| By Anita Mathias
lames leaped into the horizon. My parents, my
sister, Shalini, and I abandoned our dinner to
race up to the terrace and watch the blaze. It
was Holi, the Hindu spring festival, an
explosion of mischief celebrating the god
Krishna's shenanigans with the cowgirls. Flung
water balloons gushed vermilion; water pistols
squirted indigo. Stranger smeared stranger with
silver paint stolen from construction sites.
Buckets -- dishwater? urine? -- were emptied
from high apartment windows onto passersby.
Riotousness and devilry burst forth, a ripe
sore.
Durga, our tiny, curly-haired cook, cycled
into town and returned, panting with news. A
procession of Hindus, chanting bhajans, statues
of shiva, god of destruction, hoisted on their
shoulders, had marched past the mosque and
forced a pig into it. Rumors of Muslim vengeance
for this desecration flew round the town. "I
won't tell you in front of the chhota memsahibs,"
Durga said. The Hindus retaliated. Jamshedpur,
my North Indian home town, was 82 percent Hindu
and 11 percent Muslim. The fire engines were
silent as Muslim slums, homes, and businesses
burned.
Mesmerized by the flames zigzagging into the
horizon, I sat on the parapet, my legs dangling
over the edge. In the boredom of boarding
school, I had read of front-page disasters
wistfully -- hurricanes, earthquakes,
landslides, floods, war. But nothing happened,
except in the movies. I was seventeen and had
just graduated from Saint Mary's Convent,
Nainital, a century-old boarding school in the
Himalayas run by German and Irish nuns-staid.
I gazed down: fire devouring houses, crashing
rafters, distant screaming. The effect was
hypnotic, as in a cinema rustling with
peanut-crunching, betel-nut chewing, enthralled
throngs. But these were not sound effects -- I
snapped out of reverie -- these were real
people, just like me, burning to death. Suddenly
sickened, I ran downstairs and locked myself in
my room.
The police slapped a curfew on the town: A
glare, a curse, a flung stone could spark a
riot. Police stood at every street corner, their
rifles cocked. The market shut down. Home
deliveries of bread and milk stopped. The cook
sifted out insects to make parathas from old
whole wheat flour. It was romantic in a way, the
Indian Family Robinson.
The Hindu-Muslim riots held little personal
terror: I was Roman Catholic. My forebears from
Mangalore on the west coast of India were
converted in the mid-sixteenth century by
Portuguese missionaries, backed by the
Inquisition. It was the prospect of boredom that
bothered me. At the first hint of violence,
libraries closed their stacks as too-easy
targets for arsonists. Though we lived in
faculty housing on the campus of Xavier Labor
Relations Institute, a business school run by
American Jesuits at which my father taught, it
was impossible to get books. How would I get
through curfew without them? A compulsive
reader, I went through our bookshelves: Jane
Eyre, Wuthering Heights, I had read them several
times. I shrank from rereading The Return of the
Native, Far from the Madding Crowd, or The Mill
on the Floss, though I loved those "classics." I
settled down with the books I had not already
read: Christian books. My father bought them at
parish jumble sales as though there were virtue
in the purchase. He never read them. To my
surprise, I was fascinated. The Cross and the
Switchblade, David Wilkerson's tale of Christ's
radiance transforming young gangsters and drug
addicts in New York City, and Catherine
Marshall's Beyond Ourselves were vivid accounts
of Christ bursting into everyday life, setting
it to music, making it sweet. This felt very
different from the fossilized Catholicism forced
on us at boarding school.
My childhood had been totally immersed in
Catholicism- saints, angels, rosaries, novenas,
litanies. It was punctuated with those rituals
-- baptism, first confession, first Communion,
confirmation -- that can so entwine themselves
with the fabric of your spirit that to slough
off Catholicism is to shiver in uncertainty.
It's like stripping off your skin. As a child, I
unquestioningly accepted Catholicism, and
believed what I was taught; that it was the only
true faith. Extra ecclesiam nulla salus: Outside
the church, there is no salvation.
When I was eleven, I read through a
compendium of General Knowledge during the
winter school holiday and discovered a new
passion: Greek mythology. I abandoned my stamp
and postcard collections to read everything I
could find on the enchanted universe of Greek
gods and goddesses. Then, I chanced upon an idea
that shattered my religious complacency.
