SUNDAY MORNING IN BRUGES IS QUIET. EVEN THOUGH sixty percent of all Belgians are baptized as Roman Catholics, only about five percent actually go to church. Consequently, Brigid and Maria had the streets of Bruges to themselves as they made their way to the convent for Mass.
The convent of the Sisters of Our Lady is a sturdy stone building sandwiched between a little side street and a canal, near the cathedral.
The building had been a convent off and on since the sixteenth century, with a long interruption around the time of the French Revolution, when most convents and monasteries were closed by the revolutionaries. This left a bad taste for liberty in the mouth of the Catholic Church.
Maria rang the bell at the convent door. The chimes could be heard echoing down the corridors. Eventually, a short woman dressed in a simple black dress answered the door. She wore no makeup. Her gray hair was pulled back in a neat bun. She spoke impeccable English.
Maria did the introductions. “Sister Gertrude, this is Brigid. Brigid, Sister Gertrude.” They stood smiling and nodding at each other. “We are here for the Mass,” said Maria. Gertrude nodded.
Silently, the nun led the two guests down a long corridor, past a Baroque-style chapel and into a large dining room furnished with wooden tables. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle at the center of the room.
Brilliant sunlight poured through the peaked Gothic windows on one side of the room. The diamond-shaped glass panes illuminated the refectory in geometric patterns. Brigid found herself stepping from diamond to diamond like she was a schoolgirl. She could almost hear her grandmother say, “Don’t step on the cracks.”
“This is spectacular!” said Brigid. She walked over to the windows and looked out at the canal. Tourist boats were passing, going both directions, with twenty-five or thirty people in each boat and a guide sitting up front. Flower boxes beneath the windows gave a splash of color. It was like a postcard of tourist Bruges. Isn’t it just like the Church to have the best real estate? thought Brigid cynically.
Women dressed in varying styles began to filter into the room and took seats in the semicircle. Brigid and Maria joined them. The chairs were arranged facing a large dining table covered in a clean white cloth. Brigid could see a standing crucifix on the table. On a side table were a silver chalice and cruets of wine and water. It looked like the preparations for an ordinary Mass.
“How many of these women are nuns?” whispered Brigid to Maria.
“Maybe half. Most are guests like us,” Maria answered, putting her finger to her lips for silence.
A bell rang. Then everyone stood. A tall, dignified woman entered. She was dressed in a floor-length white alb. Over her shoulders, she wore a white stole, a symbol of priestly office.
Apart from the fact that the priest was a woman, the Mass was just as Brigid remembered. The nun began with the sign of the cross. As a courtesy to their guests, she spoke English, the new lingua franca of Belgium. “Peace be with you.” They all responded, “And with your spirit.”
Brigid was impressed. She had heard about Episcopalian women being priests, but she had never seen a Catholic ceremony with a woman presiding.
As a homily, the sister gave a reflection on the mystery of the Eucharist for the feast of Corpus Christi. Brigid had not thought much about the mystical meaning of the Eucharist since high school. In fact, she had not really heard much theological talk since. For a moment, she was back in school listening to the nuns she had once loved so much.
At the consecration of the Mass, the woman in the alb said the words of consecration, just like any priest. “This is my body, given up for you. This is my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant … Do this in memory of me.”
At communion the women all lined up to receive the consecrated bread and wine. Then they sat in silence. One of the women began to sing, a high and clear version of Mozart’s Ave Verum. It is one of those hymns for which tears are the only appropriate response.
After Mass, Brigid was transfixed. “This Mass was beautiful,” she whispered to Maria.
“Yes, a Mass like any other,” said Maria, “but without collections, babies, and men.”
After Mass the women gathered around a buffet table with sweet breads and coffee for conversation. The woman who had presided at the liturgy came over to Maria and Brigid. She had changed out of her alb into the same simple black dress that many of the other women were wearing. Brigid realized this was their habit. On her shoulder was a little pin with a cross.
“Sister Miriam,” said Maria, “this is my friend Brigid Condon from the United States. She is at a meeting with me in Brussels for the week, so she came to Bruges. I told her about our community here.” Maria turned to Brigid. “Sister Miriam is the superior of this convent.”
“Welcome,” said Sister Miriam. The two women shook hands. Brigid noticed that it was a strong handshake, like she expected in the business world but not from a nun.
Miriam was one of those dignified but friendly people who made you feel immediately at ease. “Would you like to sit down? We could take our coffee over there.”
