Different Gods

By Mary Judith Ress

Sister Mary Clare is a savvy sixty-plus-year-old nun who runs a shelter for women in downtown Oakland, California. Over the years, she has incorporated holistic healing practices into her work with the down-and-out women who appear on her doorstep. Casa Guadalupe has a reputation for being welcoming—no questions asked.

At the request of her cousin, an emergency room nurse, Mary Clare is called upon to provide a Reiki session to an unconscious derelict man the police have picked up near Yosemite. But when the elderly man finally awakens, he discloses that he is St. Francis of Assisi and is dedicated to restoring the Savior’s message and the Catholic Church. As the man’s story is slowly revealed through vivid diary entries, Mary Clare embarks on her own journey to find out who he is, how he ended up in California, and why he believes he is St. Francis without any idea that she is about to unveil as much about herself and her beliefs as she does about him.

In this tale of faith, love, and friendship, a nun crosses paths with a derelict man on a divine mission who teaches her more than she ever imagined about herself, God, the church, and forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532056949

Mary Judith Ress

Mary Judith Ress is an ecofeminist theologian, journalist, and editor who has been living and working in Latin America since 1970. Her nonfiction work Ecofeminism in Latin America won second place in Best Gender Issues at the Catholic Press Association (2007). Her first novel, Blood Flowers, has been translated into Spanish. Ress resides in Santiago, Chile.

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Copyright © 2018 Mary Judith Ress.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-5693-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5694-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912268

iUniverse rev. date:   11/14/2018

Cover image: Landscape N 2

Digital drawing, 2011

Sergio Córdova Ebensperger

www.sergiocordova.cl

[e-mail]

Contents

The Amazon, Six Months Earlier

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

For David, tireless seeker after the mysteries of the universe

THE AMAZON, SIX MONTHS EARLIER

Along the Ucayali, howler monkeys swing up and down the canopied forest on the lookout for a quick meal. Two armadillos join a giant anteater as she nuzzles the baby on her back. As sunlight breaks through the clearing, the spotted puma, the anaconda, and the harem of black vultures become visible.

He must have dozed off. Where is she? He looks around the circle. A thousand eyes return his stare. The stench of dried blood and vomit float in the air. Or is he smelling his own fear?

He swallows hard. The nausea from the ayahuasca is subsiding, but he is trembling from head to foot. He crawls over to the spot where she finally gave up. A sea of tiny florescent green insects scurry along the rivulets made by her blood in the mossy earth, eager to drink the dregs. Only a few clumps of matted gray hair remain.

The jungle is taking her back.

He curls up into a fetal position and weeps.

A condor might report on a thin white man, bare to the waist, howling like the monkeys in the surrounding treetops.

He stops sobbing and struggles to his feet. He hears the sound of footsteps coming close. He spits out the bile filling his mouth.

As her disciple, he too knows the secrets.

He doubles over in pain as a poison dart cuts into his liver. He begins a furious belching to dislodge it.

They are bearing down. No longer his teachers, they are stalking him. When they find him, they will kill him.

Panic seizes him, and he runs.

The condor watches as the man clad in the flimsy Shipibo skirt tears through the brush toward the Ucayali.

Maybe there’ll be a boat. If not, he’ll take his chances and swim downriver toward Pucallpa. He has to get out.

Forgive us our trespasses, he prays as he runs toward the river.

CHAPTER   1

Mary Clare was taking her last gulp of coffee when the phone rang.

How are you, Sister? She recognized Sister Patricia’s voice.

How much time do you have?

Not much.

All’s well here. Getting ready to start a new season.

Good. One of these days, we’ll catch up. Right now I need to confirm a date for the bishop’s annual visit.

Mary Clare uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She bit her lip.

Are you there?

You know I hate these visits. Such an intrusion … She bit down harder.

It’s an unavoidable fact of life, MC. Buck up.

Oh, I know. She put the receiver to her chest for a moment and sighed.

Any suggested date?

October 5? You know these visits are necessary to keep the shelter as a legitimate apostolate of the Franciscan community.

Okay, okay, no problem.

Thanks. Take care, Sister.

Mary Clare sank back in her chair and looked up at the painting above her desk. A postmodern version of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Still surrounded by the traditional halo of flowers, this Lady leaped out at her, dressed as a black-belted karate warrior. Mary Clare pushed away her dread. Payback time for having church sponsorship. Let it go, she told herself. Heaving herself up, she walked toward the door.

Minutes later, she was directing the morning tai chi class.