I read that primitive men and women, often
devastated by nature, imagined it was God. They
worshiped the sun as Apollo; corn, fickle in
blight or plenty, was Ceres; the raging sea,
they imagined, was the mighty god Poseidon; the
north wind, Boreas. Flabbergasted mortals
elevated the forces of erratic, uncontrollable
nature into gods to adore and placate. I
understood. And was Catholicism any different
from this awe-struck, foolish approach to
nature? I doubted it.
I became an atheist and fed off the secret
knowledge of intellectual superiority. How
benighted they were, these parents,
grandparents, priests, and nuns who ran our
boarding school -- they and their rattling
rosary beads and boring Masses, their
sprinklings of holy water from Lourdes, their
relics, holy pictures, apparitions of the
Virgin, prayers both to and for any good soul
that left this earth. Just eleven, I knew
better. I whispered to cronies, "I am an
atheist," as one might confide, "I am a
murderess."
Sister Hermine, our stern-faced, square-jawed
German principal, summoned her rebellious
charges to her office and, from her lowest desk
drawer, slowly drew forth her strap -- a thick
strip of leather. She rarely had to use it. At
the mere sight, the victim whimpered in terror
and repentance. I was the only girl she had ever
strapped, Sister Hermine often said, shaking her
head. When I was sent to the principal's office
to apologize for calling Miss Fernandes -- a
teacher who had maliciously and unfairly
punished me -- a Gorgon and a bitch, I clarified
"No, I didn't call her a bitch. I said a witch,"
which seemed worse. Since I refused to recant (I
meant what I'd said) I was struck on the calves
with the strap and let off apologizing. Sister
Hermine was ambivalent about breaking her
students' wills. "What's the merit in taming
lambs?" my father's brother, Theo Mathias, a
Jesuit, asked her when she was close to
expelling me. "But if you get a lion cub, and
tame it into a lamb, isn't that something to be
proud of?" Sister Hermine agreed.
Still, she would be unimpressed by an
eleven-year-old atheist, I thought. Outwardly, I
went through enforced Catholicism -- daily Mass;
Benediction: a cascade of hymns every Sunday
evening; adoration: silent prayer before the
Blessed Sacrament every first Sunday;
confession, rosary, stations of the cross, and
choir practices. Inwardly, I scoffed, and as the
habit of confidence grew, I rebelled. I got my
friends to join me in crawling out of the choir
room while Sister Cecilia, behind the organ,
warbled in a holy dream. I embedded the altar
candles at Mass with the sulfurous heads of
match sticks, reducing the girls who strained to
catch the hiss, the sputter, the odor, to
convulsive giggles.
When I turned fourteen-no longer one of the
"babies," or the "middle set," but a "big girl,"
especially in my own estimation -- I knocked on
Sister Hermine's door and announced that I did
not believe in Catholicism, or in God for that
matter, so please, please, could I not have to
be a Catholic, and -- especially -- not have to
go to church?
"I'd much rather join the non-Catholics at
'silent occupation,'" I protested. The Hindus,
Muslims, and Sikhs were allowed to read, study,
paint, or embroider, provided they sat at their
desks in perfect silence -- oh, oasis! -- while
we, we went to church.
"Can't I just obey the Ten Commandments and
not go to church?" I asked.
She was amused. "What are the Ten
Commandments?"
I rattled them off from years of catechism,
but stumbled over "Thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's wife." "See, you can't even say the
Ten Commandments. How can you obey the Ten
Commandments?" Sister Hermine laughed. "You have
to be a Catholic now. Wait until you are
twenty-one. Then decide."
And that was that. I got no support from my
parents for my desire to officially "lapse."
They detested adverse attention. You are a
Catholic, my mother said, whether you like it or
not. Seven years to go.
I became openly defiant. As president of the
debating club, I chose subjects like "God is
dead," and "religion is the opiate of the
people," speaking for the motion, annoying the
nuns. My favorite writers were
Matthew Arnold and Thomas Hardy. (I was not
aware that doubt had a more modern face.) I
embraced Hardy's bleak Learian vision -- "As
flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they
kill us for their sport" -- is absent or malign
god.
Still, the vanishing of God left a vacuum
which was filled by restlessness, unhappiness,
and puzzlement about the purpose of life. Like
Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov, I concluded that
if there was no God, there was also no immutable
moral law, nothing intrinsically right or wrong.
There was no one to reward goodness or punish
wrongdoing in this world, and there was no world
to come. So one could do whatever one wanted or,
at least, whatever one could get away with.
I shared my new philosophy with my friends.
