And Then There Were Nuns (18 page)

In his homily that morning, Father Luke had spoken about how, when we have been wounded by the words or deeds of others, our first reaction is to retreat from the world, which actually makes things worse for ourselves. Better, he said, to use the experience to reach out to others who have also been wounded. Spreading our light lights others around us, as Matthew had said in his gospel:
“Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”

Maybe my desire for invisibility was not what God intended for me. Perhaps my sin was trying to wear the hair shirt.

( 4:iii )

SISTER PRUDENCE
arrived at the appointed time the following day, flying through the front door in a flash of black and white.

There was a time when I admired the look of the traditional habit—there was nothing that a pair of tall black boots couldn't remedy. I had regarded the habit as a symbol of feminine power and independence. Now, on closer inspection, it struck me as severe and fussy—a sort of Christian burqa: the white-lined black veil (
How do you keep that thing on?
); the tight white wimple gripping the head and face (
Itchy? Hot?
); the starched bib (
Can you eat soup without dribbling on it?
); the full-length black tunic (
Constricting? Bulky?
). At the end of a day, do Sister Prudence and her fellow sisters talk about “getting out of this hot habit” or complain about having a case of wimple hair?

A few strands of wavy strawberry blonde hair had liberated themselves from Sister Prudence's wimple, and as she settled into a chair in the living room, she tucked them back out of sight.

We faced one another on two stiff chairs. It felt like the Inquisition was about to commence.

She remained silent, which made me a bit antsy, so I filled the empty space with chatter, beginning with an apology for my emotional state the day before. I told her that I had been unprepared for the considerable contrast between Quarr and St. Cecilia's. I also told her about being approached in the church to read the lesson and about being intercepted on my way to the Communion rail.

Sister Prudence was appalled, and apologized. She promised to look into it.

“Why can't a non-Catholic read the lesson in a Catholic church or take Communion?” I asked, trying not to sound petulant. “Exclusivity is contrary to Christian teaching.”

I mentioned that I had a Catholic mother and an Anglican father, and that our family had freely worshipped and participated in each church. I told her I had often taken Communion in an
RC
church and that my
RC
mother had taken Communion in an Anglican church.

Sister Prudence was shocked. She adjusted her large pale-framed glasses; the thick lenses gave her the look of an alarmed owl.

“Why weren't you raised a Catholic?” she demanded, her big eyes zooming in on me. “In those days, non-Catholics who married Catholics had to promise to raise their children in the Catholic faith.”

I shrugged.

“Your father must have been a very strong personality indeed to resist that,” Sister Prudence said in a serious tone.

“Actually, he was a very gentle and quiet man, a man who respected authority, but who put the rules of God before man-made rules.”

“Well, let's talk about you,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “Tell me about yourself.”

I took a deep breath and gave her the Coles Notes version of my life.

It would have been amusing to see the thought balloons that sprang from beneath Sister Prudence's wimple as she listened. It could not be said that she had a good poker face.

“I have three children,” I said at length.

Her big eyes widened and she exclaimed, “You do?”

“I've been married.”

“Oh!” Her eyes became saucer-sized.

“Twice.”

“Oh my!” She raised her hands to her mouth and averted her eyes.

When I mentioned that I was engaged to be married a third time, she nearly passed out, and it seemed best to stop and spare her more distress.

“Given that background, I don't know how you have the nerve to attend church at all. And
you
want to be a nun?”

The remark was such a slap that I flinched. I barely knew how to respond.

“Yes,” I said steeling my confidence. “But you say I'm too old.”

“Our upper age limit is forty,” she said with a tight smile.

It was clear that this nun thing wasn't going to happen. Not here anyway. And yet I wanted to argue my case with Sister Prudence. I wanted to cite the case of St. Angela of Foligno, who had whored her way through much of her life until she renounced her behavior, founded a religious order, and became a saint. Wasn't the church all about forgiveness? As for divorce and age, those were hardly grounds to deny someone a chance to devote her life to God. Wasn't there dispensation for late bloomers? If I had told Sister Prudence that I had a million dollars to donate to the convent, I'll bet that “upper age limit” would have been dropped pretty quickly.