Pull down the sun’s energy into every cell of your body, she instructed, guiding the women into the Shower of Light movement.

Seven showers to the left, seven to the right.

Come back to your center. Breathe. Easy now. Slide into the Woman Praying on the Mountaintop.

Mary Clare moved her hands together as if praying. Seven to the left, seven to the right.

Let’s remember our loved ones. Those who are sick or alone, she intoned as she crossed her hands in front of her.

Ain’t gonna pray for no goddamn moda fucka, Lettie muttered as she clasped her hands together. Damn moda fucka. Ain’t gonna …

Shh, Lettie. I’m sure you can think of somebody who needs a little love this morning?

Sister Mary Clare moved into the Passing Clouds position.

Hell, yeah. My poor niece Rita down there in LA with her six kids—and her a diabetic. That moda fucka husband of hers …

For Rita, then.

They were only five today.

These September mornings were still warm, but come winter, there’d be a line of women waiting for her to open up at seven thirty. Tai chi followed by a cup of tea and whatever Eddie’s Bakery had left over from the day before.

Lettie, the shelter’s perennial bag lady, hadn’t missed a day since she showed up two years ago. I’m gonna marry you, Sister, honey, she’d declared with a gummy grin. Early stages of dementia back then. They’d probably have to provide hospice care for her down the road, but for now, except for her cataracts, Lettie was as strong as a horse.

Like the clouds, everything passes, Mary Clare murmured, hands in front of her face, swaying back and forth. Joy. Sorrow. Health. Sickness. Life. Death. Then life again. All things change.

Mary Clare closed her eyes as she brought the group into the last posture, the Cosmic Meditation.

Hands laced in front of you. Left heel inside the arch of your right foot. Feel yourself anchored between heaven and earth. Look out at the world with new eyes. Breathe deeply.

She squinted through her fingers. Lettie had never managed the heel-into-the-arch stance and stood there with her hands in front of her face. But Siri, in her translucent red minidress and her high-heeled rhinestone boots, had turned into a perfect anchor. She looked like the incarnation of the many-armed Shiva, most likely her patron saint. Carolina, their volunteer from the Presbyterian seminary, was doing her best to follow the movements. She’d be more comfortable in jogging togs than in that gray suit.

And Mattie. God bless her. She’d wheeled herself into the common room on her own steam. In her orange-striped bathrobe, she preened like a Girl Scout taking her oath of allegiance as she moved to Clouds Passing. How many more days or weeks would it be? When she gave Mattie her daily Reiki session, Mary Clare could feel the energy slipping away, the soul uncoupling from the body.

Come back to the center. Another deep breath. And let’s end by greeting each other with a namaste salute. They bowed to one another, acknowledging, The divine in me greets the divine in you.

Mary Clare loved beginning each day with tai chi, although she wasn’t sure how proper it was to Franciscan spirituality. Tai chi in the mornings and a circle dance to end the day. New ways to pray. More ecumenical as the shelter’s clientele became more inclusive, broadening from Mexicans and Central Americans to Chinese, Indian, and Vietnamese.

Siri, where’ve you been these last few months? We’ve missed you.

Morning, Sister. Have to go where trade is. Siri tugged at the hem of her miniskirt. Been working beach towns down south. San Diego, Santa Barbara. Surfer crowd.

A good season?

The young woman hung her head. Very good. Then luck change. I got—how you say—rolled. Lost everything. Siri’s lower lip trembled.

Oh, hon. Mary Clare put an arm around her would-be Shiva. Even though she’d heard this story a million times, that look of surprised hopelessness still made her boil inside. The darker and more foreign looking, the more the vultures sniffed you out. It wasn’t about sex. It was about power. About class.

How much?

Three thousand dollars. Day care money.

Ouch. What now?

Back to the streets of Oakland. Siri shrugged. It’s steady.

You know there’s still that opening over at Eddie’s …

Annoyance flashed across the girl’s face. Streets pay three times as much. Gotta help Mom take care of my little girl.

She guessed Siri’s mom didn’t want to know what kind of work her daughter did for a living. How many years could this tough, beautiful Indian girl make it on the streets? Ten? Twelve?

Well, welcome back. We’re starting some new classes this fall—crafts, weaving, meditation, herbal remedies. You might find something you like. Now go get yourself a cup of tea. She waved Siri toward the kitchen.

From across the room, Mary Clare spied Carolina wheeling Mattie back to her quarters. In four strides, she was behind the wheelchair. Let me take her, dear. I need to give her a little Reiki to pick up her spirits. Go join the others for tea.

