Sisters of the Beatitudes
Thanksgiving 2022: Sisters of the Beatitudes
The quiet saints in our midst, and beyond…We do well, always and everywhere, to follow them
My dear Aunt Ronnie died on the first of October. She’d been living with brain cancer for five years, so as sad as I was, I knew her passing was also a mercy, for her as well as my mother. As her younger sister, Mom felt obliged to visit Ronnie as often as she could, despite living three hours away (but often more, thanks to mid-Atlantic highway traffic), to advocate with her caregivers, and especially in the last days, to simply hold her hand, stroke her hair, wipe her chin, keep her company in any number of basic, tender ways, as we all need someone to care for us at the beginning and end of our life. And not merely obligated, but called, in her heart, to practice this Work of Mercy, a true ministry of presence.
Aunt Ronnie was also Sister Clare. She entered the order of Saint Joseph shortly after high school, and enjoyed more than sixty years in that community, practicing her ministry as a school principal and biology teacher. It was a life I knew little about, except indirectly, having never visited those schools, and frankly, apart from old photographs, only seeing her don her habit on the occasions of the sacraments my siblings and I received.
Her funeral, at the order’s nursing home near Philadelphia where she lived those five years, became a logistical tar pit for our family. We all live either in Virginia or in the West, so we hauled tired bones and sick kids to be present, encountering massive traffic and flight delays in the process. At one point, my father, overwhelmed, exclaimed, “Come on, Ronnie, you’re supposed to be helping us!”
But the funeral would hold many gifts within its mystery. Something about seeing Ronnie in the open casket— lovely in lavender, her favorite color, but undeniably cold to the touch as only the dead are—moved my parents, and us children with them, into a new honesty about their own remaining years, the changes they need to make, the care they may need to ask for.
And I received a gift as well, quite unexpectedly, which I am still unwrapping.
* * *
Each of my mother’s five children had a significant role in the funeral Mass, so as a lector sitting in the front row, I had a straight-on view of everything happening on the altar. Exactly what I’d wanted, to witness Mom deliver Ronnie’s eulogy. In its way, it was a prayer-poem, from the heart, to the heart. Honest, thorough, poignant, and even funny at times, it was a masterpiece which will reward re-reading and reflection.
The mother superior of the order delivered the eulogy for Sister Clare, to honor and celebrate Ronnie’s life as a nun. Also brilliant, the two tributes embraced as yin and yang, Body and Blood. (I was sorely tempted to include “peanut butter and chocolate,” a family favorite, but will keep that encased within these parentheses.)
This beautiful duet was offered before the Mass proper, if you can believe that, but we know how the Roman Catholic hierarchy feels about non-priests, especially women, offering homilies, among other gifts. So at that point, as the Mass began, I thought I knew what to expect: I’d be annoyed at the priest and the clunky translations of the “new” (i.e., old) versions of the creeds and Eucharistic prayers; I’d be moved at the closing of the casket and the carrying forth of the body; we’d dismiss and go to lunch, and I’d breathe relief.
But never underestimate the nuns, I’ve learned, and re-learned, over the years, ever since entering Catholic school at in first grade, where I was taught by a small legion of them. They always have a surprise in store.
* * *
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…
The priest read the gospel for the Mass, Matthew’s rendering of the Beatitudes, the opening of the Sermon on the Mount (Mt 5:1-12).
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called Children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you, and persecute you, and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.
Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets before you.
Even before I learned that members of Ronnie’s community had planned the liturgy, including this reading, I was moved: by its poignancy, and irony, in this context.
It placed blessing where it truly belonged, upon the nuns, who have, as a body and a vocation, practiced the Works of Mercy, and fought for peace and justice, in extraordinary— yet always humble— fashion. And it shifted the power too: Proclaimed by that tall, grayed, well-fed white priest, an empowered member of an institution that has criticized, fought, and even mocked the nuns for living their vows in ways that might challenge priests’ power and privilege, I took sweet satisfaction watching him—with Jesus’ words— essentially call out the bishops’ hypocrisy, and acknowledge the nuns’ true, lasting value.
What a gift, I thought, what a blessing within this sadness.
And still, there was more.
In that front row, I could see each of them, the sisters, one by one, as they received Communion. I watched them each look once more upon Ronnie, many through tears, and cross themselves as they walked back to their pews. Or limped, aided by canes or walkers. Or wheeled. And as they did, they did for me what Jesus did for his disciples, still blind with grief in the wake of his execution, on the road to Emmaus: they opened my mind to see the scriptures. (Lk 24:45)
Here they were, right here. These quiet, humble women, devoted to their God, their vows, and each other, many still with nimble spirits dancing in their eyes despite many physical frailties. Here they were: the poor in spirit, living in community, and simply, taking care of each other as they took care of God’s poor. Here they were: the mourning, pouring sadness forth unapologetically, not only for their sister, but for the deep pain and injustice still persisting in the world as well.
