What do you believe in?
I grew up in a Catholic household, where there was a hierarchy that was not to be questioned. God, the Blessed Mother, and Mum and Dad. To question this hierarchy — especially God as its top tier — was tantamount to committing the unforgivable sin, and an actual atheist who openly denied the existence of God was anathema, an Ismael in the desert, a social pariah.
I was baptised and confirmed in the Roman Catholic faith of my parents. We attended Mass every Sunday and Holy Day of Obligation, we read the Bible, and we prayed the Rosary. Being Catholic was a part of our very being. This dynamic was not unique to my family. People who never even attended Mass, except on Christmas and Easter, had their children baptised and confirmed in the Church. It was simply the way it was.
After the death of one of my close friends, Kathleen, in third year, I lost my faith in the Church, and, eventually, I stopped believing in God altogether. Nevertheless, I was still confirmed, per my parents’ wishes. I attended Mass with them until I moved out at eighteen, but I never took Communion. What was the point? I could practically see all of my prayers fall to the ground, unanswered and unheard, like autumn leaves.
Following my graduation from college with a degree in journalism, I was employed by a local newspaper, for which I began writing articles. After fifteen years with the paper, I was an experienced journalist, who was able to observe and report with respect to any subject at hand. When a colleague of mine was unable to write an article about the dying “Saint of County Cork,” I was tasked with writing the article in her stead.
The “Saint of County Cork,” as she was known by the faithful, was a Catholic nun named Sister Agnes. When she entered the convent at the age of eighteen, she was already known for her holiness. She was a mystic, who had frequent visions of Jesus Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and saints and angels. During her episodes of religious ecstasy, she was immovable. Her eyes would roll back into her head, and she would speak, inaudibly, to God.
At the request of the Reverend Mother Superior, a physician examined Sr. Agnes while in ecstasy. He pressed a needle into the palm of her hand, and she neither bled nor did she respond in any way to the external stimulus. The experiment was repeated after Sr. Agnes’ ecstasy ended, and she bled and cried out in pain when the needle was again pressed into the palm of her hand. The physician was unable to explain this phenomenon, and he declared it “[out] of [his] area of expertise.”
Miraculous healings were attributed to Sr. Agnes’ intercession. A woman, who was deafblind from an illness in childhood, had her senses of sight and hearing restored at the Consecration of the Host at Mass. A girl, who was lame, stood upright after receiving the Eucharist. A man, who was chronically ill, regained his health after a piece of Sr. Agnes’ habit was placed under his pillow. All of them had asked for the prayers of the saintly nun. None of the approximately thirty cases of miraculous healings were authenticated by the Church, but they added to Sr. Agnes’ popularity regardless.
Aside from her ecstatic experiences and miraculous healings, Sr. Agnes was known for her asceticism. Her fasts lasted for extended periods of time, and, by the profession of her final vows, she stopped eating altogether, relying on the Eucharist and a cup of water a day for her sustenance. When the Reverend Mother Superior and her confessor both ordered her to eat, she refused, on the grounds that she was physically unable to digest her food. Any attempts to eat would invariably result in her vomiting shortly thereafter. Despite her lack of food intake, Sr. Agnes lost little weight.
In childhood, Sr. Agnes began using the “discipline,” a small whip used as an instrument of penance through mortification of the flesh. When she entered the convent, she was instructed by the Reverend Mother Superior to use the “discipline” in the privacy of her cell, and she obeyed. Sr. Agnes scourged herself each night after Night Prayer, known as Compline, until the walls of her cell were covered with her blood. The Reverend Mother Superior was concerned by the excessiveness of Sr. Agnes’ penances, but the physicians and priests whom she summoned to investigate her declared that she was “[of] sound mind [and] body,” as well as “[of] sound faith.” Their report concluded that, “with zeal,” Sr. Agnes was “zealous for the Lord God of Hosts.”
I arrived at the convent, outside Dunmanway in West Cork, and I exited my car in front of the motherhouse of Our Lady of the Angels. There was a white marble statue of the Blessed Mother on the left side of the building, surrounded by flowers and stones. A cemetery for the nuns of the convent was situated to the right of the motherhouse. I gathered my papers, obtained by my editor, which allowed me to enter the cloistered convent. I knocked on the door, and a nun, dressed in a black and white habit, opened the door, holding a broom, and she said, softly, “Hello?”
