Even though I felt like I didn’t belong, I was determined to belong. The first few days were a blur as I tried to adjust to a radically different life. After a few days both, my classmate and I were given an horarium. An horarium is a Latin term for schedule. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horarium ) This schedule accounted for every minute of our waking day. Not only were we to follow our schedule, one of the postulants’ jobs was to ring a buzzer every hour on the hour during the day to remind the Sisters who were within earshot to turn their minds toward God.
This schedule got old really fast. We were given an hour a day to pray in addition to attending morning and evening prayer with the Sisters and Mass. The rest of the time we were cleaning or in classes. Postulants and First Year Novices were to stay close to home. Second Year Novices and Junior Professed usually took classes at Portland State in preparation for a degree and teaching certification. Postulants and First Year Novices were there to be indoctrinated. It was an intense time for training us how to be religious. Classes were called “Instructions“. We spent a lot of time going over “Perfectae Caritatis Pope Paul VI's encyclical on religious life. (http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_decree_19651028_perfectae-caritatis_en.html )
We also spent time learning about the particular history of our order and the order’s unique charism. Charism is a religious term for gift. In this case, it referred to the particular ministry of the order. The Sisters of St. Mary were primarily teachers. There were also a few nurses who staffed the Maryville Nursing Home directly behind the Motherhouse. (The main house or base of operations for the Sisters. I would soon label it “The Bastille“.)
At this point in the story, with the introduction of terms and encyclicals with a sprinkling of Latin over the top, I know that some readers will begin to feel like they’ve entered a strange new world. That is exactly how I felt. Granted I was raised Catholic and had twelve years of Catholic school behind me but nothing prepared me for what my life was rapidly becoming. It was extremely disorienting. Keeping up with the horarium and getting everything done well on the schedule was extremely difficult. We spent a lot of time cleaning. Floors, bathrooms, stairs, dishes all required a daily and perfect cleansing. The chores were to be rotated among the younger Sisters . Some how I usually ended up cleaning the stair well by the chapel.
Four flights of stairs and landings plus ledges and railings were to be cleaned daily by me. This job was to leave the stairway spotless. I was to sweep each individual step on my hands and knees with a small whisk broom and dust pan. I hated this job. It took forever. My knees soon showed the crosscut pattern of the metal stair edges. It would be so much faster with a regular broom. Innocently, I suggested that I use a regular broom instead. You would have thought I suggested we all slap on some makeup, grab a pack of smokes and go bar hopping. Apparently, I was completely missing the point. This task was to humble me. It was to increase my reliance on God. Questioning the method was almost blasphemy. If my “Superior” was to instruct me to do anything, I was not to question or think of a better way, I was simply and silently to do it.
The example often used to illustrate this point was this: “Your Superior tells you to water a dead stick in the ground. You know the stick is dead. You know you could water it for the rest of your life and the stick will not grow but you do it anyway, without question because that is what you’ve been told to do. If you are to vow obedience you have to live it.”
As a questioning soul of the 60’s and 70’s, this story always raised a red flag. What if your Superior was Hitler and he was telling you to exterminate an order of Catholic nuns? Of course, this was a ridiculous and blasphemous example so I knew enough not to use it but I kept it in my head. I spent a lot of time watering sticks the first year. It was a skill I never mastered. I continued to question and my questions gradually made me less popular, less accepted among my Superiors.
Instead of using initials I'm going to give the other people in this story names. These names are fictitious so as make some effort to conceal their identity. Classmate, Z is now, Zelda. Formation Director A. is now, Sister Angela. Sister F will be Sister Felicity. It will make it easier to read and a lot easier to write.
My sense of humor and maverick spirit did find kindred spirits in most of the other young women in formation. Sister Deborah and Sister Phillip. soon became close friends. Their friendship was a safe harbor in an increasingly upside down world. Laughter was good medicine. It helped me cope. Having friends helped even more. As for my classmate, Zelda . . . at first we both tried to be friends. We were too different from each other. No amount of prayer and sugar coating could force something that wasn’t meant to be. Zelda was always Sister Angela’s favorite. Sister Angela didn’t even try and hide it. She admitted it with some embarrassment. As a result, Zelda got lot of exceptions and accommodations. She’d been a fine arts major and was allowed to bring her tools and have her own workroom space to work on her projects. When a friend married a brother, she was allowed to leave the convent, dress in a bridesmaid dress and be part of the wedding. She was allowed visits with family members at times other than the Sunday’s that were designated family visits. These same privileges were not extended to me. Asking for exceptions usually resulted in my receiving a lecture to humble or shame me. It’s no wonder that I would soon mistrust Zelda, the Golden Girl.
When we entered as postulants, there was a young lady who was a first year novice who would not be there much longer. She always appeared troubled and nervous. She waged a battle against a bad case of psoriasis. I knew it was triggered by stress and she seemed to have tons of it heaped on her. My classmate took a quick dislike to Sister Eloise. Zelda often had private talks with Sister Angela. After one of these talks, Zelda, told me that Sister Eloise didn’t belong in the convent. She thought that Sister Eloise may be a danger to Sister Angela. She whispered, “Sister Eloise is unstable."
