saw demons.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“He’s referring to sand devils—they often reach hundreds of meters in height—The Bedouin think devils wrap themselves in cloaks of sand because they hate to be naked.”
“I’ve heard that—the demons want a house—a body to possess.”
He nods. “If they can’t find a man or an animal to enter, they’ll cover themselves in swirling sand.”
“Where is this cave?” Damien interrupts.
“It’s about another half hour’s hike from here—I’m sure I can find it—if you still want to go.”
“By all means,” I reply.
The heat of the desert is oppressive—it makes breathing difficult and quickly saps you of your strength.
We’ve brought several canteens of water though, and end up drinking about half in our ascent to the cave.
On the way, Abbot Arsenius explains the Islamic theology of the Jinn.
“They are similar to angels,” he says, “—creatures of free will, made from smokeless fire just as we humans were made from clay. And although usually invisible to us, they are created beings like us and will be judged on the Day of Judgment according to their deeds.”
“So, these are the genies of the Arabian Nights?” Damien smiles.
The abbot’s not amused. “The other word for Jinn is demon—they’re not benign creatures, in my opinion.”
Finally, we locate the cave and rest, drinking from our canteens. Then, the three of us begin exploring.
“I found the idol,” Damien suddenly calls out.
“When the abbot sees it, he hisses in displeasure. “It was as I suspected—it’s an effigy of Baal.”
It may as well have been a statue of Satan.
Baal was ranked as the principal ruler in hell, ruling over the East with 66 legions of demons—but to some, he wasn’t just a high-ranking devil, but Lucifer himself.
“This idol is several thousand years old,” I tell them.
“It’s an enormous find.”
“It’s evil,” The abbot says through clenched teeth. “I find it loathsome to look at.”
I begin excavating the sand from around its base.
“It actually smells sulfurous,” I exclaim, “—like the odour of spent matches.”
The abbot’s not surprised. “The stone has probably been exposed to fire. The Canaanites used to sacrifice their children to the flames to appease Baal.”
The abbot’s words nauseate me—but the find is of immense importance, from an archeological perspective.
“Look!” cries Damian suddenly; he points outside the cave, back to the desert.
The pale blue of the sky in the east has tarnished like a spreading spot of grease. As we watch, it turns a darker shade of gunmetal blue and begins quickly expanding.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” the abbot whispers.
Dust devils spring up from the ground, whirling and hissing, ascending like minarets, twisting high into the air.
Within minutes an ominous dark front begins moving in and pink flashes of lightning illuminate a cloudy geography.
The first rumblings of thunder shake the mountain and the cave where we stand.
The abbot’s expression grows very stern. “This is not the work of Jinn’s, but of demons. We need to cover the idol and leave this place.”
I’m about to object when a terrific roar splits the heavens and a red bolt of lightning forks down, striking within a hundred yards of us.
Damien covers his ears and falls to his knees.
Abba Arsenius looks heavenward and begins praying:
“O God, do not leave me. I have done nothing good in your sight, but according to your goodness, let me now make a beginning of good.”
He pushes me aside and begins scooping handfuls of dirt over the idol.
I motion for Damien to help and together the three of us succeed in covering it—and as we do, the storm outside subsides.
The Negev is a rocky desert. It’s a land of dry bones, of brown dusty mountains and dry riverbeds that bloom after a rain.
It’s a forbidding place. Sand dunes can reach 30 meters high.
If the land has a demography, it’s a demonology – and no one goes there but Bedouins, or hermits or fools searching for artifacts, such as I.
The scriptures speak of the Azazel, goat-like spirits or Jinn’s who haunt the desert. To appease these, the Israelites brought sacrifices.
They brought them to the rugged strong rocks of the desert.
They brought them out of fear.
But it was here where Isaac built his altar and Jacob saw his ladder with angels ascending and descending.
It was here where Elijah hid in the cave and heard not the dry rasp of demons, but the still, small voice of God.
The Negev is forbidding, yes, but only as a desolate place.
I have no fear of demons, but I’ll leave the Baal to his wilderness—out of respect, not from fear.
He can have his desolate place—his haunt of jackals.
For the time being.
But one day the desert will bloom—water will gush forth and the burning land will become a pool.
No lion, or any ravenous beast will be there.
You see, I know how the story ends.
Until then, I’ll leave the demon to the dry rasping whispers of sand—to the buzzing of flies, over the carcass of a goat.
Such a fine hell to spend with his companions—the hissing snakes.
They coil and uncoil, slithering out of his mouth.