And yet I desperately sought her approval. I wanted her to ignore the evidence before her and see the big picture. I wanted her to look into my heart and recognize its longing to belong, its desire to surrender its vagabond life for divine stability.

“Look, it's not like I planned my life this way,” I finally said. “Stuff happens. Some things are beyond our control; when a partner constantly denigrates you in public or up and leaves you because he's decided that you're holding him back from some greater glory, what are you to do?”

She looked blankly at me, but I could tell that the wheels in her head were churning beneath that starched wimple.

She asked about my previous marriages, and suddenly she arrived at a solution.

“Two marriages would disqualify you from becoming a Catholic, but we could have your first marriage declared annulled because you married under duress...”

“I
didn't
,” I countered. “I just...”

“But I don't think there's anything that can be done about the second. You could become a Catholic and you could receive the Holy Sacraments, but you would never be able to marry again.”

Removing from the equation my ambitions to become a nun, Sister Prudence saw an opportunity to snag me as a convert to Catholicism, and offer it as a consolation prize.

“What if...”

Anticipating my question she said, “If you marry again, you will not be permitted to receive Communion. Ever.”

The statement was delivered like a thick metal door of a vault slamming shut.

I am embarrassed to admit that I sat there for a little bit weighing Communion against sex, but there you go. I wasn't about to give up.

“Why is there such an intractable difference between the Catholics and the Anglicans when both originated from the same root?”

“Because,” sighed Sister Prudence, “when the Anglicans broke with Rome they severed the apostolic succession. You do understand apostolic succession, don't you? You know, Jesus laid his hands on his apostles, they went out and laid their hands on others to ordain them as priests, and so on. In breaking that sacred tradition, Anglicans have no God-given authority to ordain others.”

“But Jesus was a Jew...” I attempted to interject.

“What's more, Roman Catholics also believe in the transubstantiation of the bread and wine into the actual body and blood of Christ. Anglicans do not necessarily believe this.”

Neither do 45 percent of American Catholics, according to a recent poll. What's more, a survey by Milan's Catholic University found that 70 percent of respondents consider themselves “good Catholics” without following the Vatican's rules on sexual morality. About 55 percent have no qualms about contraception, only a fifth of respondents flatly condemn abortion, and 40 percent thought that women priests should be allowed. But it was pointless to start down that road with Sister Prudence. As for her remark about apostolic succession, well, it is a cornerstone of the Anglican creed—“We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church”—and if she wanted to get technical about it, I could have pointed out that Catholic priests converted to the Anglican faith during the Reformation and ordained others, thereby maintaining the continuity of apostolic succession.

“And another thing: the Archbishop of Canterbury has no authority,” she continued. “None whatsoever! All decisions in the Anglican Church are made by committee.”

Oh please, not the “committee of academics” metaphor again!

“The Catholic catechism makes it abundantly clear what we believe,” Sister Prudence continued loftily. “Decisions come directly from the Pope, who defends the Christian tradition on Earth. Whether you agree or disagree is not the issue: the fact is that you always know the church's position on things. The Anglicans, well! What do they believe? I'm afraid you don't belong to a valid religion.”

( 4:iv )

THE SUN
was shining and the birds were chirping as I set off resolutely on a long walk—just me and my invalid religion.

I took a short-cut through Abbey Lane to East Hill Road and down to the Esplanade and followed the boardwalk along the Solent past the boarded-up carnival rides, attractions, and ice cream stands, hotels, guest houses, and apartment buildings.