Carolina fidgeted with the top button on Mattie’s robe. Sister, I need to talk with you, she whispered. I can’t take Lettie—I can’t! She—well, she stinks! I’ll throw up if I have to sit next to her again.

Ah, the smell of poverty. Mary Clare didn’t even try to rein in the sarcasm. I’ll see you in my office as soon as Mattie is comfortable. She swallowed her irritation as she wheeled Mattie into her room and helped her settle into bed. The room was no bigger than a walk-in closet, but the Cancer Society had provided a hospital bed, and some angel kept fresh violets and lilies of the valley on the bureau beneath the window. No smell of poverty here. The odor of cod-liver oil vied with the flowers.

Won’t be long now. Mattie’s dim gray eyes met hers. Those clouds passin’. Life. Death. Life again. You really believe that, Sister?

I do, Mary Clare said, laying a hand on Mattie’s forehead. You’re burning up. The hospice nurse should be along to give you another shot to make you comfortable.

Good. Mattie cackled. If the cancer don’t get ya, the morphine will. Morphine’s more fun.

Mary Clare smiled. They’d become close over the years.

Some music, maybe? Something classical, like Mozart?

Want that throaty guy with the sexy voice.

Leonard Cohen? She’d forgotten how they used to listen to him as they washed the dishes together.

Mattie grinned her old street-savvy grin. Think of you when he sings, ‘Oh the Sisters of Mercy, they are not departed or gone …’ That part about ‘and if I heard they had sweetened your night … it would still be all right.’ Mattie tried to wink, but she was already dozing off. Go easy on that new girl. You once young yourself, she whispered.

With a final lingering touch on the shoulder, Mary Clare left the dying woman to her dreams. We’ll sing Cohen’s Hallelujah at your funeral, she promised.

As Mary Clare walked to her office, she breathed in the bustle invading the shelter. Like starting a new school year. Betty had come in humming Frosty the Snowman, which meant their jill-of-all-trades crafts teacher was already imagining the Christmas fair.

The new Zen Buddhist instructor had been in yesterday working on her meditation room and adjacent Zen garden. Pillows and a carpet and a CD player, yes. But a waterfall? We’re not a Buddhist monastery, my dear!

She shouldn’t have been so flip. Jenn was a devout Buddhist. Mary Clare had attended one of her meditation circles and found it deeply centering. So when Jenn offered to hold sessions twice a week, Mary Clare thought it would lift the women’s spirits. Now she wasn’t so sure, especially in light of the bishop’s upcoming visit. Perhaps she’d agreed too readily. But already photos of snowcapped mountains, deep green forests, and rambling river valleys cheered up the room’s once-dreary walls. Jenn was bringing her own set of chimes and her statue of Buddha. Surely Mary Clare could come up with something akin to water falling.

Her office door stood ajar. She paused to study the faces framed on the wall. Her patron saints. To the left, the martyrs from El Salvador, Archbishop Romero, then the collage of her old comrades, Ita, Maura, Dorothy, and Jeanne. To the right, Dorothy Day, Cesar Chavez, Joseph Campbell. Be with me, old friends, she prayed.

She glanced at the nameplate on her door: Sister Mary Clare Mulholland, SF, Director. Underneath, she’d recently tacked a drawing of Hildegard of Bingen’s Mandala of the Cosmic Egg.

Scrambled, hard-boiled, fried. She’d see which eggs the day brought.

Carolina was slumped in the wicker chair in front of her desk, twisting a pink silk scarf.

Beautiful scarf, Mary Clare said as she sank into her chair.

Carolina sat up straight and blushed.

A gift from a friend. A German pastor.

He’s just a friend?

She. Yes. A friend. We hope to have a parish together someday …

Mary Clare gave the girl a sharp look.

Good plan. She lives in Germany?

Carolina nodded.

"Lots of witches burnt in Germany. Have you seen the documentary The Burning Times?"

Carolina squirmed. No, Sister.

Well, it documents women who were burned at the stake. Most were old, illiterate—a nuisance because they owned their little farms … I wonder whether Lettie, if she had lived in Germany in those days, would have been burned as a witch. She’s demented enough!

Carolina made no effort to conceal her tears.

I didn’t know it would be so hard. So—so sickening, she cried. All I want to do is to bring people closer to God. To lead the service, sing the ‘Exultant,’ break bread together in fellowship …

Mary Clare closed her eyes. The image of the Cosmic Egg returned. Soft-boiled versus hard-boiled: Mom’s illness. Dad’s alcoholism. Toby’s death. She took a deep breath.

