The Judgment of Sister Agnes

 The Judgment of Sister Agnes

By Yu May

The candleglow shimmered in Agnes’ eyes. “But, Sister Beatrice…it’s the communion wine.”

Beatrice shook her head, her jowls wagging from the exertion. “It hasn’t been consecrated, Sister Agnes. So that means it’s just ordinary wine.”

“But still, it seems…sinful. At the very least, it’s stealing, isn’t it?”

Beatrice twisted a corkscrew into one of the dusty bottles. “This wine was donated to the abbey so that we may drink it. As the Proverb says, ‘Go forth, then. Eat your bread with joy and drink your wine with a cheerful heart, for God long ago approved what you do.’”

“But that’s from Ecclesiastes.”

Beatrice pulled the cork from the bottle, ducking as the cork went flying over her head. “You worry too much, Sister Agnes. You’re not a snot-nosed oblate any more. You should enjoy the finer things the monastic life has to offer.”

Beatrice pulled out two tin cups, and filled them to the brim. 

Agnes stared at her reflection in the red violet pool. “But…I’ve only ever had a sip before, when I take the Eucharist.”

“Well, if a sip of wine is good for your soul, imagine what a whole bottle will do for you.”

Agnes shook her head, as she took her first sip. “Oh, no. We can’t possibly drink the whole bottle…but just a small cup shouldn’t hurt.”

But after Agnes had drunk her first cup, Beatrice argued that it would be a sin to let the rest of the bottle go to waste. And before Agnes had finished her second cup, Beatrice had taught her to play an old tavern game: Pass the Cup. And before they’d finished the first game, Beatrice had to open a second bottle. And by then, it seemed to Agnes that it would be a sin to leave Beatrice behind to drink a second bottle, all by herself.

The next morning, one of the orphans living at the abbey as an oblate heard singing coming from the cellar, and found Sister Agnes and Sister Beatrice giggling in a pool of spilled wine. The orphan had run straight to the Mother Superior: Abbess Esther.

…

The cloister was silent, save for the faint drip of rain falling from the eaves. A rain drop blew through the window, and plopped heavily onto one of the flagstones in the cool chamber. Seated on a low wooden stool in the center of the sparse room, Sister Agnes shivered, and pulled her mantle tightly around her. Even in the summer, the stone rooms could get frigid on a rainy morning. A meager tallow candle was the only source of warmth for the room.

Nevertheless, Agnes felt a bead of sweat on her brow, and as she tried to wipe it away, she realized her habit was still askew, letting a few curls of her red hair escape. Agnes twisted the coarse wool of her habit in her fists. At eighteen years, Agnes was the youngest novice apprentice at the Abbey of Saint Etheldreda, and at the moment, Agnes was sure she was the most foolish.

 

“O Lord, have mercy on me, a wretched sinner,” she thought, her lips moving soundlessly as she hung her head. “I have profaned Thy holy wine, Thy sacred blood. I am no better than a tavern wench, a stumbling drunkard.”

Agnes heard a sharp slam, and sat up, wondering if the Mother Superior had arrived. But as she peeked out the window, Agnes discovered one of her sisters, striking a rug with a carpet beater far below. With a sigh, Agnes settled back onto her stool. “Agnes, you goose,” she muttered aloud, her voice petulant. 

“Why did you do it? Why did you listen to Sister Beatrice and her daft games?”

“Oh, Beatrice, you serpent,” Agnes hissed under her breath, her tone sharp. “You said it would be no sin, that the Lord would laugh with us!” 

But even as Agnes spoke, remorse gnawed at her insides. Beatrice had not forced the cup to her lips. “I chose to drink. I chose to laugh,” thought Agnes. 

Agnes reached for her rosary, and prayed. “Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” she muttered.

The wooden prayer beads were smooth from years of prayer, in the years since she had been brought to the Abbey as an orphan. Though now, the small, familiar beads felt more like heavy millstones, weighing her down.

“God forgive me! I didn’t know the wine would muddle my head so. I didn’t know I’d feel so… so wretched.”

Agnes wondered what punishment awaited her. Even before becoming a novitiate, Agnes had been no stranger to strict discipline. But she had not outgrown the need for punishment, just by growing older. If anything, the Mother Superior expected more of the older girls. Though Agnes had not taken her formal vows of poverty and chastity, she was nearing the end of her apprenticeship, and was no stranger to the lash. “Mortification of the flesh,” groaned Agnes, stroking the back of her shoulder

Agnes’s stomach churned as she imagined the birch rod, its thin, whippy branches biting into her flesh. She had seen Sister Margaret birched last spring for neglecting her chores–twelve sharp strokes across her bare back and hindquarters, each one drawing a stifled cry from the stolid, middle aged woman. 

Margaret’s welts had lingered for days, red and angry, clearly visible every time Margaret bent to scrub the chapel floor. 

