Clarence told me...

Some years ago, I knew a lovely Franciscan Sister - the sort of genuinely sweet lady whose desire to be helpful to others is totally embedded in her nature. The congregation to which Anne belonged had Sisters in a wide variety of ministries, and a few of them (far more worldly wise, of course!) were chaplains in a prison. The chaplaincy there had a weekly, evening Eucharist, and on occasion Anne had attended.

It happened that, one week, the Sister who was part of the chaplaincy was unable to be present for the Eucharist, and Anne decided to attend on her own. One of the prisoners, Clarence, had told Anne that it was quite a shame that only those who attended the Eucharist were able to see her witness, and that she could do much good if she accompanied him to where she would find the other inmates. Fortunately, one of the guards intercepted Anne's effort! When he asked her why she had not thought of the dangers which could have awaited her, she replied, simply, "Clarence told me to come."

It is a warm memory, but I have noticed that, even with religious people who have had a great deal of exposure to the elements, or who may have had dark clouds in their own past, some have the innocence of a child in one area or another. I am in that category, but I am far from alone. There are cases where, no matter how much one may love and care for prisoners (for example), and regardless of what classes one has attended or books one has studied, recognition of a 'two edged sword' of one's blind spot (which usually is the other side of a virtue which has become second nature) is crucial. Anne's own desire to be a witness to the gospel was so much a part of her that it would not have entered her mind that Clarence and friends may have had a different motive.

Unfortunately, some of the very practises which religious were taught, as acts of humility, charity and the like, do not transplant well beyond the (real or figurative) monastery. In the community which I entered, there was a custom wherein, if two Sisters had an argument, and even if Sister A was responsible and had been rattling Sister B's chains for months, A had to apologise to B, then B had to respond with "I'm sorry I provoked you." There is some sense in this - it often, if not always, takes two to make an argument - and the response was intended to be humble and charitable. Were one to do the same in a far different setting, the hearer would undoubtedly see it as final evidence of one's own weakness.

There have been times when I have dealt with the criminal element (fortunately very few - I am so convinced that everyone's goal is union with God in some way, and that basically everyone is enthralled by ascetic theology, that I may eventually have invited a latter day Jack the Ripper in for tea. Both I and a Sister of my acquaintance, hoping for his repentance, wrote to Ted Bundy assuring him of our prayers for his salvation... you will never hear me defend the death penalty, but I do think it most forunate that he was not going to be let out...) Far more often, I have been shocked by more subtle wickedness, which does not involve physical violence but seeks to destroy others, or to perjure oneself for perceived gain.

I mention this because recognition of our own limitations - and of our own strengths, without losing awareness that the other side of them often makes us vulnerable - is vital. I possess my share of vices (and, unlike Anne, I doubt anyone would describe me as sweet), but, ever since childhood, I always have been totally honest. It just is not in me to lie - and, since I always assume others are being truthful, this has led to much hurt, manipulation, betrayal, and sometimes actual danger.

In my early adult years, my zeal greatly exceeded my prudence, and I had times of being highly judgemental. Though I fortunately, after years, was able to get past this, the root sprouted a problematic seed. I fell into a pattern of so avoiding judging, and of (sometimes very stupidly) assuming good intentions and motives on the part of others, that what little judgement in the best sense (not that I had much in the first place) fell by the wayside.

I'd best not attend the Eucharist in any prisons any time soon.