Ever hear of Letty Russell? No? Letty was the first woman to graduate from Harvard Divinity School in the 1950s. She became the first ordained Presbyterian woman.

Mary Clare warmed to her subject. She cut her teeth as a pastor in Harlem. Oh, not today’s avant-garde Harlem with its slick Afro bars but the Harlem of the 1950s, of America’s underclass and all that being poor and black meant then. She became famous for her ‘church in the round’—everybody was welcome. Letty went on to become a major feminist theologian, wrote lots of books, went through two husbands. Somewhere along the way, she came out as a lesbian and taught us about what it meant to be queer—different—and still be okay. Mary Clare leaned forward. And still be okay.

A strained silence filled the room. She waited, watching Carolina.

Finally, Carolina spoke. I guess I better discover Letty Russell. Her voice was so low Mary Clare could hardly hear her. So—am I fired?

Oh, for God’s sake, girl. Here, give me your hands. No, she said, forcing Carolina to look her in the eye. You are required to work on your fear of poverty. Read Letty Russell’s book, and here in this shelter, I want you to spend time working with Betty in crafts and with Jenn in her Buddhist meditation classes. I know you had hopes of doing Bible studies with the women. I want you to lead them in tai chi instead. Learn some circle dances. Talk to them. They are your teachers—including stinky old Lettie.

Mary Clare stood up. You might check out Betty now. She’s in the crafts room sorting through the donations. You’ll love her. Now, off with you.

Sister, I—I don’t know … Carolina stammered.

‘Go on wit ye,’ as me mum would have said. Just be who you’re meant to be. Letty Russell will be happy—and so will Lettie-the-stinker. She whisked her young friend out the door and looked at her watch. She’d be in time for her date with Barry at Owen’s Deli.

For the second time this morning, she glanced at the girl-warrior on her wall, the staff’s gift to her on her sixtieth birthday. Did they think of her as this modern-day Guadalupana? Heaven forbid.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in one of Owen’s red vinyl booths, sipping a Diet Coke and waiting for Barry. This was their monthly cousins’ meeting of the Fools for Christ’s Sake, as Barry dubbed their get-togethers. In his opinion, both of them were fools because she worked in a women’s shelter and he volunteered in an AIDS clinic. All because they’d been swaddled in Catholic guilt from the day they were born.

Greetings, favorite comforter of the afflicted. Save any fallen women from the jaws of hell lately?

Cousin Barry. He wore yellow paisley print pants and a T-shirt that read A world gone queer. His dyed red hair and matching single earring hid his dead-serious side. As a nurse practitioner, Barry Mulholland had become a force to be reckoned with in the treatment of the AIDS virus. He’d developed a highly effective four-minute patient assessment procedure, now installed in most of the Bay Area’s medical centers.

Gearing up for a new year, Mary Clare said, hugging her cousin. Some new classes—including Zen-Buddhist meditation.

Ah, the Buddha. You’ll be sacked for trading in Jesus for that fat-bellied geezer who sat around waiting for enlightenment.

Maybe you could use a little downtime yourself. Mary Clare took in the bags under Barry’s eyes. He seemed thinner than the last time she saw him. Been taking your meds?

Sure. Barry took a long swallow of orange juice she’d ordered for him. It’s just that I don’t get as much sleep as I should. The night shift at St. V’s, then work at the clinic. He gave her a crooked smile. So, yeah, I’m wearing myself out. But I like this road to the pearly gates—my choice.

She let it go. Did you find out how I might get a team to volunteer at the shelter? A psychologist, a GP, a dentist? That would be a huge help.

Chris has been working on it. Even though his Republican soul cringes at the thought of socialized medicine, he’s cajoling some of his colleagues. Barry grinned. Chris isn’t sure if he likes you very much. Doesn’t especially like nuns and priests. But since he’s crazy about me … He took a note from his pocket and passed her a list of names and phone numbers. Call them up. See if they’re true to their word.

He gulped down the rest of his juice and stood up. You’re right. I need a siesta. He was bleary-eyed.

Barry, for God’s sake, take better care of yourself! Mary Clare took his hand. It was cold, even though the day was warm. We don’t need any more martyrs.

Right. I’m against every sort of martyrdom, Mirror of Justice. I assure you.

He pecked her cheek.

Call those assholes and get them to make good on their promises, he yelled as he went out the door.

CHAPTER   2

Mary Clare was swimming with the dolphins again. The spotted grandmother led the pack, directing the other dolphins to encircle her. Round and round, diving deeper and deeper. Grandmother was right beside her, nuzzling and nipping. Mary Clare was out of breath, and the catamaran was calling the swimmers back. Was she going to make it?