We formed a gang, "the bandits," and our first
exploit was our daily raids on Modern Store
which catered to rich kids from the four
expensive boarding schools in Nainital, and to
the tourists and honeymooners who swamped the
Himalayan resort. Kaye, Savneet, Bella, and I
strolled into the store wearing the baggy
sweaters of our convent uniform, designed to
disguise nubile figures. We stuffed Cadbury's
chocolate, Mills and Boon romances, stickers,
cards, nail polish, and costume jewelry into our
sleeves and up our sweaters. When our desks
overflowed, the nuns noticed, made inquiries,
then pounced on us. We were marched back to the
shop with our booty and forced to apologize: "We
are sorry, 'Mr. Modern.'"
Furious, I debated with my class teacher, the
fiery, Irish Sister Josephine, through a long
summer evening. Perched on a piano in the music
room (a sacrilege), I argued that if "Mr.
Modern" overcharged us all year, it was okay to
even things occasionally by "swacking" from him.
Her beautiful brown eyes kindled. "The Bible
says..." she began. But I did not believe the
Bible was "the Word of God," indisputable
But at the same time-secretly-I began to
crave a moral framework. How easy choice can be
when there are absolutes, a road map through the
maze of decisions. How wearying to thrash out
the morality of every case, every time, all by
yourself. I wished I could believe.
"You are experiencing an Augustinian
restlessness," Sister Josephine said, quoting
the saint: "Thou hast made us for Thyself, O
Lord, and our hearts are restless until they
rest in you." Pascal, she said, wrote of the
"God-shaped vacuum" only God could fill. And I
was God-bitten. Atheism is closer to faith than
indifference is.
I was nicknamed "the naughtiest girl in
school" after an Enid Blyton heroine. But being
a rebel wasn't really fun despite its jaunty
aura. If I could have been "good," I would have.
When the nuns predicted a conversion experience
for me, I feared it. I wanted it. Their
naughtiest girls often become the "holiest,"
they claimed. For was not Saint Augustine a
rake, and Saint Francis a playboy, and, as for
Saint Mary Magdalen...?
When we were to be confirmed, I was eleven.
Sister Magdalene, an enormous, squint-eyed
British nun, persuaded me to take her name.
"Mary Magdalen was a notorious sinner who became
very holy. Take her name, and she will ask God
to give you the grace of a great conversion,"
she said. The old story- flamboyant rebellion
later swinging to passionate devotion. I did not
ask "Maggie" why she compared me to a supposed
prostitute, harbor to seven demons. I composed
scandalous poems about the nuns: "Sister Secunda
eloped with a gunda," a bandit. I ran away from
school with Micky, the school sheepdog. In
revenge for being sent out of class, I locked my
teacher and classmates into the classroom
throughout an afternoon. Such things were surely
wicked. But too awkward, alas, too "nice," to
refuse Sister Magdalene, I became Anita Mary
Magdalene Mathias, adopting that stodgy, dated
name I hated. The classic coming-to-faith
trajectory had its appeal. I wondered if the
"Mary Magdalen" might prove prophetic. Would I
suddenly turn "good," perhaps even, in a blaze
of glory, become "a great saint"?
I might convert like Paul. A bullet of
hatred, galloping to Damascus to kill and
destroy, he is struck off his horse and glimpses
divinity. "Saul, Saul, it is hard for you to
kick against the goad." "Who are you, Lord?" "I
am Jesus whom you persecute." His life acquires
a purpose: "the surpassing greatness of knowing
Jesus Christ, my Lord." "For me to live is
Christ, to die is gain," he writes. How
wonderful, I thought, to convert just like that,
your life transformed -- but I lacked both
belief and an object of devotion.
Father Clement Campos and Father Ivo
Fernandes, handsome Redemptorist priests with
twangy-voiced charm, preached our annual
retreats: an aesthetic delight, days of hymns
and silences, resounding oratory, and prayer by
candlelight led by a luscious male voice. And
every year we, who from March to December rarely
saw a man except the chaplain, developed
monstrous, predictable crushes.
"And is anyone here an atheist?" the priest
asked provocatively on the first retreat evening
as he polled our group of Catholics, Hindus,
Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists-and atheists.
And every year, I raised my hand.
For the next week, they worked on me-private
conferences and counseling, private prayers for
healing from whatever trauma brought me, a
Catholic girl of good family, to this strange
pass. A foot away from the man's animated brown
eyes, how easy conversion seemed; how it would
please this appealing priest.
