Whanganui, Island Bay, Jerusalem and Meryl Streep

Unsure where to begin this blog, I decided Whanganui was best. But then again, Island Bay might be better? Or even Jerusalem? No, it had to be Whanganui, because that is where I saw Mamma Mia; here we go again.

Wanganui East - river walk, July 2018     Photo: Ann Barrie

I

In late July, my eight-year-old grandson and I spent the weekend in a Whanganui motel while my daughter participated in an army exercise in the area. On the Saturday afternoon, he and I walked across Anzac Parade to the reserve by the river and kicked round a football; and on the Sunday, after my daughter joined us, we went to the movies. My daughter nobly volunteered to watch a Transformers movie with the young fella, and she bought a ticket for me to see Mamma Mia! here we go again which was playing at the same time.  

I settled myself into a seat near the back of the theatre, and shortly afterwards a woman, who looked to be about about my own age, came and sat next to me. She said she had just returned from a long cruise on her son’s yacht, and she also commented that she had heard Meryl Streep was not well.

I had not read any background on this movie, and later I jotted down some impressions: A little confusing, as Amanda Siegfried and Lily Rose look rather alike. … Americans are so positive! … I’m like Julie Walters, blubbing when a certain name is mentioned. … Meryl Steep puts in a very short appearance, but it’s a scene of transcendent beauty, and left me wondering if she is a convert to Catholicism.

The Meryl Streep scene stayed with me and set my mind making multiple connections …

II

Earlier this year, I sought spiritual direction from one of the Sisters of Compassion in Island Bay. I told her I felt overwhelmed by the need to make important decisions in my life, in particular, whether I should begin the process of converting from Presbyterianism to Catholicism. I had joined the choir of a Roman Catholic Church two years previously, and also discovered that one of my grand grandmothers was a birthright Catholic. Perhaps these were signs as to which path I should take?

The sister gave me a sheet with an explanation of spiritual discernment. She also read to me a poem by J. O’Donohue, that begins: “May you have the courage to take the step/ Into the unknown that beckons you. …” I apologised for having such poor concentration that I could absorb nothing. She said that mind and spirit are deeply interconnected. I told her I had sought leave of absence from my choir, as I was exhausted, and that I had found a walking group to join, and that I was trying to get back to my writing. She said my face lit up when I talked about walking outdoors, and also when I talked about my writing. She said to be gentle on myself: if I felt like going to a Catholic Mass on a Sunday, that was fine; if I felt like going to my Presbyterian Church, that was fine; if I felt like a lazy morning in bed, that was fine, too.

I see this sister once a month, and one of the changes I have made in my life is to practise Lectio Divina, reading a short practice of Scripture and reflecting on it. I use a small book that belonged to my paternal Scottish grandmother, who died ten years before I was born. The language is not the language of today, but I make my own adjustments. 

Daily Food; a text and a verse of a hymn for every day of the year. 
Given to Margaret MacKenzie by her cousin John, and
brought with her to New Zealand in 1919.  Photo: Ann Barrie

III

The choir I mentioned to the sister was one I joined in May 2016, six months after my husband died.  At the time, I wrote a poem about it. Here are the first and third stanzas:

Wanting to find my voice again I asked

around. You can call it serendipity

or fate or God, my seeking stumbled

on a choir that sings Gregorian chants

and Palestrina for the midday mass

of a Neo-Gothic Roman Catholic church.

…

It was baptism by fire, from Salve Regina

before the weekly practice to the Sanctus and

the Benedictus of the choral mass.

The mysteries of the seven tones to use

for Gloria Patri at the Introit took

three months before they lifted up their veil.

I no longer sing with the St Mary of the Angels Choir (COSMA), but they keep in touch with me. Habits die hard: the other day, Vivaldi’s Gloria was playing on the radio. I found myself singing silently along with the choir, jaw relaxed. 

IV

After seeing Mama Mia! Here we go again, I searched for Meryl Streep on Google. I found an item that said her friends were concerned about the serious deterioration in her eyesight. I also found a comprehensive Wikipedia article and I noted that Meryl was two and a half years younger than me, and had, like me, been raised as a Presbyterian, and that that during her school days she had many Catholic school friends and regularly attended Mass.

When I was a child attending Sunday School at Ardmore Teachers’ College and then Bible Class at Papakura East Presbyterian Church, I was blissfully unaware that I lived in one of the most conservative Presbyterian parishes in New Zealand. [photo] By the time I turned seventeen I was arguing with my Bible Class leaders, because I could no longer accept their literalist teachings on the nature of God, and I went off to Auckland University in 1965 determined to ditch church. I did make a diligent effort to read Bishop Robinson’s Honest to God, but I could not relate to it.