A bell clanged.

Who in the world? she grumbled, reaching for the phone. Her bedside clock read 5:15 a.m.

Sorry, cuz, the voice cracked. Time to rise and give thanks for another new day in sunny, fucked-up Oakland.

Barry.

He’d be finishing his shift and probably wanted her to give a massage to one of the down-and-outers who’d been admitted during the night.

Call me back after I’ve had a cup of coffee—around eight.

No dice, doll. I’m off by then, and I need to be here when you arrive.

Oh, God, Barry. Not again.

He’s got to be ninety and stinks of poverty. The voice on the other end hesitated. There’s something guru-ish about him. Maybe it’s his eyebrows.

And the forlorn look in his gray-green eyes, she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

He’s unconscious.

What happened?

Not sure. Come on down. Give me a hand so he doesn’t get shipped off to the psych ward.

She sighed. What time’s your shift over?

At seven.

Oh, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Thanks, MC. I owe you.

You sure do.

Mary Clare heaved her bulk out of bed and shook out her graying red curls as she walked over to open the blinds. It was still dark out, but traffic on Howe Street never stopped. She peered down the nine stories and sighed with relief: none of the girls were still out, sporting their wares. Mary Clare closed her eyes and leaned against the windowsill. May the tricks be nonviolent—and remunerative, she prayed. Then, like every morning, she began the Memorare. Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection …

As she prayed, she began the chi gung exercise she’d learned during her bout with cancer: five quick movements, pulling solar energy into her belly and breathing deeply. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother …

She didn’t have time for sit-ups and arm lifts in her battle to keep the flab on her legs and arms in check. She finished, "Despise not my petitions, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Amen." She closed her eyes for a moment. For my girls, especially Mattie.

Mary Clare hurried into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and glared at herself in the mirror. Would the bags under her eyes go away once she was fully awake—or were they a permanent fixture? She ran a comb through her hair and pulled the curls into a ponytail she tied with the Navaho good-luck band the girls at the shelter had given her last Christmas. What did an over-the-hill Franciscan nun look like these days? Like me! She winked back at the lined, freckled face in the mirror.

She jumped into her jeans and sweatshirt. In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of yesterday’s coffee and popped it in the microwave. From her massage room, she gathered oils and ointments. She wrote a quick note to Sister Joan, who was snoring in the apartment’s other bedroom:

Off to St. Vincent’s. One of Barry’s sad sacks. Have a good day, Miss Dove. Don’t let Herbie get under your skin. Go, Ruby Reds! Love, MC.

She was walking down the hall toward the admissions desk when she spied Barry coming out of the No Admittance door, two cups of coffee in hand.

A latte made from the finest Colombian coffee beans for the Star of the Sea.

Star of the Sea, pray for us. And long live the Colombians. She played along with her unlikely Good Samaritan cousin in his white uniform, purple shoes peeping out from his bellbottoms.

Thanks for coming, cuz, he said, smiling his tired smile. Barry Mulholland would lay down his life for the world’s misfits.

What’s the story with this guy?

He guided her to a cluster of green plastic chairs against the wall.

The cops picked him up along the highway to Yosemite. He’d been hit on the head with something pretty formidable. Whoever struck him then cleaned him out, though I don’t think the pickings were great. No wallet, no watch, no backpack. He was dressed in a navy blue jogging suit from army surplus. Barry gave an eloquent shrug. Maybe he wanted to sleep under the redwoods and gaze up at the stars. Not my cup of tea, of course. All those bugs.

Or maybe he’s just another homeless ex-hippy who knew he could beg food and a beer from the campers hitting Yosemite this time of year, she offered.

Maybe. Barry glanced at her sideways. But one thing the thieves didn’t take was a chain around his neck with a silver medal. Nothing expensive, but it’s unusual. On one side is a church, and on the other is a series of concentric circles.

And that’s why you’re fascinated …

Yeah. It tickles my faggy artistic bone. Barry sat up straighter in his plastic chair and glared.

So you think he might be some sort of lost Indian shaman who’s escaped from his tribe?

Or maybe he’s a circus dropout! I do know he’s got a story inside him. So let’s get him up and running so we can hear it. It’ll put a little pizzazz into our dull lives.

I’m not sure what I can do. You said he was unconscious.

"The doctor gave him a heavy sedative. The gash on his forehead needed stitches. But the cops who brought him in said he was half-conscious