"Get up at 5 a.m. tomorrow," the priest said,
"and sit alone. Watch the sun rise on those
snow-tipped mountains and ask yourself, 'Could
this grandeur come to be by accident?'" So I
raised my eyes to the Himalayas, waiting to be
surprised by faith. Gazing up at the mountains,
I thought, as I was expected to-"Maybe,
maybe...." But back down in the valley, any
belief born of eloquence and hormones left with
the good-looking priest.
Still, I was fertile soil at seventeen as I
read the Bible while confined to the house
during those Hindu-Muslim riots. On the patio
where I sat reading, the sun, a ball of
vermilion fire, sank beneath the emerald
fortress of trees, lit by the orange-crimson
flowers of the Flame of the Forest and the red
and yellow Royal Poinciana. I continued reading
after dusk by the glow of a kerosene lamp. Was
Jesus Christ who the New Testament claimed he
was: the God who made and loves us, the creator
of the universe, cornerstone and crux of human
history, the zigzag of the jigsaw that makes
sense of everything else?
Paul says, "He is the image of the invisible
God. All things were created by him and for
him... and in him all things hold together."
And Jesus asked them, "Who do you say that I
am?" And Peter answered, "You are the Christ,
the son of the Living God."
Who do you say that I am? Who do you say that
I am? Driven by an inchoate hunger, I read and
reread the New Testament, my thirst growing even
as it was quenched. Gradually, my cherished
objections-the lack of scientific proof; the
myth-like aspects of virgin birth and a Christ
resurrected from the dead; that Christianity was
the credulity of fishermen given form and
credibility by Paul's sophisticated intellect --
crumbled like clay gods. No, this was not
mythology. It differed from the tales of Mount
Kailash, Mount Olympus, and Asgard that I had
devoured. It differed in the sense of, well,
holiness. It had the taste of truth.
Jesus' words sang in me like music, like
poetry. I found myself praying, "Lord, I
believe. Help thou my unbelief."
I gradually surrendered the intellectual high
ground of cold reason: What I do not see with my
eyes, or feel with my hands, I will not believe.
I could not spar against the Christ I
apprehended dimly -- I who did not understand
cars, or logarithms, or tides, or love. It's
possible the Gospels are true, I conceded. It's
plausible. Intellect can bring you to the brink
of belief. Faith is the missing link. I
believed: in a leap of the heart as rationally
inexplicable as the leap from affection to love.
For like love, faith is the heart's knowledge.
"Lord," I prayed. "I believe. You are the living
God. I will follow you, wherever you lead. I
will do your will insofar as you make it clear
to me what it is." I did not quail at this
largesse, this scattering of blank checks. I did
not add, "but be merciful, Lord. Be sensible."
With an air of adventure, of rusty doors
wrenched from their sockets, revealing fresh
vistas, I prayed: "Show me, Lord. What should I
do?"
I would dedicate my life to Christ, I
decided. How then should I live? "A life of
love!" How exactly, I did not know, but, being
seventeen, I wanted to do something dramatic and
do it swiftly. "I want to be a pen in God's
hands," I wrote in my journal, "picked up and
used, leaving light where I have written."
My first impulse, to fly off from Jamshedpur
to help David Wilkerson of The Cross and the
Switchblade in his work with teen drug addicts
and gangsters in Harlem, wasn't exactly
practical. While casting about for a vocation, I
volunteered in the Cheshire Home for physically
handicapped and mentally retarded children, on
the outskirts of Jamshedpur. Here, in the
postage stamp of my world, I tried to practice
the kindness at the heart of Christianity,
without which words are noisy gongs, ardor and
alms worth little. I lived with the Vincent de
Paul nuns and was captivated by their life of
prayer, quiet work, and silences. "How beautiful
this serene life is, governed by the pealing of
bells," I wrote in my journal. "Scaling inward
mountains-lovelier by far than a life of
distraction, worries, gossip, and moneymaking, a
life inimical to the spirit."
Catholic children brought up by nuns or
priests brace themselves against a vocation: a
tap on the shoulder, inward marching orders, an
imperative you can ignore, but at the cost of
your soul. At some time, we all think we've
caught it: That's it, we are the chosen of God,
chosen for a lonely, lovely way, another bride
of Christ.
Now, I began, obsessively, to wonder if I had
a religious vocation. God was the only thing
that was real, I kept reminding myself, and all
else -- college, marriage, career, social life,
money -- was vanity. I wanted to find a way to
live, always, close to Christ, tasting his joy
and peace. Surely leaving "the world," becoming
a nun, was the only way to do that.
