Most people race through this scorching stretch of the Mojave Desert, gamblers to Vegas, "river rats" hauling six-packs and Sea-Doos to Havasu.

Few turn down the narrow, dirt road to Holy Resurrection Monastery. Here four monks sleep in tin-can trailers, wake up by 4:30 a.m. and spend big chunks of their day in silence.

They are part of the Byzantine Catholic Church, which has deep roots in Eastern Europe but just over 3,000 members in the Western United States. The monks say they barely get by, money-wise, and new recruits are few.

Father Nicholas, their leader, finds the social climate in the wealthy Western world is harsher than the 110-degree desert. He sees his group as tiny and vulnerable in a secular society where "we are thought of as freaks or extremists."

Society, though, is not the main concern of the monks. They have fled the world and sought solitude, believing that will bring them closer to God.

"You get to know yourself better," says Father Nicholas, 42, and the only one formally trained as a priest. "You become more aware of the turmoil inside -- that's the whole point."

Beginnings

An inner tug led each of the brothers to the monastic life. An ethnic Greek born in Egypt and raised in Australia, Father Nicholas tells of a "mystical experience" he had as a 5-year-old, standing next to a pillar in church as the Divine Liturgy was just beginning.

"It was an insight. In this (the liturgy) was the meaning of the universe, in this was the event of all events," he says. "Theologians say that sort of thing, but for a 5-year-old it was very good."

Brother Maximos, who came with Nicholas from Australia, also felt the tug very young. But he pushed it aside and wound up going to law school. Being a lawyer never felt "real," he says. "I was putting off that decision to build that life of prayer."

Father Nicholas and Brother Maximos first came to Northern California to stay at the Mount Tabor Byzantine monastery, planning to learn how to run one and go back to Australia and start that nation's first Byzantine monastery. Along the way, they met up with the other two brothers, both Americans.

When the four learned this Newberry Springs property was available, they took it as a sign from God to start their monastery in the Mojave Desert instead of Australia.

The monastery they began in 1995 is built on ancient ascetic traditions intended to focus their lives on God. The brothers grow unkempt beards to protect against vanity. They avoid eating meat as an act of self-denial. The day begins with services at 5 a.m. and ends with another at 8:30 p.m.

The men even give up their old names when they become monks and take new names from among those of the saints, symbolizing the death of their old selves. Michael Davies became Brother Maximos, Michael Wright became Brother Moses and Terry Doty became Brother Basil. By tradition, Father Nicholas chooses the monks' new names, considering their suggestions. Father Nicholas himself no longer uses his family surname, Zachariadis.

Some Christians have a very romantic view of monastic life -- until they actually try it, says Father Nicholas. Prospective monks stay for a weekend, then a couple weeks, then a month or two, and then have six months to a year for a serious tryout. An average of three or four people a year enter this process, whether for weeks or months.

Few fit.

"The honeymoon period gets over very quickly -- there's not much glamour here," says Father Nicholas. "It's in the desert, just four guys waking up at 4 or 4:30 in the morning. It's not very glamorous."

"More monotonous than glamorous," adds Brother Moses.

Brother Moses, 35, and trained as a chef in New York, left the monastery for more than a year because of family problems -- his mom was going through a divorce and a grandparent was dying. He also left because he wasn't sure if this is where he belonged. It was only when he was away that he realized the monastery was the right path.

The monks sleep behind the monastery building in cramped trailers called "cells," without air conditioning. No television or radio, though they do use the Internet. Their food is mostly bland. And, yet, there is also spice to this life, mystical moments amid the monotony.

Inner struggles

Barren desert surrounds the place, but the monastery's garden is lush, with chirping birds and a trickling fountain under a canopy of mulberry trees.

The church where they spend much of their time is elaborately decorated with icons, glistening golds and deep, bloody reds. Sonorous chants fill the air as Father Nicholas waves the incense holder until the candlelit room is smoky. Air conditioning hums mercifully in the background.

Here, they recite again and again the prayer that's central to their lives. Between each verse, they fall prostrate, touching their heads to the floor as if putting a period at the end of the sentence.

"O Lord and master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power and idle talk.

"But give rather the spirit of chastity, humility, patience and love to your servant.

" . . . Grant me to see my own sins and not to judge my brother."

Repeating the same prayers and hymns can be tedious, but it's necessary for spiritual growth, says Brother Maximos. He likens it to an athlete doing the same workout every day. "You can't will it," he says. "You have to do the tedious, repetitive exercises."