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Teresa O’Neill. I was asked by my paper to write an article about Sister Agnes. I have the appropriate papers here.”
The nun held out her hand, and I handed her the papers. She gave them a cursory glance, and she said, “Oh, yes. . . . Please, come in.”
She returned the papers to me, and I walked into the motherhouse. The nun guided me down a small corridor, the walls of which hung portraits of the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts of Jesus and Mary, to the office of the Reverend Mother Superior. She knocked on the door, and a voice within said, “Come in.”
The Mother Superior was sitting at her desk, reading from a leatherbound book. She closed the book, and she stood up as the nun said, “Ms. O’Neill, Reverend Mother.”
To the nun, the Mother Superior said, “Thank you. You may return to your duties.”
Nodding her head, the nun turned around, and she left the office, closing the door behind her.
“Welcome,” the Reverend Mother Superior said, extending her hand. After we shook hands, she invited me to sit down at her desk. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied. “. . . .Pardon me, Reverend Mother, but I’m confused.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would you invite a journalist to interview Sister Agnes?” I asked. “I would think you’d want her to be left alone to die in peace. I don’t understand.”
“I want Sister Agnes’ life to be documented before her death,” the Mother Superior answered. “In her own words.”
“Has Sister Agnes consented to this interview?”
“Yes,” the Mother Superior answered. “She was wary of inviting an outsider into our home, but I was determined to have her life be written down for the edification of her Sisters and the faithful.”
“I understand,” I said. “May I ask another question?”
“Yes?”
“What is Sister Agnes dying of?”
Clasping her hands together, the Reverend Mother Superior sighed, and she said, “We don’t exactly know. The Sisters have compared her to a flower, which blooms, gives joy and beauty to the world, and then wilts away. You may think that’s a rather saccharine metaphor.”
“No,” I said. “It’s fitting.”
Smiling, the Reverend Mother Superior said, “If you’re ready, I’ll take you to Sister Agnes.”
“Yes, I am,” I replied. “Thank you.”
We stood up from her desk, and the Mother Superior led me out of the motherhouse, walked to the gates of the convent proper, unlocked them, and led me inside. There was a distinct smell of smoke and freshly cut flowers in the air. Racks of votive candles burned before statues of Jesus Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and saints. I could hear muffled prayers coming from what I assumed was the chapel. The Mother Superior led me down the corridor, passing the refectory and the infirmary, and we stopped in front of Sr. Agnes’ cell.
Opening the door, the Mother Superior and I were overcome by the strong smell of roses. The cell was uncomfortably small. On the wire frame bed, Sr. Agnes lay, sleeping, in her black and white habit, a black–beaded Rosary entangled within her fingers. She had a pallor to her skin, and she was thin, but she was not emaciated. She looked younger than her thirty–three years. To the left of her head, there was a bedside table, on which sat a lit candle, and a Crucifix hung on the wall above the bedside table. A wooden chair was placed on the left side of the bed. The Mother Superior knocked, softly, on the door.
“Sister Agnes,” she said. “Ms. O’Neill’s here to see you.”
Opening her eyes, Sr. Agnes smiled, and she beckoned us to her bedside.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said. Although she sounded weak, her voice was still full of grace and love. “Hello, Ms. O’Neill.”
“Hello, Sister Agnes,” I replied. “Please, call me, ‘Teresa.’”
“Teresa.”
“I’ll leave you both to your interview,” the Mother Superior said. “If you need anything, Ms. O’Neill, I’ll be in my office. God be with you.”
I nodded my head, and the Mother Superior turned around, and she left the cell. I sat down on the chair by Sr. Agnes’ bedside. The candle flickered behind me. The cell was filled with an air of awkwardness in a way that seemed palpable. A dying saint and a living sinner, brought together by chance, speaking with each other for the first and last time. When Sr. Agnes started speaking, I was startled by the sudden noise.
“Shall we begin?”
I hesitated, momentarily, after she spoke, because I had grown accustomed to the silence. I noticed she sounded stronger than she had when she spoke with the Mother Superior. I nodded my head, and I said, “Yes.”
“Where should I start?”
I opened my notepad, and I asked, “When and where were you born?”
“I was born on the 25th of March in Cork City,” she beamed. “The Feast of the Annunciation.”
Writing down her answers, I continued, “What was your family like?”