The three women picked up a coffee cup and moved to a small table at the end of the room, near one of the big windows overlooking the canal.
Brigid had a million questions she wanted to ask. First and foremost she asked, “How come there was no priest for the Mass?”
Miriam raised her eyebrows for a moment and said, “Well, dear, we haven’t been able to get a priest to come to the convent for Mass for years. There just aren’t any. They tell us that if we want to have Mass we should come out to the parish church. We did that for a while, but realized that the only day we were all together in our community was Sunday. We wanted a homily and liturgy that was directed to our community.
“If the Church won’t ordain enough priests, we can’t wait around. The only reason there is no huge outcry in a Catholic country like Belgium is that hardly any of the laity go to Mass anymore. But we are a community of sisters. We should celebrate in community at least once a week to preserve our identity. For daily Mass we go to various parish churches near our work, but on Sundays we worship here. The ancient Church had female deacons for sure, why not priests?”
“I never knew that,” said Brigid. She wasn’t sure if all this was true, but it certainly was intriguing.
“Oh, yes,” said Maria. “Just another case of the men writing history from the man’s point of view. It wasn’t until women started to do the research that these things were uncovered.
“A few years ago we realized that the Church gave us a bad choice. We could either go out to parish churches and have no community here, or we could have community here but no Eucharist. We were unwilling to make that choice. So, we decided we could have both,” she said emphatically.
“Well, what does the bishop say?” asked Brigid.
“Nothing,” said Sister Miriam. “He knows, but he turns his back on it. He can’t acknowledge what we are doing, or he would be in trouble with Rome. He probably does want us to stop, but he also wants us to keep up our work in his diocese. He doesn’t want to drive us away. It benefits him to keep us here.”
“What kind of work do you do?” asked Brigid.
“Mostly, we are teachers and nurses,” said Miriam. “We teach the mentally handicapped. We work with the street people—the alcoholics and drug addicts. We have a clinic for people with AIDS. One of our sisters is an archivist. She works on the archives of the diocese. Actually, we are a pretty traditional order, despite the Sunday liturgy.”
“What does Rome think?” asked Brigid, even more intrigued at this group of independent women.
“Of course they don’t like it. But Rome knows this is happening all across Europe and North America. We are not so unusual.” Sister Miriam stopped and took a sip of coffee. “As I said,” she continued, “we can’t wait around for the old boys’ club in Rome. It is this, or nothing. Most of our guests are women who are completely turned off by the male-dominated church. They just want a place to pray in peace.”
“The Church really is an old boys’ club, isn’t it?” said Brigid. “I was at the Vatican Embassy in Washington recently, and when there was something serious to discuss, they dismissed the women like servants.”
“Here things are different,” observed Maria, who had remained pretty silent during the discussion. “Here women are taken seriously.”
Sister Miriam nodded. “We form a little community of service. We collect money for a mental hospital in the Congo. We run a little hospice for women who have been victims of rape in Bruges. Even Rome does not want to stop those things. The Church needs a little redemption in the eyes of Belgians after the scandals of recent years.”
Sister Miriam finished her coffee and set the cup on the table.
Suddenly Brigid was full of questions. “Do the Catholics in Belgium still practice the faith?”
Miriam exhaled. “Do you want the truth, or do you want the Vatican press release?”
“The truth, of course,” said Brigid.
“No, they don’t. The Catholic faith used to be what united Belgium and bridged the gap between the Dutch-speaking Flemish and the French-speaking Walloons. But today, the faith is practically dead. People want their children in Catholic schools, which are paid for by the government, but they don’t really care about the Church or its teachings.”
“So, why do they put their children in Catholic school?” asked Brigid.
“Mostly they just want disciplined and educated children. They think Catholic schools are safer, free from drugs and sex. It’s all illusion, of course. No school is perfectly safe. Drugs and sex are everywhere in Belgium, even Catholic schools.”
Brigid nodded. “We have the same thing back home. I think half the girls in my high school on Long Island were sent there because their parents thought they would remain virgins longer. If our parents had only known what was really going on …”
“They probably did know,” said Sister Miriam. The three women chuckled.
“We all like to have our illusions undisturbed,” said Miriam.
“Are there many nuns in Belgium today?” asked Brigid, curious about Miriam.
Miriam shook her head. “We sisters are dying out. You can look at us and see that. Every head in this convent is gray. We are all within twenty years of death. What will come after us, only the Holy Spirit knows. We have to live out our last years the best way we know how.”
