I T . W A S . T H R E E  or four AM, I'd spent the night helping father Neophitus bake bread. In the morning it would be given to the neighboring Bedouins in fulfillment of a bargain struck centuries ago, whereby austere monks provided bread in return for a guarantee of their safety. When we finished, he invited me to his austere cell for a glass of ouzo. He rolled himself a cigarette and leaned exhausted upon his hand. " Hold it," I said and took this picture by the dim light of the kerosene lamp. He looked timelessly biblical, like one of the prophets or maybe even Moses himself. Who knows what brought him to this desert?

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