“Rarely does one find in one woman both an expert primary teacher and discerning business woman. Add to that combination spiritual leader, public relations woman, adept seamstress, and furniture mover, and you have one woman, Mother Denise Mohr.” Oklahoma Courier 47, No, 20, June 16, 1967

As best I can recall, the black and white photographic image–so powerful that it managed to achieve pre-Internet virality–first came to my attention when I purchased it in postcard format when living in Washington DC in my mid twenties. Like many who have encountered the image, I was drawn in by its joyful incongruity: nine nuns in black head-to-toe habits smiling and clapping as one of their fellow sisters swivels her hips to keep a hula-hoop from hitting the ground. The garments of the nine sisters hang straight down to graze the tops of their shoes, in contrast to the central figure of the hula-hooper, whose elevated arms and gyrations have caused the voluminous material of her habit to catch air. She’s not quite a flying nun, but she seems poised to take off like a helicopter, or maybe be assumed body and soul into heaven like the Blessed Virgin Mary.

My connection to the image, however, ran deeper, as I would subsequently learn. At the time I was still a practicing Roman Catholic and also still somewhat newly out of the closet, and like many non-hetero Catholics was awkwardly trying to balance those dual identities. Like the campy fictions of the Sister Act film franchise, the image contained the possibility of the unconventional amid the hierarchies and strictures of the Church. Most important, when I saw the postcard in the store I immediately knew the person who I needed to send it to: Denise Mohr, a longtime friend of my family who had been my second grade teacher, and a former member of the Benedictine order.

Knowing what I know now about Denise, I should not have been surprised when I eventually spoke to her about the image. She somewhat casually revealed that yes of course she had seen this picture before, because she was one of the nuns in the photo, the fifth from the right to be precise. 

Denise was born on Easter Sunday in 1924 and passed away on April 18, two days before what would have been her 100th birthday. Her physical decline was swift, and she never experienced any mental diminishment. In November 2023 Denise and I emptied two generous glasses of red wine in her airy apartment in South Tulsa. It turned out to be our last time together. 

***** 

“Your way of acting should be different from the world’s way; the love of Christ must come before all else. You are not to act in anger or nurse a grudge. Rid your heart of all deceit. Never give a hollow greeting of peace or turn away when someone needs your love.” Rule of St. Benedict, 4:20-26

Denise was a presence in every sense of the word. In one-on-one interactions, she spoke as if you were the only person who mattered, inquiring into your life with motherly warmth and commenting with beatific clarity. She was also a presence writ-large in the Catholic community of Tulsa, Oklahoma, and in particular the parish where I was raised, the Church of St. Mary. While the Bishop’s seat changed its occupant and priests came and went according to the whims of the Diocesan authorities, Denise was an abiding presence. For many years she held official positions at St. Mary’s, as an elementary school teacher at its affiliated school (where I was one of her students) and later as a director for religious education. 

But Denise transcended any official role, reflected in the different names and titles she held during her life. She was born Mary Catherine Mohr, and was especially proud that her large Kansas farm family were descendants of Joseph Mohr, the composer of “Silent Night.” When she became a Benedictine nun she took on a new set of names, becoming Sister Marie Denise. In late 1960 she underwent another yet another change in her name, when she was put in charge of St. Joseph’s Convent in Tulsa, becoming Mother Marie Denise, or Mother Denise for short.

This promotion was not something Denise had actively sought, and she was reluctant to take up the position as she had not been a member of St. Joseph’s, having been part of the Convent of Christ the King in Oklahoma City. But the directive had come from Rome, with the previous prioress asked to step down in part due to mounting debts that had accumulated in the community. Denise held the title of Mother for not quite seven full years, when she was abruptly removed from the post in June 1967.

An article published in the wake of her forced resignation noted how her assuming the title of Mother had been something of a prophecy fulfilled, albeit in an oblique manner. When Denise was in first grade, a religious Superior had visited her class and asked the children how many wanted to become priests or nuns. Denise declined to raise her hand, and when interrogated about her decision reportedly replied: “I just want to be a mother and have lots of children.”

Although she never bore children of her own, Denise had firsthand experience with motherhood as the oldest of eighteen children. (I’ll pause to let that statistic sink in since it never ceases to give pause to me or anyone else I relate it to.) For her and other women of her generation, joining a religious order was a way of pursuing a vocation while also sidestepping familial pressure to marry and have children. And yet Denise still ended up Mother to hundreds if not thousands over the course of her life.

Her continued work as Mother was not undertaken alone, however, but alongside her roommate and friend Glenann Wilkerson, who like Denise had managed to carve out an independent life that transcended humble rural origins and contemporary expectations for women. Glennan moved from her hometown of Welch, Oklahoma to Tulsa and took a job working for the local insurance mogul Ray Siegfried, and like a midwestern Peggy Olson slowly worked her way up the corporate ladder while also making astute investment decisions. When Denise was dismissed from her position Glenann offered her a spare room in her home, and the two lived together from then on.