Ann Herbert, 16, dressed for Bible Class
Red Hill, Papakura, Summer 1963-64
Photo: Herbert family collection

 When I was nineteen, Truby King, a non-practising Catholic, became my boyfriend. He used to visit my family with me at weekends, and at term holidays I would accompany him to New Plymouth to stay with his parents; I became very close to them. Toward the end of 1967 I blithely announced to my parents that Truby and I were informally engaged to be married. My youngest sister described to me recently how upset my father was at the thought of me marrying a Catholic, although she herself liked Truby because he was kind to her and had a good sense of humour.  In the end, Truby and I went our separate ways.

During my twenties, I flatted with two Catholic women in Wellington, and a few years ago I wrote some verse about this, part of a larger piece:

So close we were and yet a giant gulf –

religion. I was Protestant; and they

were Catholic, Aidan observant, Liz

rebelling.

[…]

Liz said the love of Aidan’s twenties was

a man who’d been divorced, and in the end

she placed her faith before her heart.

A doubter in those days, I felt it cruel

that dogma so denied life’s force.

In retrospect, the giant gulf I saw was because I’d been taught that Catholics were a breed apart; I’m not aware that Aidan and Liz felt there was a gulf. I also had a degree of ambivalence: although I felt indignant on Aidan’s behalf, at the same time I envied her faith and knowledge and certainty.

Years later, in my mid-forties, married with two primary school-aged children, I began to feel stirrings in my soul and decided to go to church one Easter Sunday. I chose St Andrew’s on the Terrace, a liberal inner-city Presbyterian church where I had attended midweek talks on religion and society. The interim minister preached a rousing sermon that sparked my interest, and I began attending the church on alternate Sundays; the most important question in the world for me became What is God? On the social level, however, I struggled to fit in, as I was unused to attending church as an adult, and after a year I would have quit but for the arrival of a new minister.

The Rev. Dr. James Stuart, a Methodist who grew up in New York City, was very approachable, and I spoke to him about my concerns. He organised classes for those wishing to be received into the congregation as members, and I attended, along with two other newcomers, Helen and Roz. On Easter Day, 1995, we were formally welcomed and received our first communion as members. Afterwards, Helen and Roz, together with their friends Deborah and Rosie, both glorious singers; and I, together with my husband and children, joined Jim and his wife Gillian for a celebratory morning tea of coffee and chocolate cake at an Evans Bay café.

Letter of welcome to Ann Barrie from Hugh Templeton, Session Clerk
at St Andrews on the Terrace, Wellington, 1 April 1995.

Eighteen years later, I am still a member of St Andrews on the Terrace. The current minister, Rev. Dr. Susan Smith, is understanding of my strong attraction to Catholicism, and indeed, helped me explain it to myself: I find that the formal, repetitive liturgy enables me to enter more easily into a sacred space than does the creative, changing liturgy of a progressive protestant church such St Andrews on the Terrace. I also find that the tradition of mysticism, and the appeal to the heart in Catholicism draws me. 

V

This time last year, when I felt certain that following the path to conversion was the right choice for me, and that next time I travelled to Europe, it would be as a Roman Catholic, I emailed the religious sisters at La Maison d'Abraham (Abraham House) in Jerusalem requesting that I spend a month volunteering with them in 2019. I had been encouraged to do this by one of my fellow bénévoles at the Cité St Pierre (Secours Catholique) in Lourdes, where I have volunteered seven times over the past fifteen years. I have to admit that the first time I went there, the strongest motivator was the opportunity to immerse myself in a French-speaking community, but I gradually found myself absorbing the values of ‘The St Peter City.’

I have not, as yet, discussed Lourdes or Jerusalem with the sister whom I see for spiritual direction—there is always so much else talk about—but she would be interested. Her own congregation, the Daughters of Our Lady of Compassion, was founded by a French sister, Suzanne Aubert, in 1883, at Hiruhārama (Jerusalem) on the Whanganui River.  Suzanne Aubert's policy of care was for ‘all creeds and none.’ I have reflected on this, because I have in the past placed rather too much emphasis on the difference between creeds.

As for Abraham House, I decided to withdrawn my application for 2019 as I feel it is premature, and I will instead go to Lourdes again. I am on a journey, but there is no need to rush it.  

VI

Thinking again of Meryl Streep, I confess to being confused. She is such a fine actress that the film Mamma Mia! Here we go again seemed to me to be her farewell. Whatever inspired her performance, it caused me to draw together some threads of my own life. I will conclude this blog by writing a message in Latin, something I haven’t attempted since my high school days:  Lux aeterna luceat te, mea soror.  May eternal light shine upon thee, my sister.

Blog by Ann Barrie

I do not usually show my blog drafts to anyone before posting online. This one, however expanded into more of an essay, and so I asked my three fellow WordWrights – Val, Rosemary and Helen – to cast an eye over it and let me know if they thought I’d gone over the top. As always their comments were varied and valuable: ‘Are you sure you want to lay bare so much of yourself?’ … ‘You are raising more questions than you answer, in particular: what is the nature of your strong attraction to Catholicism? … ‘Perhaps you could expand this into several blogs’ … I took their feedback into account, and made some adjustments.   Ann Barrie