Father Benedict Kossmann
Fr. Benedict tells of his calling to the life of a cloistered contemplative monk, his training in a Spanish monastery, and his being sent to only Carthusian monastery in the U.S. He was trained to live to the letter of the rule, and compares that training to what he actually lived as a fully trained monk, including the several positions of authority he exercised within the monastic community, up to his eventual departure and ultimate severance of ties with the Carthusian Order.
The author was a cloistered contemplative monk for a total of twenty years in the most strict and austere Order of the Catholic Church, the Carthusian Order. He held the offices of Novice Master and Vocation Director, and exercised several other positions of authority within the community. Unfortunate difficulties within that monastic community contributed to his eventual departure and ultimate severance of ties with the Carthusians. By a special determination of the pope, he was released from the obligations of his vows and the priesthood.
Spain
The Lord said to Abram, “Leave your native land, your relatives, and your father’s home, and go to a country that I am going to show you… there I will bless you.” (Gen 12:1-2)
I wanted to arrive in Jerez for the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin on August 15th to enter the monastery on that day. I felt that my calling and my keeping faithful to my calling had been in the hands of the Mother of God. I wanted to honor her and remain under her patronage by initiating my Carthusian career on her feast day.
I returned to Newfield with the good news. Mom received it with mixed emotion. She questioned why I wanted to leave the country and “live among foreigners.” I told her that it was something that I had to do, that I was ready to risk my health and life to follow what I believed was my calling from God. The Carthusians had confirmed it by giving me the green light to enter. I don‘t think my brother or sister understood what I was doing or why I was doing it.
One of the first things I did was to make arrangements to quit my position at the bank. I gave my two weeks’ notice. The manager was surprised that I wanted to leave, and offered me a good management position in Binghamton, and then another in Watkins Glen when I turned that down. He was disappointed when I declined both offers. I didn’t explain why I was leaving, because I knew that I would not be returning under any circumstances. And so, with no regrets I left the world of banking. I purchased a one-way plane ticket to Madrid, and bade a last farewell to my apartment in Elmira and to my friends at Mt. Savior.
I spent a few weeks with my family on “the hill.” I continued to take long, solitary walks, practiced mortification in small ways, and consumed as little meat as possible. I practiced what I thought was the monk’s life, rising at 6, and working in the garden until 7 or 7:30, when I had breakfast with the family. Then I spent some time in reading until dinner, after which I worked in the fields for a few hours. After supper I retired to my room where I prayed the rosary and read before going to bed when the sun went down. I wanted to prepare myself as much as possible. I was going to sacrifice as much as I possibly could for the love of God. I was going to dedicate my life exclusively and completely to God.
Before leaving for Spain I wanted to spend a few days with Nana in New York; and there were relatives and friends I wanted to see, perhaps for the last time. The night before I left Newfield, Mom gathered together a few of our friends for a sort of going-away party. Mom was always thoughtful in ways that I could never fully appreciate at the time. The next morning on August 8th, I went to Mass at the Immaculate Conception Church in Ithaca and set out for New York by bus.
I spent a couple of days at Nana’s in Brooklyn. I visited with Aunt Mae and met with a young Jesuit Priest who intended to go to Jerez later that same year. He was stationed at Fordham in the Bronx. I would see him again in Jerez. I said my farewells to New York as I had to Elmira and Ithaca. I felt no pains of separation. I accepted all of it as what I was supposed to do, and it was what I wanted to do. Devoid of emotion perhaps, I was fulfilling God’s will in my life, and that was that.
Aunt Mae drove me to the airport. I was excited about flying to Europe. It was my first flight anywhere, and I was anxious with anticipation. I left on the 7 p.m. flight for Madrid, arriving in the early morning. I had intended to stay in Madrid for a day or two; but finding that my Spanish was not as perfect as I thought it was, and anxious to get to the monastery, I decided to go directly to Seville by train, arriving around 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
I decided to stay overnight in Seville, splurging at the best hotel in town, the Alfonso XIII. Before settling in for the night, I sent a telegram to the Charterhouse telling the Prior that I was in Seville and would be arriving the following day. I had been so tired from the trip and the jet lag that I slept well. The next morning after breakfast I caught the train for Jerez, which was about fifty kilometers to the south.
At the train station in Jerez I asked about “la Cartuja.” Did I mean “el barrio de la Cartuja,” or “el convento de la Cartuja?” It turned out that there was a subdivision of the city of Jerez called “la cartuja,” and that the monastery (“el convento”) was within the subdivision. When the monastery was built in 1473, the city of Jerez was a small walled town about two miles away. A Spanish nobleman in what was then a deserted area gave the monks some fifty thousand acres outside of the town.
By the twentieth century, through political and cultural upheavals, including being chased out of their monastery by Napoleon’s troops during the Peninsular Wars, the monks were left with a very large monastery and only a few acres of surrounding land. Much of the monastery had been destroyed or was in decay. The farmland surrounding the monastery was equally in decay from disuse. In the meantime, the city of Jerez had expanded beyond its original walls and grown to a large city with a suburban population.
I took a horse-drawn cab to “el Convento de la Cartuja.” I was surprised and somewhat disappointed that the monastery was so close to the city of Jerez. We drove along the main road from Jerez toward Gibraltar, passing several villas and some farmland. I had pictured the monastery as being in a “wilderness,” as all Carthusian monasteries were supposed to be. After spending time at the Carthusian Foundation in the Vermont mountains, an ideal location for a Charterhouse suited for the Carthusians’ love of solitude and silence, I felt a deep disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
When we arrived at “la Cartuja” the cab driver asked me if I was there for a visit, thinking that he might have to wait for me. I replied in my best Spanish, Voy a vivir aqui. However, I took one look at the seventeenth century grandiose entrance to the grounds and thought to myself, “I really don’t like this at all. I don’t know if I’ll be able to adapt. Maybe I should take the cab back to Jerez and return to the States.” What I saw obviously didn’t measure up to my ideals of religious poverty and simplicity, even as the nearness to the city had raised doubts about the monastic solitude and silence.
On the other hand, I already had come this far and should try to “stick it out” in the hope that I would get over these initial reactions. I knew without a doubt that I had a calling. I told myself that things would get better with time. I knew I was called to an apostolate of prayer and sacrifice -- to be a living sacrifice of praise. I was doing this so that those I loved most in the world might have a good life. I was sacrificing my life for them and their salvation. I felt emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