“Happy, but poor,” Sr. Agnes answered. “There were so many of us. I had five brothers and four sisters. All of them got married except for me. I was called to a different life.”
“When did you know you wanted to become a nun?”
“My parents were devout Catholics,” she answered. “I learned my faith from them, but it was apparent even from a young age that I was different. I attended Mass every day from an extraordinarily young age. I prayed five decades of the Rosary daily. However, I believe my true beginning was my First Holy Communion.”
“What do you mean?”
With a smile, Sr. Agnes replied, “That’s when I had my first vision.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw the choirs of angels assisting the priest as he celebrated the Holy Sacrifice. They were indescribably beautiful. There was such a bright light in the church that I could hardly see. When we lined up, the boys in their suits and the girls in their dresses, I saw our Guardian Angels leading us to our Lord. As I knelt at the altar rail, I saw an angel, whose face expressed unfathomable peace, guide the hand of the priest as he placed the Host onto my tongue. My vision went white. I was floating in space, gazing upon my heart within my chest ablaze with love of God, and I moaned from the pain, as well as the Love with Whom I felt I was one.”
“What happened after your vision ended?”
“When I woke up, I saw the congregation standing over me. I was examined by a doctor, who said that I appeared to be in good health, and he could not find any signs of injury. The pastor of the church interviewed me after Mass, in an effort to uncover any forgery. After answering his questions for over an hour and a half, he declared my ecstasy to have been, in his opinion, authentic.”
“Did your ecstasies and visions change the way others saw you?”
“Yes,” Sr. Agnes answered. “My father and mother were concerned that I would be looked down upon as a fraud. I didn’t mind. My job was to inform, not to convince.”
I finished writing her answer to my question, and I looked up from my notepad to ask, “Inform?”
“Oh, yes. . . .” Sr. Agnes said. “My second vision helped me understand my purpose in life. I was praying the Rosary, and I was suddenly there, among the crowd, witnessing the Passion of Our Lord. I saw and heard each lash upon His flesh. The wailing women. The horrified men. I was close enough that I was sprinkled with His Precious Blood. What I saw instilled within me an ardent desire to do penance, and inspire others to do the same. That was when I began fasting regularly, on each Wednesday and Friday, and using the discipline. And then there was ‘The Incident.’”
“‘The Incident?’” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“It was a couple of months later, on Good Friday,” she answered. “I was driven by a desire to make reparation for my sins, and those of the whole world, to the One Who died for them. What could I do? I already fasted and prayed. But had I truly suffered? No.”
“What did you do?”
“I took my father’s hammer and nails from his toolbox. As I hammered the nail into my right foot, blood spattered on the walls and floor. I managed to nail it onto a makeshift cross on the wall of my bedroom. I lapsed in and out of ecstasy as I crucified myself. When I attempted to nail my right hand onto the cross, I fainted from the pain.”
Although I was horrified by her recollection of self–crucifixion, I attempted to appear unaffected, so I would not offend her. What child tries to crucify herself? It made me profoundly uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I asked her another question.
“What happened?”
“After I fainted, I fell from my cross, and my parents found me, bleeding profusely, on the floor of my bedroom. They called for the doctor, who bandaged my wounds, and examined me to ensure that I was otherwise unharmed. However, I knew I had not suffered sufficiently for my sins, and those of the whole world, so I removed the bandages from my wounds, causing immense pain. I wanted to suffer like He suffered. In the midst of my pain, I lapsed into ecstasy, and I saw my Lord for the first time. He praised me for what I did. His hands and side emitted rays of light, penetrating my hands, feet, and heart, and I received the stigmata.”
Looking at her unwounded hands, I was confused by her claim that she had the stigmata. She sat up in bed, and she said, smiling, “I know you can’t see them. He told me that my wounds would be visible only to me. Yet I feel the pain of the nails and lance constantly.”
After she answered my unasked question, Sr. Agnes continued, “He asked me if I was happy. I answered, ‘Yes, my Lord.’ He smiled, and he asked if I would always follow him. He said I would attain all of the happiness for which I could ever ask if I followed him. I promised I would, and he departed. When I awoke from my ecstasy, I cried out with a loud voice, ‘My Lord appeared to me, and he healed me.’ My parents were amazed. When I reached the age of eighteen, I entered this convent with my parents’ blessing. Now it has all come to an end.”
