Reading Mother Teresa--The Wardrobe of the Poor

Through him we received grace and apostleship 

to call all the Gentiles to the obedience 

that comes from faith for his name’s sake. 

And you also are among those Gentiles 

who are called to belong to Jesus Christ. Romans 1:5–6 

“. . . your vocation is to love and suffer and save souls and by taking this step you will fulfill My Heart’s desire for you. . . . You will dress in simple Indian clothes or rather like My Mother dressed – simple and poor.” (48)

Thus saith the Lord. Seriously.

The quote above includes the exact words Mother Teresa claimed she heard Jesus tell her when he, startlingly, directed her to live among the poor, with them, as them. Even in dress. Gone would be the almost sacred habit, in its place the rags of Calcutta’s poor.

Some men my age wear shorts to church these days – you know, the ones with baggy pockets. I can excuse such dress in those 30-somethings who believe that worship should be a picnic. But in older men – those who remember the “Sunday clothes” of their boyhoods – I guess I just don’t understand. I’m no grumpy old fogy, by the way; I haven’t worn a suit for years. But fall is coming, and, sooner or later, I’ll get out a sport coat. No ties, however – good night, I’m not a museum piece.

There are practices with which I was brought up that I find difficult to break – like going to church twice on Sunday. We’ve been “oncers” now for a couple of months, and I rather like it, although I’m still not sure, as my father would say, that what I do with the time I’d otherwise be in church is as important, as selfless as worship.

Someday, when I depart this vale of tears, I’ll still have “Sunday clothes” in the closet. The penchant to dress up for worship is in a vault of my subconscious, for better or for worse. If we had a meeting with our State Senator, my father used to say, we wouldn’t wear swimming suits. Hard as this is to admit, I’ve got a thing about Sunday clothes, a thing that’s not easily broken. But I’m on the other side of the Reformation, and I’m a thorough-going Protestant who grew up, terribly prejudiced, sometimes referring to nuns as penguins.

But what if I wasn’t? What if, to me, the wardrobe of the Lord was the habit that I was born and reared adoring? What if my commitment to Jesus Christ and Mother Mary was quietly proclaimed in the white coif, the black veil, the rosary, the woolen belt, the holy habit and scapular? How hard would it be then, to remove them for something else?

I’m guessing only Christ himself could have persuaded Mother Teresa to change clothes. Only the voice of the Lord as she heard it could have demanded she step out of centuries of Roman Catholic tradition and piety in exchange for the rags of Calcutta’s poor.

And he did, or so she heard him say.

So commanding was his voice, so determined was her obedience. Leave the habit behind, Sister. That’s what he told her.

And she did. That’s something, isn’t it?