And Then There Were Nuns

by Jane Christmas

  “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.

  In the kitchen, as I waited for the kettle to boil, I kept looking behind me because it felt like someone was watching me.

  I took my tea into the sitting room and sat down at the table to read, facing into the room. The atmosphere continued to be inexplicably charged. It was a struggle to keep bad thoughts from invading my mind. Almost a week had passed since the incident with Wanker Man at Quarr.

  I glanced up from the page of my book, and just then something crept into the room and scooted behind a chair.

  Was I imagining things? No, I saw it as clear as day.

  It was a creature, a bit more than a foot tall, with gray, leathery skin and a head slightly larger than its body. It was walking upright with muscled legs and cloven hooves, and its arms were short and clawlike. Its thin tail, covered with small scalelike protuberances, tapered into a triangular shape, and it flicked like a whip. The creature’s face, half human half animal, had large eyes, small ears that looked like horns, and a mouth that was curled in an open smirk. It said nothing and did nothing while it positioned itself behind the chair out of my sight. But I knew it was there. I had not been drinking or ingesting legal or illegal substances, though at that moment I wished I had a crateful of something that would render me unconscious.

  Had the devil sensed my fear and, like a wild animal, returned to stalk me? The Quarr Abbey incident began to replay itself in an endless loop in my mind like a made-for-TV movie, each version
scarier than the previous one. I began to pray fervently, but the devil wasn’t going anywhere. He had found me, weak and doubtful, cowering in the corner with my “invalid religion.”

  I packed up my books and hurried out of the room, ignoring what was behind the chair. I got ready for bed and hopped in; the crinkling of the mattress cover sounded like I was slipping into a body bag. And there I lay, eyes wide open, heart pounding, with the lights on and the bed covers clutched to my chin. I said the Jesus Prayer aloud over and over: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. I was scared out of my wits.

  At three in the morning, the bedroom lights were still on and I was still shaking, too scared to sleep. By the time the gray February dawn leaked through the curtains, I was a complete wreck. I got out of bed, dressed, and headed to the ferry terminal to change my ticket. I was not going to stay any longer than I had to.

  ( 4:vi )

  SISTER PRUDENCE arrived for another visit. I was not sure how to broach the subject of my guest from the previous night or whether to tell her about it at all.

  As we moved into the sitting room, I casually checked behind the chair to see if the devil had left a calling card.

  “Did you read the catechism?” Sister Prudence asked, having assigned homework during her last visit.

  Catechism, Schmaticism! What we need is an exorcism!!

  Actually, I had scanned the catechism—at three in the morning while I was holding off Satan.

  “Yes, some of it,” I replied. “The creeds of the Catholic and Anglican faiths are virtually identical.”

  A pained expression appeared on her face, and she heaved a sigh of frustration.

  I was getting mightily frustrated, too. Sister Prudence could never see my side of things. I wanted to tell her that all this baloney about apostolic succession was petty crap. That Jesus would be incensed by our preoccupation with such arcane silliness. As a progressive, creative thinker, He expected us to think and live outside the temporal box. But how do you argue with a nun, especially when you’re sleep-deprived?

  Sister Prudence soldiered on about the matrimonial obstacles to my salvation. She insisted that I not marry Colin but remain single and make God the center of my life.

  I wanted to bang my head on the table.

  “God is the center of my life,” I said with exasperation. “He is all I think about. That’s why I want to be a nun.”

  Honestly, it was like being waterboarded.

  She gave me another pained and pitied look. I felt like Madeline being lectured by Miss Clavel (and then my mind, which tends to go off on tangents, wondered, Why was Miss Clavel, who was clearly a nun, never referred to as Sister Clavel?)

  Back to Sister Prudence.

  We were just not going to see eye to eye, so I changed the subject and asked Sister Prudence about her habit. When all else fails, you can usually level the playing field with a woman by talking about her clothes.

  “Do you ever wear civvies?”

  She looked as shocked as if I had asked her whether she wore a G-string.

  “Certainly not!”

  I was going to mention that most sisters of my acquaintance rarely wore their habit anymore, but then I remembered that most of those sisters were Anglican, and I could not bear to give Sister Prudence more anti-Anglican ammunition.

  “This is the only outfit I have, aside from the shorter version, which is worn when we’re doing chores. And the one we wear to bed.”

  “You wear a habit to bed?”

  “Of course.”

  I wanted details. What does a night habit look like? Was it a stiff black shift, or a long, creamy diaphanous number? Nightgown? Flannel PJs with an angel print on them? There was no time to ask, because Sister Prudence was controlling the conversation.

  “I am adamant about wearing the habit,” she said defiantly. “We get ridiculed and hassled by people, usually kids, on occasion, but one must stand firm and not back down. After all, Our Lord endured worse persecution, and we need to stand in solidarity with Him.”

  Our hour was up, and as she prepared to leave, she perused the stack of books I had taken from the Garth’s bookshelves, including one on Merton.

  “Merton,” she groaned, rolling her eyes.

  It was not a surprising reaction. Merton challenged traditional Catholics, and many of them were dismissive of, if not openly outraged by, his ideas.