Sister Miriam stared out the window for a moment, obviously reflecting.
“Do you regret becoming a nun?” asked Brigid.
“No,” said Miriam. “I don’t, but it is different today. When I was a girl, the convents were crowded with young sisters. But today, that’s done. Some new form of religion will take the place of what we have lived here. There is no going back. We can’t roll the clock back to 1900, despite what Rome might say. I think that whatever is coming will be better for women than what I have lived.”
She was very definitive in her last statement.
Miriam looked around. Most of the sisters in the room had finished their coffee and were leaving. Miriam suggested that she and Brigid and Maria get up and go for a walk along the canals. The sun was bright, and the late spring weather was glorious. The three women left the convent and walked along the narrow street to a little bridge that arched over the canal. They stopped and sat on a bench.
“Sister,” asked Brigid, “do you pray?”
“All the time. St. Paul says to pray ceaselessly, and that’s what I do. But my prayer is not just with words. It is also my work and my thoughts. It is what gives me peace.”
“But don’t you feel angry at the Church? Lots of women in the States are angry about the patriarchy of the Church. They are never consulted about anything, even about things that have to do with women.”
Miriam held up her hand. She had heard all those critiques before.
“God is bigger than us. God is bigger than the Church or any religion. God is not the prisoner of any group of people or any set of rituals. God is God. Not male or female, not Christian or Muslim, not Catholic or Protestant. God is mystery. We serve a mystery, not an institution. The mystery will continue to live, even when the institution dies. Rome has not yet gotten the message, but the old Church is over. It is finished. A few conservatives are hanging on, out of nostalgia or fear. But it’s over. Those days are long gone.”
She turned and looked directly at Brigid. “Brigid, we don’t need man-made mysteries. Just look out here at the water and the flowers and the sky. That is mystery enough. Look at the simple data,” said Miriam. “Our churches are empty in Europe. Look at Vienna. A few years ago, it closed four hundred of its six hundred Catholic churches. This is happening throughout the world. If some company like your Starbucks closed two-thirds of its stores, you Americans would say it was time to sell that stock. Would you not?”
Brigid nodded. “We probably would have dumped it long ago if it were a stock, except for our sentimental attachment. I don’t think any of my friends from Catholic high school are still going to church regularly—only with their moms on holidays.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” responded Miriam almost wistfully. “There is beauty in the Church. We just have to focus on the teachings of Christ and forget about all the negative baggage. It will survive, but it will be changed, no matter what the people in Rome think.”
Brigid could see that Miriam was a free woman.
“What will save the Church?” asked Brigid.
“Saints,” answered Miriam, now very definitive. “Saints will save the Church. They always have. We needed St. Francis to save the Church in the Middle Ages.”
Miriam thumbed through her prayer book held in her left hand and pulled out a little holy card with a picture of a man in a priest’s robe and a broad-brimmed hat. On the reverse side was a prayer to Damien of Molokai.
“Look at this man,” said Miriam. “It’s Damien of Molokai, the priest who worked with the lepers.”
Brigid took the card and held it, considering the photo of the disease-ridden man.
Miriam continued, “A few years ago, a poll was taken here in Belgium. One of our newspapers asked who was the most revered Belgian of all time. The answer was Father Damien. Imagine, even in secular Belgium.
“Why? Because he gave up his life for the most wretched people on earth. That’s why he was the most admired Belgian—not a movie star, not a writer, not a politician or a scientist, but a saint is the man we admire most.”
Miriam waved her hand toward the scene of Bruges around them. “Even in skeptical, unbelieving, chocolate-loving, and beer-obsessed Belgium, it is a Flemish peasant who was born poor and died poor that most people admire. Not because he was a priest, but because he was a holy man, a saint.
“There will always be people like Damien,” continued Miriam. “They will save the Church from itself. Saints just live the gospel. But even if they save the Church, saints cannot take it back to what it was fifty or even a hundred years ago, which is what the conservatives want. That’s gone. We can no more go back to the Church of 1920 than we can insist that people travel by steamships instead of airplanes or give up their mobile phones and go back to the telegraph.
“The world has moved on from the old Church, but not from holiness. We still need our saints. The only tragedy in life is for us not to become a saint.”
Brigid looked at this simple woman, sitting in the bright sunlight. She seemed positively luminous. Sister Miriam was not angry or bitter. She was resigned to change and was happy in her own skin—exactly what Brigid wanted for her own life.
