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The Leavening of Sister Philomena by Rudolf O Okonkwo
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
How Rev. Sister Philomena finally got the attention of Rev. Paul in Boston.
The first time Paul asked me to follow him to Bishop Shanahan’s lodge after Sunday Mass, I was ecstatic. As we made our way to the brick parsonage, we passed a guard of honor mounted by lilies and hibiscus flowers. I felt as if I was on my way to heaven. It was soothing to my soul. The missionaries who designed the church’s walkway to the parsonage must have had a moment like this in mind.
Paul had always been angelic in my eyes. But that day, he looked ripe for rapture. I made two quick steps to keep up with one step of his long legs. His head brushed the tips of the pine trees along the walkway and for the first time, I marveled at his height. His immaculate cassock swung to the silent jingle of the evening wind. Wild aroma of ripe mango engulfed us like holy spirits in Lent. From a distance, the bees buzzed and the birds sang melodious tones. I had my bible under my left armpit but it was on the right that I was sweating.
It was men like Paul that made me take that decision at the age of sixteen. I still remembered how my mama cried of joy the day I told her. Mama felt blessed that the fruit of her womb had decided to be the bride of Christ. It seemed like a long time ago but it had only been six years. Papa wasn’t thrilled. Or maybe he did not show it. After following the footsteps of his father to be the bell ringer at St. James, I was sure inside him, there was joy that his only daughter had chosen to enroll in the ultimate service of the Lord.
It was men like Paul who won me over. Their holiness, their candor and their sense of purpose were such a magnetic force I could not escape. Over the years, because of my father’s position at St. James, I had the privilege of meeting many of them. I shook their soft hands in reverence. I wanted to breathe in the air they breathed out. At age ten, I stole a glance underneath their albs when they sat down. I was disappointed that angels did not reside inside the vestment. As I grew older, I became fascinated with rubbing my finger across their albs, for blessings and healings.
I remembered all these as Paul opened the door to his mighty home and let me in. He held the door for me to walk in. He had an infectious smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that made one feel the catechism was always right. The parsonage was big. Its roof was built high up as if there was an attempt to take it up to the stars. Some statues of Jesus and the apostles were lined across the stairways that led to the living area. Pictures of saints and angles adored the walls of the dinning area.
Before I sat down, I glanced through the pictures of men who had over the years held Paul’s position. It was an impressive collection of servants of the Lord. For the first time, I saw the photograph of John Cross Anyogu, the first priest ordained at Igbariam Seminary. His seminary was the same school that produced Paul. Looking at the pictures, it struck me that in a forest of men of vestment, Paul stood out as an Okazi leaf.
That first visit, Paul and I talked about life in the Lord. He was deep, inspiring and open. At a point, he was confessional. He let me see his fears and his insecurity. His intellectual curiosity mirrored mine in so many regards. It strengthened me in ways I didn’t know was possible.
With Paul, I discussed a wide range of topics including the Church and the outside world. He often talked about the documents of Vatican II and how the continuing changes in the condition of our time required continuous review of church positions. His favorite books were St. Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica and Pascal’s Wager. He was stimulating and fascinating at the same time. He considered the destruction in 1901 of the Arochukwu oracle called Long Juju as the beginning of Igbo.
I returned the second and the third time. By the fourth time, my invitation to visit had become an open invitation.
“Sister Philomena,” Paul said to me as he walked me out the fourth time, “Come around anytime it pleases you.” His infinite welcome was like sacrament. In no time, I began to feel as if I was having communion with the saints. I had no doubt in my mind that I was reigning with Paul. That was when my trouble with Sister Ruth began.
At first, I thought she was just jealous of my close association with Paul. So, I prayed for her. I asked Jesus to help her accept that I was the chosen one. I asked Jesus to find her an angel of her own. I consciously tried not to gloat even when I felt I was walking in the clouds. Then she began to conspire with other sisters against me. When I approached them, they became silent. When I walked past, they burst into wild laughter. The more I felt isolated, the closer I leaned on Paul. I reminded myself of what my grandfather used to say – that when an enemy kills a buffalo, his opponent calls it a sheep.
Sister Ruth and I got to Immaculate Heart of Mary Convent in Amakwa-Ozubulu, the same day. We did everything together. We supported each other during Novitiate. When we left the convent, we both ended up at Madonna Catholic Church, Nnobi. In the past two years, Sister Ruth had a cordial relationship with Paul’s predecessor. During that period, I was happy for her. She used to tell us excitedly how great it was to be close to a sanctified representative of the Lord. When Paul first arrived, she was the sister assigned to him. For some reasons undisclosed, Paul did not like her. I then became her replacement.
One day, Mother Superior called me into her office.
“You know you are young and bright,” she began. “But I hope you know also that there are a lot of things you still do not know.”