As she finished speaking, Sr. Agnes looked down at her hands, which held tightly onto her Rosary. In silence, I looked upon the pitiable sight of the dying woman who lay before me. No longer was she the renowned “Saint of County Cork,” but a mortal creature who would soon enter into the hereafter. Whatever that was.
With a renewed sense of vigour in her voice, Sr. Agnes asked, “Do you believe in God, Ms. O’Neill?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you believe in God?”
There was a brief pause as I considered the relevancy of the question. What does it matter? Sr. Agnes appeared to be impatiently waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I lied.
With a subtle smile on her face, Sr. Agnes admonished, “It’s a sin to lie, Teresa.”
“. . . .What?” I stammered.
“It’s a sin to lie,” Sr. Agnes repeated. “Don’t you know? Well, I suppose I can’t cast the first stone. After all, I’ve lied to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t told you everything,” she answered. She sat up further in bed while she said, “That’s lying by omission. Now, answer my question, honestly. Do you believe in God?”
I shifted in my seat as I answered, truthfully, “No.”
“What a shame,” Sr. Agnes said.
I started to feel a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, so I gathered my papers, and I stood up, saying, “I believe I’ve gotten enough for the article. Thank you, Sister. Have a good day.”
She stared at me, coolly, as I walked toward the door of her cell.
“Did Kathleen believe in God?”
Her voice was as cold and unfeeling as her eyes. A shiver went up my spine. I turned around to face her.
“What did you say?”
Ignoring my question, Sr. Agnes asked, rhetorically, “I wonder if she did?”
Shaking my head, I turned back around, and I reached for the doorknob.
“I suppose she wasn’t thinking of God when she slashed her wrists.”
I stopped. What? How could she have known about Kathleen? Who would have told her? And why? I turned around again.
“You know, He doesn’t come to mind when one does such a thing,” she said. “Poor girl. Do you think she’s burning in Hell?”
Horrified by her complete and utter lack of empathy, I opened my mouth to speak, but she interrupted me, “She came to you in her hour of need, but you weren’t there for her. Do you think, as her last breaths escaped her lips, her heartbeat slowed, and blood poured from her wrists, she felt betrayed? Alone? Abandoned? Do you think about her final moments? Do you even think about her at all?”
Sr. Agnes giggled as I started to cry. I remembered it all clearly. Kathleen, my best friend from childhood, struggled with depression as we entered first year. She would talk about suicide on occasion, but she never attempted it. I thought she never would. She was a devout Catholic, and she knew suicide was a sin. However, shortly after her fifteenth birthday, rumours spread that she gave her virginity to Rory Murphy, a fourth year student. She was now a loser and a slut. The girls mercilessly bullied her, while the boys kept pestering her. She withdrew even further into herself. I remember that night when she called me. I was with my then–boyfriend. She was sobbing. I could hardly understand her. She said her parents were sending her away. I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend, so I told Kathleen I would call her later. She stopped crying, and she said, softly, “OK.”
I did not call her that night.
On the following day, I learned Kathleen committed suicide by slashing her wrists. She left no note. Her parents were devastated, but I was completely numb. She called me in her most desperate hour, and I was not there for her. I could have helped her. I blamed myself then, and I still blame myself now. What devastated her parents even more was when the Diocese refused to grant her a Christian burial, due to the circumstances of her death. She was buried in a municipal cemetery without the comforts of the Church, and her parents moved away soon thereafter. It was then that I lost faith in the Church, and, eventually, in God Himself.
Tears trickling down my cheeks, I asked, “Who are you?”
With a wave of her hand and without a word, Sr. Agnes displayed her power by slamming the door shut behind me.
I rushed to the door, but it would not open. She cackled from her bed as I knocked loudly on the door, calling for help. No one heard me, or, if they did, they were not coming to help me.
“Sit down,” Sr. Agnes demanded. Doing as I was told, I turned around, and returned to the chair, and I sat down. “Listen.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to tell you my story,” Sr. Agnes said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “The man appeared to me for years after he healed me, promising me all of the happiness for which I could ever ask. It was after my thirteenth birthday that he said it was time. I had to not only promise, but commit myself to him. I had to give him something.”
“What did he ask of you?”
“My soul,” she answered. “I hesitated, but he repeated that I would be unimaginably happy.”
“What did you do?”
