It did not begin as love at first sight nor without obstacles. My parents were Baptists and we regularly attended the Baptist church (Southern Baptists not Northern Baptists that is). I underwent full submersion baptism at eleven as my Mother was fond of saying. I did not know any Roman Catholics, nuns or otherwise, until I was five. At that time my parents were working across the street from St. Paul’s Roman Catholic Church and School in Lexington, Kentucky. The school consisted of a kindergarten and grades one through six. For their convenience I suppose, my parents enrolled me in the kindergarten, a fairly courageous if utilitarian move for Baptists I later learned. A common belief, untrue by the way, among Baptists was that nuns and priests had babies together that were aborted and buried beneath their churches. What’s worse, their religion was actually a manifestation of the devil. This love affair would clearly take some time.
At St. Paul I encountered novel and strange realities including the black and white habits, the “uniforms” the nuns wore, and there was a Father, also clad in a black and white uniform. Even though I had a sister and father at home, I called them Father and Sister. And there was incense and frequent repetition of a prayer purportedly said by the Lord, i.e. Jesus to us Baptists. According to my Mom, I came home one day and said, “Mom, I don’t understand, when Sister comes in the room everyone stands, and when Father comes in everyone stands, but when the milkman brings us our milk, no one stands.” I don’t recall her response but decades later another Father (and counting), a friend, on hearing my story said, “Ron, now you understand Catholicism.”
My teacher at St. Paul’s, was a nun of course but I do not recall her name nor anything outstanding about her, nor actually anything I learned formally in class. I never experienced, unless I’ve repressed it, any of that famous Catholic discipline as is known to have occurred with students who misbehave in class. There was no hitting of knuckles with a ruler, no scenes from “The Blues Brothers” movie, despite the fact that the Brothers were also “on a mission from God”, or making a hyperactive offender sit under Sister’s desk and at the sign of any movement was kicked. I suppose the latter was an early form of what decades later became the “time-out” for misbehaving or over-stimulated children. I did however depart St. Paul’s with memorization of the Lord’s Prayer through daily repetition in class and a liking for incense that later the burning of which became somewhat of a secular passion.
I’d stopped attending the Baptist church when I was thirteen and it wasn’t until my twenties that I came to know another nun, Sr. Marcia, a Montessori teacher who did hatha yoga and ate health food before both were “in”. I never knew which order she belonged to, it just didn’t seem relevant to know, as our common ground wasn’t religion but psychology. We participated in a psychosynthesis professional training program and would meet at the Montessori school after hours. Gratefully, she never tried to force her religious beliefs on me, or even explain what they were. I can’t really say that I felt fondness and affection as such for her but it was more that I respected her and she broke stereotypes of what a nun is. Even though she wore a “uniform”, she offered no religious and mysterious trappings as was true at St. Paul’s. Since I did yoga and ate health food those were not mysterious. As an aside but consistent with the nature of our friendship, I came to know her birth sister who lived near the school. She seemed to have some type of mental health issue as she rarely left her small apartment. I’d visit her on occasion to provide some social contact and interaction, in my mind sort of a mental health service.
Later in mid-life I came in contact with nuns in a very different context. I had taken-up a contemplative, non-conceptual meditation practice called “centering prayer”. I attended my first ten-day silent retreat in this practice during a sweltering, record-setting August heat wave at Holy Name Monastery near Tampa Florida. At that time praying in the usual sense of the word wasn’t my cup of tea. When I told a friend of my plans to attend the retreat she said, “Bob (her husband) and I will pray for you.” “Why I asked naively, is something bad going to happen?”
The Monastery housed Benedictine sisters. We didn’t have much interaction with the good Sisters except for one, Sr. Irma. On the morning of the first day of the retreat, as we filed out of the meditation hall for a break, there was Sr. Irma - a short, smallish, no longer young though energetic, nun who sat at a desk and greeted us, saying meekly, “don’t forget to pray for us too” - sweet. I took it as if she was only talking to me. Later in the retreat Sr. Irma attended our “Bernie Party”, where the silence was broken and ample quantities of cake and ice cream were offered and consumed. Talking was permitted and Sr. Irma seemed to have a grand time, circulating among the guests and fully enjoying the sweets.
In time, I became a Board member for the non-profit Contemplative Outreach, a contemplative organization and we met often at the Saint Walburga Monastery in Elizabeth New Jersey. The facility included a retreat center and a school that was operated by Benedictine Sisters. We typically would eat with the Sisters. One day the Sisters at our table were apparently interested when I mentioned “mystical broccoli” in passing. None said anything but I could tell they wanted me to say more. I was glad I didn’t have to explain myself.
I came to know several of the Sisters superficially but there was a couple who I always seem to click with whenever there. I always eagerly looked forward to these trips and especially to seeing those with whom there was click. Sr. Kathleen had a lot of click. She seemed to rise above all others in her specialness. Sr. Kathleen was quiet and unassuming but had strong vibrant, and large presence. She seemed to welcome you without saying much of anything. I was saddened to hear on my last visit to Walburga’s that she was quite ill and in the infirmary so I was unable to see her. She died soon thereafter.
There have been other nuns I’ve known for whom there were moments of delightful fondness and affection such as with Sr. Maria or Sr. Pat. Such fondness and affection did not stem from seeing a woman in uniform as suggested, as I’ve worked with many women who wore uniforms (military) in the context of conducting medical research without the same effect. I find it hard to understand why I’ve been attracted to certain nuns but not others. Perhaps it’s no different than with people in general. You’re more attracted to and resonate with some people more than others, and at times even before you get to know them. Nor has it arisen from a shared faith as far as Catholic doctrine. I suppose part of it is explainable by the fact that they’re examples of people who have committed their lives, wholeheartedly, to something that addressed their ultimate questions, concerns, and values. A transmission of something spiritual? Perhaps agape. A mystery? Perhaps so. But if a mystery it’s one for living and not solving and that seems enough.