  I did not tell Sister Prudence that the devil had dropped by the night before. Doing so might have prompted her to call a priest or a psychiatric hospital. I did tell her, however, that I was leaving earlier than planned. She offered to arrange a taxi.

  That night, I headed straight to bed after supper. I got ready for bed and arranged several spiritual books around me like a fortress—the Bible, books by Merton, Vanier, Nouwen, a book of Psalms, Father Luke’s book about Quarr Abbey, Shakespeare’s sonnets. I scanned the bookshelves in vain for Vatican II for Dummies. I did find a weekend magazine from one of the national newspapers and it got added to the pile.

  A crucifix hung on the wall behind the bed, so I figured I was well covered.

  Gradually, the house descended into a gloom of ominous silence. Floor boards creaked, the tap in the kitchen dripped, the refrigerator shuddered as if it had been spooked.

  As I picked up the weekend magazine, I could hear the devil sneer and rub his hands in satisfaction: Yup, thirty seconds of that and her mind will stray from that religious nonsense and default to furniture arrangement and color swatches. When she reaches the fashion pages, she’ll start thinking about what to buy to perk up her spring wardrobe, and the cosmetic ads will remind her that she left her brown eye pencil in Canada, and so she’ll make a note to go to Boots and buy one. Ha! Ha! My work is done here.

  I shook the devil out of my headspace. Leafing nonchalantly through the first few pages of the magazine, I was suddenly catapulted back to the land of glossy ads for cosmetic fillers, cranky columnists whining about their self-indulgent lives, fashion spreads, celebrity interviews, and catty restaurant reviews of places where meals cost fifteen times what I had spent on food that week. A quarter of the way through the magazine, the decorating ads got me musing about paint swatches and redecorating Colin’s flat. The fashion pages prompted a hasty list of clothes—vibrant, joyful-looking clothes—to buy for spring: Should I go for the jersey dress with a bright mini print? What about that leopard-print blouse and scarf, or would it make my top half look too big?—and then I jotted a reminder to myself to drop into Boots in the morning and buy a brown eye pencil.

  Feeling more secure, I dismantled the fortress of books, stacked them neatly on the floor beside the bed, turned out the light, and slipped into a blissful sleep.

  ( 4:vii )

  I WENT to Mass the next day. I don’t know why, but I was glad I did. It was lovely—lots of candles, genuflection, beautiful priestly vestments, and enough incense to justify a health and safety warning. The sisters sang beautifully, the best I had heard them all week.

  It was the Feast of St. Scholastica, a saint whom I admire for her pluck. She was born in 480 and died about sixty years later. Her twin brother was St. Benedict. Theologians like to bicker over which one of the twins was the first to embrace religious life.

  Scholastica and Benedict were devoted to God and also to one another. Each year, they met midway between their respective religious houses to have a good old chin wag and while away the weekend worshipping and discussing religious texts. One year, brother and sister met as usual, but when Benedict made his move to leave, Scholastica threw a tantrum. They hadn’t finished their discussion, she complained, and she insisted he stay one more night. He said no, that he had to get back to his monastery. Scholastica fell to her knees, and as she prayed, a ferocious storm kicked up.

  “What have you done?” asked a frightened Benedict.

  “I asked something of you, but you would not listen to me,” Scholastica pouted, “so I asked God for something and He listened to me. If y
ou want to leave, go ahead.”

  Benedict could not make his way in the storm, and it is surprising that he even tried. Really, you do not mess around when you are in the company of someone who has a direct pipeline to God.

  When Benedict eventually reached his monastery, he saw a white dove circling outside his cell window. Moments later, word arrived that his beloved sister had died.

  Despite the celebration for St. Scholastica, I stayed clear of the Communion rail.

  Sweater Lady was in the congregation. I wanted to compliment her on her cardigan, which was the color of raspberry sorbet this time, but she kept casting mean church-lady looks at me. She read one of the Bible lessons during Mass in a beautiful soft, clear voice. As she read, I completely forgave her for how she had treated me. Like me, she was a child of God, full of imperfections yet striving for what she thought was right. Despite her penchant for colorful sweaters, perhaps all was not rosy in her life, and I felt a bit sad for her.

  Having been denied Holy Communion for two weeks, I headed to a pub after Mass and ordered a bowl of tomato soup, bread, and a small glass of red wine (in honor of St. Scholastica). If I couldn’t get Communion served to me in a Catholic church (and all the Anglican churches in Ryde were shuttered up tighter than a miser’s purse), then I was going to do it DIY style. I did not intend to be sacrilegious, but it is frankly sacrilegious to withhold Communion from Christians who desire it.

  And then I went out and bought a brown eye pencil.

  ( 4:viii )

  TWELVE HOURS.

  Ten hours.

  Six hours.

  I had been counting off the hours until my departure for two days, and now, finally, it was down to single digits. I couldn’t wait to leave the Isle of Wight.

  Father Luke said Mass that day. We chatted afterward, and I recounted my whole sorry adventure, including my scaly night visitor. I’m not sure what Father Luke made of it—or of me—but we hugged good-bye and promised to stay in touch.