While at the Cheshire Home, I read Edward Le
Joly's Servant of Love about Mother Teresa's
congregation, the Missionaries of Charity. How
utterly radical they were in their following of
Christ, I thought, as I read of their austere
life, stripped down to essentials. They owned
but two saris, a Bible, and no more than could
fit into a bucket-heir "suitcase" when they
traveled. How seductive to slough off
everything, to live deep in the embrace of
Christ, the creator of the universe, friend
sufficient for every need. Wow! Without
training, with impetuosity, they plunged into
all manner of human misery, their reach widening
year by year, their mandate simply to serve "the
poorest of the poor," defined broadly: lepers in
Yemen, shut-ins in Melbourne, crazed drug
addicts in New York, freezing homeless people in
London, orphans in Peru, tramps near the
Vatican, the dying destitute in Calcutta. The
energy of it all and, unconsciously, I guess,
the prospect of adventure dazzled me. They did
just what Christ commanded, I thought,
impressed: I was hungry and you gave me
something to eat, I was sick and you looked
after me. Whatsoever you do to the least of my
brethren, that you do unto me. I felt an inner
push, a shove toward this congregation, so
literal in its imitation of Christ.
In a burst of headstrong lucidity, I sloughed
off the destiny my parents had mapped for me:
college, followed by (an arranged) marriage. No,
I would become a Missionary of Charity. I would
help those unable to help themselves. I would
feed constantly off the light and joy of Jesus.
The notion glowed.
Minutes after I'd returned from the Cheshire
Home, full of bright decision, I announced it to
my parents. I left the room swiftly as I saw my
father's face freeze. My mother followed me. "Go
and see your father."
The muscles of his face worked. There were
tears on his cheeks. "Why must you bounce from
one extreme to another?" he asked. "You've
always found it impossible to conform. In the
convent, 'It's yours not to reason why.' It will
be a life of exhausting manual work. Mother
Teresa recruits simple women from the villages
and you're an intellectual snob. You'll have
nothing in common with them. Your mind will
atrophy. You will be bored!
"However, if you are sure that God is calling
you to this..." he acquiesced eventually. "But
go slow. Be sure. Wait." Wait! "I will not
wait," I said. "I will call them today. I have
heard my vocation."
I left for the convent that August, feeling,
with the naivete of late adolescence, holier
already, as if the Christian's life task of
"being conformed to the image of Christ" could
be accomplished in a dramatic grab for holiness,
and showy, though worthy, doing would speed the
slow, almost imperceptible process of
transformation called sanctification. I grew. I
grew through the next two years, through the
aspirancy, postulancy, and novitiate. I grew
through work in the orphanage, with the mentally
retarded and the dying destitute; through prayer
and Scripture study; through friendships and
conflicts and the "testing of vocations," and
through the tears and humiliation. And I grew
through sickness and exhaustion that never let
up, and eventually made the whole enterprise
untenable, and which, after I left, was
diagnosed as tuberculosis.
I left the convent sadly, with a sense of
falling off, to study English as an
undergraduate at Oxford University, to go to
graduate school in creative writing in America,
and later to forge myself into a writer and a
faculty wife in suburban America -- the less
poetic path. I still see Christ as the wisdom
that created the universe. I still see following
him as the sanest way to live, a way I am
committed to. The Christian imperatives which
Jesus with his Gordian-knot-slashing directness
reduced to two -- to love God mightily and to
love your neighbor as yourself-remain the same.
There is just more distraction. The traditional
monastic disciplines -- prayer, meditation,
adoration, the beautiful liturgy of the hours,
and "spiritual reading" -- served to draw one's
thoughts back to Christ, the breadth and depth
of his love, and his enabling grace. It now
takes ingenuity to carve for myself a circle of
silence to feed on Scripture and the
transforming presence of Christ it houses, and
to live contemplatively, mindful of Jesus not
only amid the beauty and tranquillity of my
garden, my writing, and my books, but amid a
child's cries and crankiness, the crucible of
marriage, and the haste and busyness which
haunts America as poverty haunts India.
Nurturing two young children, creating a loving
family life, running a peaceful household-the
demands to give of oneself are constant, without
the convent's periodic sanctioned escape into
the sacred ivory spaces of psalmody and song. In
fact, I now consider domesticity, marriage, and
motherhood a smithy in which the soul can be
forged as painfully, as beautifully, as amid the
splendid virginal solitudes of the convent. |