My head was pounding with anxiety and confusion. I was apparently too old to be a nun, had too much of a past to be considered a nun or even a Catholic, and I belonged to a faith that was considered “invalid.” And that elucidation was the fruit of just one discussion with Sister Prudence. She said she would pop in for more chats every second day during my stay. At this rate, I might not be deemed worthy enough to board a ferry by the weekend, which is why when I reached the ferry terminal I immediately purchased a one-way ticket off the island. Saturday seemed eons away from a Tuesday point of view.

I continued walking, lost in a confusion of thoughts, with my back to St. Cecilia's until the buzz of Ryde gave way to a quiet residential area with well-tended English gardens. The street ended abruptly at a busy road but continued as a footpath on the other side of Spencer Road. I was about to cross over when, at the last moment, I realized where the footpath led—directly back to Quarr Abbey. I glanced at my watch: the monks would be in none, standing in their dark oak choir stalls chanting the office. My heart ached from missing them. If I continued on the path, I could be at Quarr in twenty-five minutes. It was so tempting.

But I did not cross over. Returning to Quarr would only have made me sad, and I could not do that to myself. In many ways it felt like I had come to the end of my own path. I had no idea what to do.

I retraced my steps slowly back into Ryde. I considered ditching my invisible habit and becoming a tourist for the rest of the week, or walking the island's 67-mile coastal trail.

My impression of the Isle of Wight was souring by the minute. It had no doubt left a similar impression on one of my favorite people in history, the bright, busy monk named Bede.

In 686, Bede is said to have visited the Isle of Wight to record its conversion to Christianity. It was to be a momentous occasion because the island was the last part of England to convert, and Caedwalla, king of the West Saxons, was going to do the honors. I pictured Bede in a state of fussy excitement as he prepared to chronicle the events, perhaps arranging his quills in a straight line and neatly stacking his parchment. Or maybe he was nervous because Caedwalla had a reputation as an unpredictable brute. What transpired was horrifying. Caedwalla arrived, duly baptized the island's pagan inhabitants, and then massacred the lot of them. The island's entire population was replaced that day with a boatload of Christians that Caedwalla had specially shipped in.

What a thing for poor Bede to witness.

I had to switch to happier moments in the Isle of Wight's history before I marched back to the ferry terminal and exchanged my ticket for the next passage. So I thought about Horatio Nelson sailing off to meet a short French guy at Trafalgar; and Marconi launching the world's first radio station in 1897 at Alum Bay; and Charles Dickens writing
David Copperfield;
and Alfred, Lord Tennyson scratching out his
'Tis better to have loved and lost
lines; and Bob Dylan penning “Like a Rolling Stone”; and Jimi Hendrix playing his last performance before 600,000 tie-dyed and hallucinating fans. And then I remembered that the Isle of Wight is one of the few places in Britain where you can find red squirrels. As rare as people with invalid religions.

( 4:v )

I CONTINUED
to read and pray over the next few days, but my attendance at the offices was spotty at best.

Not only did I feel unwelcome, I had the distinct impression that my apparently unholy reputation was making the rounds of the cloistered community at St. Cecilia's. Now when the nuns filed into church and bowed to the altar, several had taken to pivoting their heads slightly toward the congregation to look at me. Was Sister Prudence sharing our conversations?

I crossed my arms defiantly and stared right back at them.
Yes, sisters, this is what life looks like on the other side of the cloister wall. It's messy and muddy, and it doesn't always work out the way you hoped. But divorce is not the end of the world; in fact, with the long stretches of silence, the absence of sex, and the slavish obedience to house-cleaning, it looks remarkably like convent life. That's right, sisters: divorce is the new monasticism.

Without a firm monastic routine, my days turned into lonely stretches of aimless walks through Ryde. I also spent a lot of time reading, but the Garth, especially in the evenings, had all the friendliness of a Stephen King movie.

One night after compline, I returned to the Garth and felt a weird, edgy vibe. I flicked on the lights and paused in the hallway to listen for unwelcomed sounds, then tip-toed around the main floor turning on every light possible.