Maria spoke up. Brigid had almost forgotten she was there. “Now you see why I like coming here. I feel at peace with these sisters.”
Brigid looked at her watch. It was just past noon. “Look at the time,” she said. “I have an errand I need to do before going back to Brussels. I promised my husband I would look up a man who lives near here. Maybe one of you knows of him. I think he is an ex-priest, Bernard Willebroeck.”
“Father Bernard,” nodded Miriam. “I know him well. I remember when he was a young priest in the Congo.”
Maria, who had been quiet all this time, spoke up. “I’ve heard of him. He’s not a priest anymore. I hear he has started some radical group, aimed at exposing the pedophiles in the Church.”
“Why do you want to see Bernard?” asked Miriam.
“My husband is doing an investigation in Rome for the Vatican and wants me to check him out,” answered Brigid vaguely.
“He has a radical reputation here,” said Miriam. “He hates the bishops, especially the way they handled the pedophile priests here in Belgium. I hear his nephew was molested.”
“What does he do for a living?” asked Brigid.
“He founded his own little group, New Church, I think he calls it. They have demonstrations. They get contributions, evidently. At times they have been very violent in their protests. Once, a church was burned near Bruges and they were accused of starting the fire. Threats have been made to priests,” said Miriam. “Nothing was proven, though.”
“Hmm,” said Brigid. “Do I have any reason to be afraid of him?”
“I can’t imagine Bernard would be a threat to you,” said Miriam. “His anger is directed at the Church. But I don’t think you should go see him alone.”
“Where does he live?” asked Brigid.
“I hear he lives out near Ostende, on the way to the French border,” said Maria. “It’s less than a half hour away. I don’t mind the drive. If you are interested, I can take you.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be great,” said Brigid. Then, turning to Miriam, Brigid said, “Sister, why don’t you join us? You could make introductions. He might be more receptive if you were there.”
“I’m sure Sister has a full day,” said Maria.
“Actually,” said Miriam, “I was hoping to finalize my plans for a meeting in Rome at our mother house. I’ll be leaving in a few days. But I’m sure I can take care of it tomorrow. Besides, it would be nice to see Bernard again, if he wants to see me. I knew his mother.”
“Good,” said Brigid. “It’s settled, then. You’ll come with us.”
The three women drove out of old Bruges in Maria’s Peugeot. Like most Belgians, Maria was a fast driver. Once out of the old city, they headed west toward Ostende, which means west end in Dutch.
They sped along, mostly in silence, looking at the lush fields, the fat cows, and the system of dikes meant to hold back the North Sea. Maria passed most of the cars and all of the trucks on the highway. Her driving was almost reckless. After about half an hour, they came to a little town called Jabbeke. At the center of the town was a big stone church on Kapellestraat, Chapel Street, surrounded by a parish graveyard. As they pulled up in front, Miriam said, “This was the parish where Bernard was once assigned before he left the priesthood.”
Brigid was impressed at the grand building. “If nobody goes to church in Belgium, how can they manage to keep up all these buildings?” she asked. Brigid remembered her monsignor back home on Long Island always asking for money.
“The government pays,” said Maria. “How much longer is anyone’s guess. But for now, the Church can continue without parishioners.”
Brigid rolled her eyes. To an American, the idea of the government paying for the Church seemed strange.
A few blocks from the town center, they found an ordinary-looking townhouse with Bernard’s address. A small sign at the garden gate said in French and Dutch: Eglise Nouvelle, Neu Kirche, meaning New Church. “This is it,” said Miriam. “This is his house.”
Maria dropped Brigid and Miriam at the curb outside the house and then drove off in search of a parking space. The two women rang the doorbell.
After thirty seconds or so, they heard some jangling of keys. A man in his sixties opened the door. He had a dinner napkin in his left hand, clearly just coming from the table. He did not look pleased. Brigid saw that he was a robust and fairly handsome man. Oddly, he wore his hair long, pulled back in a ponytail. He looked like some aging hippie.
“Jab,” he said in Dutch. Then, seeing that Brigid didn’t understand, he switched to English. Belgians think they can easily spot an American.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Brigid spoke up. “Are you Bernard Willebroeck?”
“Who wants to know?” he said.
“Sorry,” said Brigid. “I’m Brigid Condon from New York.” She extended her hand to him, but he did not reciprocate.
