Writing On Rites And Rights

Yesterday, pace The Beatles, really does seem so far away. I had just settled down to write my usual weekly entry, comfortable in my fluffy robe and eager to share with my readers the nature of the material lifted from the Libyan desert, when my gardener and housemaid Consuela burst in and said that I really must see a visitor.

Now these days Consuela is totally absorbed in attending to the recent arrival of her baby, the little girl Maria Aisha. (This name came about owing to Consuela's marriage to my driver and handyman, Ahmed. Consuela was still a confirmed Catholic, and while Ahmed was getting less certain by the day where Islam is concerned -- he has, for instance, discovered Voltaire -- he nevertheless wanted his child to at least reflect his Middle East heritage.) But something had interrupted Consuela's fixation on her child, and I wondered what it could be.

"He's waiting for you in the Conservatory," Consuela said. "He really wants to meet you."

"Who really wants to meet me?"

"The new parish priest at Our Lady Of The Sorrowful Chains. Father Martin."

"Oh, Consuela, I really don't think --"

"You see, My Lady," Consuela continued, oblivious to my hesitation, "he's been to that convent. The one where the nuns don't really believe in the sacraments." She shuddered a bit when saying this.

"You mean, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain."

Consuela nodded. "He....has some questions. When he learned that you were the chief benefactor, and that I worked for you, he requested that perhaps a meeting could be arranged."

I threw in the towel. "Oh, all right. But just this once. Tell him I'll be down in a moment. I'm not really dressed for company."

Consuela left, and I headed for my rooms, where I opened my closet and reviewed things. For a fleeting moment I considered my Catholic schoolgirl outfit, but decided that would be a bridge too far. Besides, that outfit only came into play when the Compte de Rienville was in town, and enough said about that. I selected a white blouse, and slipped on a black hemp jumper my son Sebastian had designed for me. Looking in the mirror, I decided that would be quite Catholic enough.

In the Conservatory, I greeted the new parish priest, Father Martin. The man was tall, and very, very thin. I had to suppress a smile when the thought occurred that the man, as he made his way over the flagstones at the front of the Manor, might well have disappeared into one of the cracks.

"Well, Father, welcome. Perhaps some...ah, I see Consuela has already attended to tea."

"Yes, she is a very considerate woman." His voice surprised -- a deep bass with real power.

"That she is. How can I help you?"

He got up from his chair, and began to pace. Since I know from The Trade that silence is the most effective way to encourage talk, I found a chair, sat demurely, and waited.

The man was obviously shaken, and it was some time before he began to speak. "The nuns at the Convent. Not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure. But not what I found. The Sisters are definitely atheists, but they are doing really fine work. They do not force their view on others, and indeed never let on to those who seek their help that they are not quite what they seem. Yet the Bishop would rather they would just go away."

"The nuns might hold the same thought with respect to the Bishop."

A slight smile briefly flitted across his face. Good, I thought. The man had at least the semblance of a sense of humour.

"Yet it somehow is monstrous," he continued. "A Convent is a Godly institution, nuns are, in a very real sense, brides of Christ, and yet they --"

"Minister."

"Yes, they Minister. And do it well. Very well."

I said, "So let's restate the issue. We have some atheistic nuns, who are doing God's work, and doing it very successfully, and thereby supporting the tenets of Catholicism. I fail to see that there's a problem here."

"That's the issue. The more I think about it, I don't see it as problematical as well, although I might wish that the nuns not pretend to be what they are not."

"Actually, Father," I said, "If asked, they will say exactly what they are. Or, put differently, they let others see them as they want to. I mean, you wouldn't want them to be untrue to themselves, would you?"

"I...I have to think about all this."

"Thinking is good."

He rose. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me. When I have thought a bit, I wonder if we might talk again?"

"Certainly, Father. And I pass on to you a little saying I find helpful: "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than going to a garage makes you a car."

At this he laughed.

There is hope for us all.