Mystical moments

The harsh desert exterior and the ornate church interior serve as a metaphor for monastic life. Outer austerity is supposed to nurture a rich inner life. But it is not an easy life, neither on the inside nor the outside.

Brother Basil talks of the "war with yourself," the inner turmoil that comes from fleeing worldly distractions and seeking solitude. You start to find out who you really are "and it's often not pleasant."

The monks must spend a chunk of their day in private meditation. Along with turmoil, they also find moments of peace, realizing that in prayer "you're doing the most important thing you could possibly be doing," says Father Nicholas.

If all this sounds otherworldly, the monks can be surprisingly down-to-earth, ready with wisecracks. "I was talking to some old lady in Pennsylvania the other day," recalls Brother Maximos. "And I said `the money and the women -- that's why I'm here.' "

Brothers running errands in Barstow have been known to stop for fries and Cokes at Tom's Burgers, which may violate the spirit, if not the letter, of their fasting rules.

The monks aren't cloistered, and Brothers Maximos and Moses recently visited the Grand Canyon for a week with a friend. People visit their monastery, too, for Sunday services and retreats.

Getting along

Their "community" -- all four of them -- is meant to complement the solitude. You "can't know yourself unless to some extent you can see yourself through someone else's eyes," says Maximos.

The brothers eat meals together, worship together and hold a community meeting twice a week to discuss the nitty-gritty of running the monastery. A monastery is not a democracy. Though there is discussion, Father Nicholas calls the shots: deciding whether a monk can leave to visit his family, who does what chores, who will enter the monastery. Father Nicholas is supposed to be seen as an "imperfect icon" of Christ, and their obedience to him is a symbolic way of obeying God.

Of course, conflicts arise, just like in any family.

"On a natural level, we would go mad," says Father Nicholas. "A group of men in the desert 24 hours a day -- we would kill each other."

But "our life is based on a supernatural goal. God is first. The community life supports that."

With only four monks, each brother has his share of chores, ranging from cleaning the bathrooms to cooking meals to balancing the books. "I think we complement each other most of the time," Father Nicholas says.

Brother Basil chimes in: "Some of the time."

Brother Basil concedes he sometimes has trouble keeping his mouth shut and taking instructions from the younger Father Nicholas.

The oldest of the men at 58, Basil regrets becoming a monk so late in life, giving him less time to learn the ways. And yet, his worldly experience has been a big plus for the monastery. A former businessman who sold welding equipment, he handles the books and arranges repairs.

Besides, young monks face their own challenges, such as celibacy. "It's hard, but you can't have the rest of the life without it," says Brother Maximos, the youngest of the monks at 32. "It wouldn't make sense."

Sometimes worldly realities press in on them.

On this day there are many. Construction workers are hammering away at the leaking roof as Brother Basil tries to do the books. The monks need to take Brother Moses, who is vomiting, to a medical clinic. But their pickup's gas tank is leaking, so they take their well-worn Suburban with the back door that's jammed shut. That becomes a problem when they stop to pick up donations -- furniture and knicknacks -- for their upcoming yard sale. They'll have to come back.

Uncertain future

Money is short and they can't afford health insurance. "We've often wondered where our next meal was coming from, but it's always come," says Father Nicholas. He says it takes about $150,000 a year to run the place. In addition, they try to help the locals -- there are many poor people in the area -- who come asking for help.

Some cash comes from a tiny gift shop at the monastery, yard sales and donations. They're trying to become self-supporting, still looking for a business that won't take too much of their time from prayer, perhaps selling Byzantine furniture and icons.

They hope to attract more monks into their community. It takes at least a dozen monks to form the nucleus of the typical monastery, says Father Nicholas. They plan to build better housing to replace the trailers once they get the money.

They know the monastery could fail. After all, the building they now occupy was originally built in the 1970s by a group of Franciscan monks who eventually shut the place down, their monastic plans dried up in the desert.

Nicholas finds monks are less respected than in the past, and busy Americans don't value the intangibles of the monks' quiet lives.

But the fact that their numbers are so few, their path so unusual, only adds to Father Nicholas' belief that their effort is "vitally important" to resisting a culture he sees moving away from God.

"Our society thinks the secular is real and religion is unreal," he says. "My view is the opposite. I hope neither of us learn the hard way."

Mark Kendall can be reached by e-mail at features@pe.com or by phone at 909-782-7521.

Published 8/15/1999