It was vintage Mother Superior. She was always concise, direct and most often a parable churner, like Agbala, the priestess. “Whatever you do, don’t pick your eyes with things meant for picking the ears.”
“Why are you saying that?” I asked.
“Because the throat that eats everything either falls into the trap of the living or the dead. And a rat that fails to run fast, risks its tail being burnt,” said Mother Superior.
Mother Superior was visibly old and tired but wise. The stories of her fierce past and astute accomplishment confirmed to us that she was now a shadow of her former self. The changes in the church had left her disillusioned, but she hid her displeasure most of the time. All the sisters knew that she was just marking time, waiting for the Lord to call her.
I once asked her if the absolution and remission of sins was permanent. And if permanent, could it be automated. Mother Superior looked at me with her piercing eyes and said, “Despite what you might have heard, an inquisitive fellow sometimes misses her way too.”
I had no difficulty during my Novitiate. I took the vow of chastity and poverty with no reservation. I accepted the name Philomena because my commitment to the Lord’s service was going to mirror those of Sisters de Lourdes and Philomena who lived a life of prayer, seclusion and mortification with the lepers of Ogoja. I first deviated when I came out of the convent and decided to join the Daughters of Divine Love.
With Paul, another new feeling was developing. Something I had not felt before. In his presence, mountains of goose crept across my belly. His zeal gradually rammed my resistance down. It took weeks, but somehow, he unconditioned me from my subservient training at the convent. He encouraged me to let my thoughts explore a wide horizon. At first, it was scary. But with his help, I began to enjoy it.
Paul was transferred to another parish weeks after Sister Ruth began to openly despise me. Paul broke the news to me in tears. He said he would miss me. I cried too. But I accepted that the Lord who brought him also took him and if it was the wish of the Lord he would bring another.
Before Paul left, we organized a party for him. Members of the parish who all loved him came and showed their appreciation for the wonderful work he did. It was an emotional sendoff for everyone, especially me. He received numerous gifts some of which he gave out to sisters. I got a gold plated bible from him.
When Paul left, I wrote him several times before he was sent to Rome for further studies. In Rome, Paul joined the order of Jesuits.
Paul stopped writing.
I began to feel like a nun for sale. I began to wonder who would buy me and of what use I would be? I only knew how to weed and water; how to plant and pray; and nothing of use in the streets of the world. I had no doubt that I would be on sale for a very long time.
***
As I have done in the last three years, I joined other sisters at the end of the Igbo church service at St Stevens in Boston, to greet the visiting priests who kept Mass. There were three of them and they come from Europe.
I shook each hand in reverence, just as I did when I was a kid. The penance of the priest had not left my psyche. I was surprised to notice a familiar face hidden by well groomed bushy sideburns. I looked deeper but was not sure who he was.
“Rev Paul?” I asked, humbly.
“Yes, who am I greeting?” he said in Igbo. Then, he quickly recalled. He pulled me close to him and cried, “Oh my sister, how are you doing?”
It was a beautiful surprise. As moving as the day that Mother Superior broke the news of my scholarship to Boston College.
“Sister Philomena,” she said in a coarse voice, “I have selected you to go to America for further studies. You are a bright woman and I want you to go out there and learn new things. When you come back, I want you to help make things better.”
That evening, I went on a holy pilgrimage. I visited Paul at his cozy lodge in Brighton. It was a little room at one of Boston College’s guest houses. I was itching for an embrace and he gave me a long and lasting one. My starved emotion was pumping. In his arms, I felt I might explode. As our hearts beat in sync, my passion boiled over. He used his succulent palm to caress my face. It sent a smoldering sensation across my spine.
A stream of disarming weakness circled my stomach. It devoured my strength in a way unimaginable. Though my eyes were shut, an inverted image of paradise began to revolve in my innermost mind. His words became instant whispers in my ears. “My body is sanctified,” he said. “Your body is saved for the glorification of the Lord through his closest servants on earth.”
It was delightful – the pounding heart, the eternal scent of his neck, and the overpowering draw of his cassock. As his cuddle became warmer and warmer, my pleasure expanded outside of my body. My heart began to melt like cold New England snow enveloped by a superheated air. My memories jostled around for treasures more delightful but knew nothing. Whipped clear of my soul was any sense of betrayal of a vow. In its place was a celestial sense of service and obedience.
He was patient. He was gentle. His soft hands moved slowly. His fingers crawled on my body as if I was a chain of rosary. I thawed from within. The grandeur of ardor moistened my lips. What remained of my veins was soaked in devotion. From my eyes dripped tears of temptation untouched. The nibbling sound of his lips damped my thighs. As he began to tickle my nipples, I began to shake.
His whispers became reckless. “Blessed Virgin Mary,” he called me. “Caritas Christ urget nos,” he said under heavy breath.