Miriam stepped in front of Brigid. To break the ice, she said, “Bernard, it’s me, Miriam.”
He looked at her with surprise and said in Dutch, “Miriam! What the hell are you doing here? And who is she?” He appeared confused, almost angry.
“Brigid is a friend of mine from America,” answered Miriam, still in Dutch. “Could we come in?”
“No,” he said. “I’m eating dinner.”
“Oh, Bernard, stop being so disagreeable. Give us a few moments of your time,” answered Miriam.
Raising his voice, he asked, “Why should I?”
“Because you owe me a favor. When you were in the Congo and your mother was dying, who sat with her?” asked Miriam.
Bernard’s eyes narrowed. Miriam countered, “Five minutes.”
Defeated by Miriam’s rebuke, Bernard stepped back and opened the door, speaking to them in English. “Very well, come in,” he said with an exasperated scowl. He made it clear to Brigid that he was feeling manipulated into offering hospitality. “Five minutes, no more.”
The two women entered the house. Brigid looked around quickly, with a lawyer’s eye for detail. It was an ordinary little home, but the front parlor was not furnished as a sitting room. Instead, it held high-tech office equipment, including two expensive CPUs, scanners, fax machines, and several phones. New Church was obviously doing a lot of communicating with someone. She also noted a fairly large safe against the wall.
Bernard stood in the office, leaning against a computer desk that held a monitor bigger than any Brigid had ever seen. It appeared to be set up for Skype calls.
Brigid noticed a lot of vinyl bags with bank logos stacked to one side of the desk. Good for cash deposits, she thought.
“So, what do you what to know?” said Bernard testily.
“My husband asked me to come by and visit you,” said Brigid. “He’s doing some work for the Vatican.”
Bernard raised his eyebrows. “What’s your husband’s name?” he demanded.
“Nathaniel Condon,” answered Brigid. “Your name and New Church have come up in his research. He read about your group in several reports.”
Bernard visibly recoiled at the mention of reports. “What reports?” he asked angrily. “The Vatican is doing reports on us?”
Brigid could see that the meeting was going downhill quickly, so she opted for directness. “Well, the Vatican is looking into groups that have made threats against local churches,” she said.
He scoffed derisively, “They think I’ve made threats against the local Church? Ha! I’m not the threat. It’s the bishops who are the threat.”
Miriam interjected firmly, “Bernard, you know your group was in the news this past year about a church burning.”
“That was investigated,” he shouted. “They found nothing!”
Brigid began to think that their visit had been a mistake. Bernard’s face was getting red. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
He almost shouted, “You came all the way from America to investigate something that was in the newspapers? Why didn’t your husband come? Why would the Vatican investigator send his wife?”
“I was here on business,” answered Brigid. “My husband merely suggested I speak with you while I was here.”
Brigid could see the interview was going nowhere. She looked around the room quickly to see if she could learn anything else from its furnishings. On the walls of the office someone had taped newspaper articles in various languages. They had markings on them in blue ink. There was one article in English from the International New York Times about Manning’s assassination.
Bernard’s mood shifted from angry to threatening.
“This conversation is over,” he said. “That’s all I have to say to you or your husband, whoever he is. And I certainly have nothing to say to the Vatican or even to you, Miriam.” He pointed his finger at the nun. “If you want to talk to me, call my lawyer or come back here with the police.”
Brigid wanted to delay a few minutes so she could get a better look at the place. She used the classic stall tactic. “May I use the toilet before we leave?” she asked. Miriam looked at her quizzically.
“Down the hall,” Bernard said with some irritation, unable to refuse her request.
Brigid crossed the room and went down the hall. She noted two rows of phone jacks on the wall with at least eight lines each. Why would some little organization need sixteen phone lines? she wondered. The phone lines added to her suspicion that New Church was more than just a local church group headed by an angry ex-priest.
When Brigid came out of the toilet, Miriam was already standing by the front door. Just over the door was a little plaque with a prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe.
“Have you ever been to Mexico?” Miriam asked, pointing to the image of the Virgin.
“No,” he said. “I’ve never been to Mexico. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner is growing cold. Good day, ladies.”
The two women stepped outside, and Bernard closed the door behind them with a thud.
As they walked down the street to where Maria was waiting for them in the car, Miriam said to Brigid, “Too bad we didn’t discover what you were looking for.”
“Who knows?” said Brigid. “Maybe we did.”