Agnes shuddered, her fingers digging into her back. Agnes had only been punished with the birch, once, at age seven, and only with seven strokes, for roughhousing with the orphan boys too near the cloister. “Will it be the birch for me? Or worse?”

Her mind conjured up darker memories. She remembered Sister Edith, who had been caught stealing a loaf of bread from the kitchen two years ago. The Abbess had ordered her flogged with a leather strap in the chapter house, before the entire community. Agnes could still hear the whistle of the strap, the sickening crack as it met Edith’s skin, the nun’s gasps turning to sobs. The sisters had watched in silence, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the spectacle. Edith had worn a coarse penitential shift for a month after, her movements slow and pained. Agnes’s breath hitched. “Surely…not the strap,” she whispered, trembling. “Not for wine? Not for a game!”

But Agnes wasn’t so sure. There was Sister Clare, made to kneel on dried peas for hours for gossiping during a time of silent meditation, until her knees bruised and swollen. Then there was Sister Juliana, confined to a cell on bread and water for a week for stealing bread from the larter.

Agnes’s imagination ran wild, painting scenes of herself lying prostrate before the altar, scourged like a martyr. Or maybe she would be banished to the scullery for a year, until her hands were red raw from scrubbing pots. Agnes stood from her stool, clasping her hands together. “O Holy Virgin, intercede for me. I am but a foolish girl. I meant no blasphemy.”

Agnes’ sandals scuffed the stone as she pacing the small chamber in a tight circle. The cool air stung her lungs. “What will the others think of me now? Will they whisper behind their hands, call me a drunkard, a scandal?” she thought.

Her cheeks burned as she imagined being escorted out the Monastery. All her years spent in prayer and devotion, learning to read and write, desperate to prove herself worthy of taking the vows. All undone in a single night of folly. “I’m no nun. I’m a child playing at holiness, and now I’ll pay for it.”

Agnes tried to smooth her habit with trembling hands. “If I look contrite, perhaps she’ll be lenient. If I weep, if I beg…” she thought. 

But the Mother Superior’s face rose in her mind: those piercing gray eyes, that mouth set like iron. Agnes’s knees weakened, and she sank back onto the stool, her heart racing. “O Lord, give me strength. Let me bear what comes with humility. Let me not shame Thee further.”

A sudden sound broke the silence: a sharp, deliberate knock at the door. Agnes froze, her breath catching in her throat. The candle flame stuttered, and blew out. Agnes’ head swam, hearing a far-away thumping in her eardrums, and a cold dread deep in her bones. The Mother Superior, Abbess Hilda, had come to deal with little Agnes.

Just as Agnes reached out to open the door, Abbess Hilda let herself in, brusquely. With a shriek, Agnes leapt back from the door, like a doe. Abbess Hilda tensed, and held up a hand to her ear. “Peace, child.” 

Agnes exhaled, feeling relief wash over her, before she spotted what the Abbess was carrying in her other hand: a bundle of birches, tightly bound with twine. Agnes felt a jolt of terror travel up her spine, and backed away, clutching her rosary with one hand, and covering her backside with her other hand. Agnes felt her throat tighten. “The birch. Sweet Jesu, it’s to be the birch,” she thought, screaming internally.

As Abbess Hilda released her grip on the birches, and they dangled at her side from her belt. Agnes thought Abbess Hilda strangely resembled a knight, ready to draw a sword from its scabbard to punish the wicked. With an effort, Agnes forced her mouth to move. “Where do you want me positioned for my whipping, Mother Superior?”

Hilda glanced down at her birch bundle. “Whipping? Oh, goodness, child, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Please, sit. We’ll come to the matter of penance later.”

As Hilda hung the birch bundle from a hook on the wall, Agnes relaxed slightly, and sank into her seat. Agnes found it difficult to take her eyes off the birch bundle, even as Hilda marched to tower over her. Agnes held up her hands. “Mother Superior, I…I…”

Hilda raised a single finger to shush Agnes. “No. I will speak first. You have shamed yourself, Sister, and this holy house. To profane the sacred wine of communion, with a peasant’s drinking game? You, a bride of Christ, stumbling and laughing like a common alewife? I am grieved, Agnes, and disappointed.”

Dimly, Agnes remembered something Beatrice had said. “But, it wasn’t consecrated. It was just ordinary wine, not the blood of Christ.”

“Oh? Were you planning to save that blasphemy for the second round of drinking games?”

Agnes’ face flushed red, but this time with temper, not shame. She had earned more than her fair share of spankings from the Abbess during her catechism classes, though Agnes would have been the first to admit that every spanking she earned was more than fair. “I’d never do that! Do you take me for a demoniac?"

“I take you for a foolish girl. The wine may not have been consecrated, but it was still a sacrilege to steal it. Or do you deny your guilt?”

Agnes shook her head, her voice thick. Somehow, her tongue felt heavy. “No, Mother…I knew it was foolish. I just didn’t think the wine would make me so giddy. Sister Beatrice said a few sips wouldn’t hurt.”