Here they were, meek, never proud and flashy; merciful, teaching children, and tending the sick; clean of heart, largely on the sideline of the scandals carried out and covered up by bishops and priests which have devastated countless children, families, parishes, and the whole institution itself.
Here they were, hungry and thirsty still for righteousness, beginning within this very institution, seeking more equality, more respect for their vocation, more power rightfully theirs, but often persecuted, insulted, and yes hated, by the comfortable celibate men donning robes and pointy hats, and by many others who, not understanding them—their options for simplicity, community, and dedication to the vulnerable and marginalized— fear them.
Here they were, the peacemakers, the fighters for justice outside the ecclesial and governmental halls of power, sitting resolutely on the boards of climate polluters and other corporate exploiters, sowing holy dissent and disruption there, and teaching and training generations of peacemakers to do the same, by following Jesus.
Here they were, right here, quiet as mustard seeds, powerful as mountains. And I rejoiced to be in their presence.
* * *
I know that my perspective, from that pew and in this piece, is narrow. I acknowledge that, as has become tragically clear, not all Catholic nuns, nor all orders, nor all nuns within a certain order, may be treated as one. (And in fact, “nun” and “sister” are not necessarily interchangeable terms, depending on your audience.)
Stories and even historical records have been unearthed— in some cases, quite literally— suggesting and often proving abuses, some horrific, that certain nuns enacted or colluded in, destroying the cultures and the very lives of children in Ireland, northwest Canada, the Dakotas, Australia, France, among other places. Too often, as was the case with the priests in their pedophilia ravages, these were perpetrated in the name of God, when in fact they were crimes against God and state.
I would be remiss— really, dishonest— to omit that. To delve into it would be the work on a different piece, which others have done far better than I could. My intention here is simply to honor and bless Ronnie and her sisters in ways that I could not do properly while she was alive; to try to name, honor, and give thanks for the epiphany of that Mass, and great the love it connected me to, imperfect as it may be, as human love always is.
* * *
After Mass, the extended family gathered with the sisterhood for lunch, in the dining hall of the nursing home. Like many good funerals, it afforded me the chance to see family members difficult to visit under ordinary circumstances, in this case all living on the east coast. The Covid pandemic had only made that more difficult— frankly, impossible— so I relished the time swapping stories with cousins over plates of chicken and rice.
In the early evening, while still light, I went for dinner with my parents and the two siblings who’d also arrived from the West. (My other two siblings hauled their sick kiddos right back to Virginia after the lunch, and I couldn’t blame them a whit.) We found a restaurant with televisions at each table, so we could catch the baseball wild-card game, and unwind a bit. The Phillies were playing, their first time in the playoffs in nearly twenty years (almost as long as our Seattle Mariners, my son was sure to let everyone know), so frankly we were going to hear about that game whether we liked it or not.
As you may know, the Phillies won that first game in dramatic fashion, rocking the favored Cardinals with six runs in the top of the ninth— in St Louis, no less— an early sign, in retrospect, that they were on a tear that would take them all the way to within two games of winning the World Series a few weeks later. In Catholic grade school in Virginia, the nuns would talk about the Eagles, Phillies, and Sixers constantly. (Like people who grow up thinking all food is grown in grocery stores, I grew up thinking all nuns were from Philly, and were devoted sports fans. In my world, they sure seemed to be; don’t ask me how they got to Virginia.) I don’t exactly remember them actually praying for these teams out loud, but I wouldn’t have put it past them, then or now. Something sure helped the Phillies find a higher gear in these playoffs.
As we ate and drank and cheered along, I felt the tension release and the mercy sink in, especially for Mom. Ronnie was still blessing us. And if we pay attention, I suspect she always will.
That night, I walked along a small river behind the hotel. It had been a warm day, and the insects and frogs were singing almost as if it were summer. The sky was clear, and I was far enough away from the streetlights to spot a few stars. Life, here in the dark, was far more abundant than I could possibly see.
I imagined Ronnie’s soul in passage to that realm of holy darkness, holy mystery. Joining now a vast sisterhood of the humble, merciful, and meek; of the tenderhearted and fierce-spirited; the poor in spirit, rich in heavenly treasure. Not only nuns, but the countless women, of any religion and station, who have given without counting the cost, fought without heeding the wounds, toiled without seeking rest, labored and not sought reward save knowing— as Ignatius taught us to pray— that they do God’s will. The quiet saints in our midst, and beyond.
And I rejoiced to be in her presence, in theirs. Right here.