As anyone who spent time in St. Mary’s parish knows, “Denise and Glennan” were as cohesive a unit as any of the married couples in the community despite not being romantically involved. Their relationship defied every prevailing category, and in my mind always represents a prophetic anticipation of what people everywhere continue to struggle and strive for, that is, the ability to structure one’s life without regard to labels or preconceived notions. That they were able to do this beginning in 1970s Tulsa and continuing into the twenty-first century will never cease to astound me.

*****

“Accordingly, brothers, if we want to reach the highest summit of humility, if we desire to attain speedily that exaltation in heaven to which we climb by the humility of this present life, then by our ascending actions we must set up that ladder on which Jacob in a dream saw angels descending and ascending. Without doubt, this descent and ascent can signify only that we descend by exaltation and ascend by humility.” Rule of St. Benedict, 7:5-7

During my life I have heard various stories about the end of Denise’s tenure as prioress and what precipitated it. The general arc was that she had been too eager to modernize the ways of living in the monastery, allowing the sisters to do things like go swimming in the summer at one of Oklahoma’s many lakes, or engaging in activities like hula-hooping, as depicted in the photo taken at her Oklahoma City community. Denise’s tenure in leadership coincided with one of the most consequential reconfigurations of Roman Catholic doctrine, the Second Vatican Council (1962-65), which ushered in significant modernizations, most notably the abandonment of Latin as the language of worship.

Denise was thus ahead of her time, as the story went, and accordingly punished and dismissed, even as she had never sought the position of authority to begin with. In the letter Denise received notifying her of the dismissal (published in facsimile in the Catholic newspaper the Oklahoma Courier alongside the news report alluded to above), the U.S. Council of the Congregation of Saint Scholastica (the women’s branch of the Benedictine order), expresses concern for “your welfare and that of your community.” “The presence of diverse elements in the community,” the head of the order Mother Susan continues, “has convinced [the Council] of the impossibility of its unification under one of its own members.” She concludes the letter with the hope that “your willing acceptance of this decision will bring blessings to you and the community.”

Barring the discovery of private documents or correspondence, we will never know the full story of how and why Denise was relieved of her position, and she never went definitively on the record to offer her own account. We will also never know what St. Joseph’s Convent in Tulsa (best known today as the site of Monte Cassino School), might look like today had Denise been allowed to continue as a leader, much less how her presence may have effected change in the broader Catholic community of Tulsa and beyond. I can only guess that a charismatic and effective leader with a knack for business and seeking to institute Vatican II-style reforms before the council had even concluded its proceedings was too much of a free radical for the authorities in Rome to countenance. 

Notably, Denise never formally renounced her vows, even though she never again lived in any official monastic environment. And during her continued involvement in the Catholic community she never took public or contrarian stances against the hierarchy, instead cultivating a quiet network with families such as mine and countless other friends. “Mother is one of those people who prove,” as one anonymous sister was quoted in the news report of her dismissal, “that spiritual leadership is not a position but a spiritual quality.” 

*****

“…the grace of heaven has made you rich; with such full blessing of goodness; not only in order to raise you to the glory you desire; to the rest of the blessed, to a seat in heaven; but that many others be drawn to that same blessedness; wondering at your life; stirred by your kind admonitions; instructed by your gentle doctrine.” St. Anselm, “Prayer to St. Benedict”

When I saw Denise in November last year I almost wanted to ask her again about the hula-hooping, knowing that it might be my last chance to do so. But instead we had one of our usual wide-ranging conversations about life, with me updating her about what I had been doing with my work and life with my partner in San Francisco and my slowly moving project to write a memoir about race and education. We caught up about my family and how Glenann was faring, and the fragile state of the world, especially in Oklahoma. I talked about my new spiritual life in the Episcopal Church, and we discussed another iconoclastic person of faith whom I have come to admire, Pauli Murray.

Although we didn’t talk about the hula-hooping, we did talk about the abrupt end of her tenure as Mother Denise, and she noted how shattering it had been to have to go back and briefly live with her parents in her mid-40s before rebuilding her life. But in her typical fashion she did not harbor any anger or resentment. I shared a bit about my own journey–far less disruptive by comparison–to start a new professional career in my 40s after an unsuccessful attempt at an academic career. As usual, Denise seemed to really get it, offering acknowledgment and encouragement that made me wonder why I had ever been so upset about anything to begin with.

It has been odd but also comforting to learn only after her passing that Denise once literally held the title of Mother, since I can think of no better honorific. It’s a title with appropriate emotional and spiritual resonance, and one that, like her life, is quietly and lovingly disruptive of the typical categories that circulate in our daily routines. I know I’m not alone in being grateful to call myself one of her children.

Day of Pentecost

May 19, 2024

San Francisco