“Never mind what Sister Beatrice said. What did you say to Sister Beatrice?”

“That…that it felt like a sin to steal wine from the cellar.”

“And why do you suppose it felt like a sin?”  

Agnes struggled to maintain eye contact with Abess Hilda, but finally, Agnes hung her head. “Because…because it was a sin.”

“Meaning,  in the first place, you acted against conscience. And in the second place, you didn’t drink a few sips. You carried on, long after you’d drunk a whole bottle yourself. One sin, leading to another. You were not merely foolish. You were willful in your trespass.”

Anges felt a tear trickle down her nose, and tried to hide it. But her sniffle gave her away. “I’m…sniff …I’m so sorry, Mother Abbess.”

Abbess Hilda nodded. “There’s a beginning to the path to repentance. Now, it’s true that you were led astray by Sister Beatrice. She ought to have known better, as your elder. But you also need to govern yourself. If you are to serve the Body of Christ, you must flee from temptation, not dance with it, to see just how close it can take you to perdition. What do you think is worse? A lashing with this birch bundle, or to be cast into the lake of fire?”

Agnes flinched as she glanced at the birches. “It is better to suffer any pains rather than be thrown to hell.”

Hilda played with the birches, then turned back to Agnes, her voice surprisingly soft. “Yes, Agnes. But know this: Our Lord is merciful. Do you recall the story of the sinful woman who wept at Christ’s feet?”

Agnes blinked, caught off guard by Hilda’s gentleness. “Y-yes, Mother. She anointed him with an alabaster jar of ointment. It was a kingly gift.”

“Yes, but there’s more to the story. The Savior was visiting the house of Simon the Pharisee. When Simon saw the woman weeping at the feet of Jesus, he said to himself, ‘If this man were really a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.’ Yes Jesus knew what was in Simon’s heart, and told him the parable of the two debtors. Because the woman had been forgiven for a greater sin, for a greater debt, she showed greater love to the forgiver of sins. And so the Lord told her, ‘Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.’”

Although she knew all the words, Agnes felt like she was hearing the story for the first time. “Then, how can I be forgiven?”

“By your faith in He who has the power to forgive all tresspasses. Your sin is grievous, but God’s mercy is boundless. You must seek penance with a contrite heart, offer your sorrow to Him, and He will cleanse you.”

“Then…you aren’t going to cast me out from the abbey? Please, I have no other family!””

The rain seemed to hang in the air, out of deference to Abbess Hilda as she weighed her judgment. “Of course we won’t cast you out. Not unless you’ve changed your mind about taking up your holy vows.”

Agnes flew from her stool, kneeling before her Abbess. “No! I will fulfill my vows! I do repent, I swear it. I’ll pray, I’ll fast, I’ll scrub the chapel floor for a month, only…” 

Agnes eyed the birch bundle hanging on the wall. “Only…perhaps, Mother, if I’m truly penitent, might I be spared the birch? I’ve learned my lesson, I promise. Could not my sorrow be enough?” 

Abbess Hilda’s mouth tightened. “Agnes, do not presume to barter with your penance, as if it were a market stall. You’ve offered words of contrition, but words will not undo the scandal you have brought upon yourself, and your fellow sisters. You’ve made a mockery of our vows. For you to be accepted as our sister, you must offer public penance, child.”

Agnes winced as she was called a child. “I…I didn’t mean to…yes, Mother. I’ll do anything.”

“The Scriptures teach us: ‘do not scorn the discipline of the Lord, or lose heart when you are punished by him. For the Lord disciplines those whom he loves.’ So too does the Church, as your mother, correct you for your good. The birch is not cruelty, Agnes, but a loving chastisement, to guide you back to righteousness. Without discipline, your soul might stray further, and I will not have that on my conscience.”

Agnes swallowed hard, her bravado crumbling. The Abbess’s words settled over her like a weight, and she saw the truth in them, though it stung. Agnes felt small as she released her grip on the Abbess habit. “Yes. I understand, Mother. I was wrong to ask. I’ll submit to your judgment…I’m sorry.”

Abbess Hilda nodded, her smile strangely beautiful, and relit the lone tallow candle on the wall. “Good, child. Your heart is contrite, and that is well. In that case, let us begin.”

With calm, deliberate steps, Abbess Hilda retrieved the birch bundle from the wall. “Sister Agnes, I pray that you let this penance purify you, like a fire which burns away the dros, and let the stripes serve as a reminder to guard your actions henceforth.” 

Agnes caught her breath, her eyes fixing on the birch rods in the Abbess’s hands. The slender branches gleamed faintly in the candlelight, their tips swaying slightly, and she could almost feel the sting they promised. Agnes’ heart pounded, fear and resolve warring within her, as she braced herself for what was to come. “Yes, Mother Superior. Withhold not the rod of correction from me.”

[End of Part 1]