“I would gain the world,” Sr. Agnes said. “If only I lost my soul. The man approached me, and he leaned toward me, which caused my adolescent heart to flutter. In my excitement, I exclaimed the Holy Name, which enraged him, and he transformed into an ugly, grotesque beast, whose unutterable foulness in appearance betrayed his infernal origins. I was petrified, and I could not speak. The creature said that I had to renounce my baptismal vows. I hesitated, and he grew impatient, grabbing my hands with his beastly ones, demanding an answer.”
“What happened?”
“I agreed to his demands. The creature appeared pleased as he returned to his previous form of a young man. He guided me as I renounced the vows of my baptism. He leaned toward me, and he caressed my face sensually. He assured me that no one would ever know I lost my virginity. My heart fluttered again as he looked at me. I consented, and he took it from me. It appeared to outsiders as ecstasy, but suffice to say, I was not moaning out of the Love of God.”
Mortified, I asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
“My time on earth is nearing its end,” Sr. Agnes answered. “And I want someone to know my story. The true story. The story that otherwise dies with me.”
Interrupting her, I said, “If you wanted someone to know your story, why are you telling me? Ask for a priest, and confess your sins to him.”
“I won’t do that,” Sr. Agnes said.
“Why?”
With a sigh, she said, “‘Pride goeth before destruction.’” She continued, “I want to die in the eyes of the world as the beloved of God, not the whore of the Devil.”
I was more confused than I had ever been in my life. God is real? The Devil is real? It is all real? I did not know what to believe, even though it was happening to me. I was afraid, and so I retreated to a state of mind that I had not been in since I was a child.
Hearkening back to when I was considered a “good Catholic girl,” I pleaded for her repentance, “Please, ask for a priest, and confess your sins.”
“No,” she replied. “I can’t do that.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why not?”
“We have work left to do. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
Trailing off, Sr. Agnes started sobbing, and she shook her head, tears falling from her cheeks. She felt her face with her hands, and she looked over at me with a lustre in her eyes, a lustre that was not there before. She grabbed my hands with hers, and she said, softly, “It wants to stay.”
As Sr. Agnes tightened her grip on my hands, her eyes flickered from mine to a darkened corner of her cell, but I was not able to see anything there. She refocused her attention on me.
“They’re coming for us,” she whispered. “And it doesn’t want to go back with them. That’s why it wanted someone. And you came. Now it wants you.”
The smell of sulphur permeated the cell, and I looked back and forth from Sr. Agnes to the corner of her cell. She released my hands from hers, and she watched as a being, invisible to me, approached her. The corner of her white bed linens were burnt by an inhuman print. I watched, petrified, as her breathing became heavier, and her upper body was lifted off of her pillow, as if the being was holding her face in its hands.
Her lifeless body fell back onto her bed after her face contorted into an expression of unimaginable horror. Mustering the courage to look at her, I saw that her pretence of sanctity had broken. Sr. Agnes now appeared haggard and old, her habit was filthy, and her stigmata was visible. However, her stigmata were not clean wounds, but festering holes in her hands and feet. The Crucifix above the bedside table fell into an inverted position, and the candle burnt its brightest before the flame extinguished itself.
The door opened on its own, and I ran out of the cell, crashing into the Reverend Mother Superior. She managed to calm me down, and I told her that Sr. Agnes was dead. She led me and the other nuns to Sr. Agnes’ cell, who was now positioned like a saint. Her unwounded hands were clasped together in prayer, the black–beaded Rosary entangled within her fingers, and her face was serene. One could assume she was only sleeping. The nuns made the Sign of the Cross in unison, and the Mother Superior led them in a prayer for the repose of Sr. Agnes’ soul. After their prayers ended, the Mother Superior led me out of the convent, at which point she asked, “What were her last words?”
I could not tell her the truth, and I lied, “‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.’”
The Reverend Mother Superior nodded her head, and she thanked me for being with Sr. Agnes in her last moments. However, I could not concentrate on what she was saying, as I kept hearing Sr. Agnes’ words, “It wants you,” in my mind. The Mother Superior and I bade each other farewell, and I entered my car, driving away from the convent.
What do you believe in?
Do you believe in evil?
I do.
Once you have felt and seen evil, it stays with you. No matter how far removed you are, it is still there, inside of you. Waiting. Watching. Whispering.
It is always there.