Apparently, the mind games had begun. Zelda would play me a while longer. Even then, I felt for Sister Eloise. Something didn’t seem right. I didn’t like what was happening but I was still new. I had no idea what had happened before we came. But Sister Eloise nervousness and occasional odd remarks troubled me. I passively watched as an odd drama unfolded. Sister Eloise was the bad guy. Zelda was the cowboy in the white hat.
When Sister Eloise didn’t show up for breakfast one morning, it was no surprise to later be told that she had left the convent. One day she was there and one day she was not. No goodbyes. She was spirited away in a shroud of mystery and what seemed like shame. This was a disturbing development. Zelda said, “Good riddance.”
It took me a while to figure out many of the “whys” of the convent world. Some, I’ll never really understand. The convent was structured much like a branch of the military. Formation was boot camp. There was a hierarchy or change of command. There were exercises. All jobs and assignments served the greater good or the whole. The individual’s needs were always secondary to the needs of the larger whole. Indoctrination and participation in a “group think” mentality was essential if the organization was to continue. Insubordination was not to be tolerated. Protecting the group think mentality is central to maintaining the system.
Surprisingly, this “group think” mentality is not necessarily bad. There is a time and place for it. There are people who are well suited to participate in this type of organization. Unfortunately, there is also room for abuse and corruption in a system as closed as this. While I understand much about the structure and hierarchy of the convent, it was not a system that I could easily accept. It seemed archaic and obsolete in the early 1980’s. The rules often seemed to be more important than the values they were said to protect.
Compassion and justice were often lost for the sake of maintaining the order.
Not all religious orders are like this. It isn’t like this for all the people who entered the order I did. This is what it was like for me. I bring my bias to the telling of this story. In the telling, I have already alienated one acquaintance who must find my account a betrayal of what she believes about Catholicism. I regret offending anyone. It is not my intent. I’m just telling what being a nun was like for me, how it changed me, what I believe. You are free to draw your own conclusions. I will not apologize for telling the story. I won’t sugar coat the details. Over the years, I’ve known some amazing Catholics. I’ve also known some amazing agnostics, a handful of atheists who were good people, a few peaceful Muslims, some great Jews, and a whole lot of assorted flavors of Protestant. People are people. Many are convinced that their brand of truth or religion is the only one, the accurate one.
While there is much about Catholicism that I truly love, there are a few things I question. I don’t question lightly or easily. Most of my extended family are practicing Catholics. I love them dearly and respect them greatly for their steady faith. I often wish that things could be easier for me. I wish that my experiences in the convent hadn’t altered what I believe. I wish that I wouldn’t stubbornly cling to what I believe to be true in my heart. Yet, I do.
I can not ignore who I am, what my mind questions, what I choose to believe. It is not done thoughtlessly or with indifference. In my heart of hearts, I have always believed that God gives humans an intellect and expects us to use it. The God-given intellect must question, must apply reason, it must apply critical thinking skills to the problems of faith, ethics and life. It is what the intellect was created to do. My questions do not arise out of disrespect. They simply arise. Once asked, they beg an intelligent and thoughtful answer. To say, “This is what has always been done” or “Water the stick because you’ve been told to do so by a Superior” doesn’t provide any answers. It does betray fear. If the real reason or rationale can not withstand one person ‘s scrutiny, than maybe it’s time to rethink what been done and why.
Rules can never supplant love and love must be the point of religious observance or we have all lost our souls.
My choice to enter the convent alienated some of my old friends. When I left the convent, one friend told me that she could no longer be friends with me because I’d turned my back on my vocation. Now, as I tell my story, I have offended an acquaintance who did not like my view of the events of my life. To be on the receiving end of this “friend dumping” isn’t pleasant but it isn’t a great loss either. Many friendships come to a natural end. They do not last forever. Life and situations change and friends often change with it. Maybe it would show a greater sensitivity to other’s feelings if I were less candid about my own. It’s more fun and more honest to tell it like it is. I let the words fall out because they feel right to me, at the moment not because they are right or the definitive truth. The truth is not something that belongs to me alone I just carry a piece of it as does everyone. This is my story. The telling is tainted by the lens of my perception and the passage of time but the essence remains. It is mine.
My love of a good story led me to study English in college. In studying literature, in reading countless stories, I closed the book or finished the poem and left a little richer inside than when I began. Each character in everything I’ve ever read, fiction and non-fiction alike has given me the gift of a broader understanding. Sometimes that understanding is very different from mine. It may be an understanding that I find wrong or immoral but it is an understanding nonetheless.
Of my readers, I ask only this, learn what you can from me. You don’t have to agree with my view. You don’t have to like what you read but don’t be afraid to read and learn what it was like for one young woman to enter a convent and leave almost 3 years later. My truth is not a threat to you, unless you see it that way. If you do, then I fear for your world. It is too easily shaken.
Walk in my shoes for a little while and you will have a better idea of what it’s like to walk in my shoes. Ask yourself what you might do differently or what you believe and I have helped you to think and question. Ask yourself, if someone told you to “Water that stick” would you? Use my story to understand your own story and you’ll prove my telling worthwhile.
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