The temple of my yearning reached its first climax. I grasped for breathe. I heard myself saying in Spanish, “Yo, la Peor de Toda.”
He was sweet even as he sucked my fingers. He squeezed my breast with a violent tenderness that rained ecstasy across my body. He pretentiously chewed my ear lobes. It heightened my appetite just in time for the last of my habit to drop on the floor. A picture of scintillation flashed across his face as he looked at my skin without a piece of cloth on. Intermittently, he pastured at my nipples and grazed at the wilderness of my thighs. He removed my Mercy cross and my ring and dropped it on the side table. He mumbled some inaudible words. To my afflicted ears, it sounded like a private baptism.
I helped him yank his cassock off his neck. I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. His oiled skin was smooth and shiny. Tempest of sweat swelled around his chest. A hailstone of desire held my body at ransom. He crawled around me, incensing every part of my body with his tongue. Like a silent river suddenly dammed, I busted into Latin rhythm.
Agnus dei,
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Miserere nobis
I closed my eyes. With both hands, he held me a little up as if I was a censer. While his left held onto my chain, the right swung me forward. He swung to and fro for a deep and universal diffusion of the sweet odor of his incense. Invisible smoke of fragrant odor enveloped us and proclaimed my spirit of fidelity. I did not know when he sprinkled his holy water. I only saw him make the sign of the cross after he cooed, “I praise you. I bless you. I adore you. I glorified you. I thank you. You’re truly great. You will be exalted.”
For a long time, he took complete dominion over me. I quaked as consuming fire devoured me. My body vibrated like a rope perched on by a mighty eagle. The only response I could give was a loud, “Hosanna in excelsis.”
And Mass was over.
***
I saw Paul two more times before he returned to Europe.
In his first email, he talked about the completion of the unfinished symphony of Nnobi. It made me flashback. I remembered Sister Ruth. I remembered her five letters to me none of which I replied. I read them again and replied her. I told her that I had forgiven her for being mean to me during my last days at Madonna Catholic Church. Then I told her that I met Paul in Boston. I did not tell her the forbidden story.
Two weeks letter, I got this email from Sister Ruth titled, My Everlasting Wound, that made me cry for hours.
Dear Sister Philomena,
I bring you Calvary love in the name of our lord, Jesus Christ.
I agree with you that 1 Corinthians 13. 4-7 should guide us always in things that pertain to love. I was trying to be patient but my pain could not let me. I was trying to be kind but I could only achieve it by showing repulsion toward you. I was not trying to be envious rather I was searching for a way to bring the truth to you. I was overwhelmed by my resentment for Paul that I could not bear the simplest thing.
Remember that I was assigned to help him settle in. He made advances and I pushed him away. He spoke of his body being sanctified. He wanted me to succumb as a show of obedience to the will of God. Because I have heard about priests like him, I refused.
He overpowered me and raped me. I was full of shame that I did not tell anyone. I discovered that I was pregnant. I told him and he arranged for me to have an abortion. I was devastated after. I resented him. I later told Mother Superior who wrote a petition for his transfer.
I did not want you to suffer the same fate but I did not know how to tell you. I am sorry for the way I behaved. Forgive me. The Sister Ruth that you saw in those last days was not the same sister you knew at the Convent. The sister had walked into Paul’s parsonage and came out without her virginity and her dignity.
Each day, I pray not to face eternal damnation for all the bad ills Paul brought on my soul. Till today, I regretted why I did not run away the first time he fondled my breast. He destroyed me much more than the damage I incurred when I realized that I was an illegitimate daughter of my father’s sister. Or that my father was a low caste man the free born call an osu.
What I could not stand most was going into the confession booth to confess to him. It was my heaviest trauma. I was confessing to a man who confessed to me that he used to visit prostitutes in Onitsha but stopped when AIDS disease became widespread. That was when he began to abuse sisters.
I make these unpleasant disclosures for you to know that I did not despise you but rather the devil that was luring you. I could not fight back because I was only one woman and I had no right of dissent. I also wanted to avoid a scandal because I will be the one to be dismissed and disgraced. And you know that I have no home to go back to.
I have returned to a life of prayer and contemplation. Please pray for me and ask for forgiveness on my behalf.
Yours faithfully
Sister Ruth.
I read Sister Ruth’s email thrice and each time I cried as if I was reading it for the very first time. For strength, I recited Hail Mary.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen
I gathered my strength and drafted three different emails to Paul in quick successions. Thereafter, I recited the prayer after rosary.
HAIL, HOLY QUEEN, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary!
I had not yet sent any of the drafts out. Though the contents of the emails were different, the three had the same title: You son of a bitch!
Rudolf, it was just last week I went to visit my parents, and a cousin told me about the same story. But this priest was doing this to naive young women in the villages. I'm Catholic, but it's really shameful the things our church decide to swwep and the carpets.
