New Yorker, May 1992
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The Missionary of the Self
By [Your Name]
In the chapel, under the weak buzz of a ceiling fan, Mother Teresa is leading a discussion group on Atlas Shrugged.
“Christ carried the cross,” she tells the sisters. “But he did not ask permission first. That is leadership.”
The nuns, notebooks open, nod dutifully. Some have underlined rational egoism in red. The well-worn copies of Atlas Shrugged are darkened and cracked, like holy relics.
A young sister raises her hand. “Mother,” she asks softly, “what about the meek? Didn’t our Lord say they shall inherit the earth?”
Teresa’s teacup hits the saucer with a crack like a gavel. She leans forward, eyes sharp as a blade under the fluorescent light.
“The meek,” she says, “inherit nothing! They look for crumbs while the strong bake new bread!"
Afterward, she invites me for tea. Her Bible and The Fountainhead sit side by side. At eighty-three, the world’s most famous nun speaks less like a mystic than a management consultant. Her hospices are “enterprises of dignity,” the sisters “associates,” and the dying “clients at the end of the supply chain.” When I ask if this language conflicts with her vow of poverty, she smiles quickly. "God doesn't need more pious ones. He needs more winners."'
Her sisters now keep daily ledgers—“metrics of meaning”—and operate under rules that are part Benedictine, part Six Sigma. “Without efficiency,” she warns them, “charity degenerates into chaos.” A Jesuit critic in Rome told me she has “Calvinism retooled for venture capital.”
The convent remains austere, though modern touches intrude: a fax machine, a small television (“for data”), a filing system labeled Mutual Benefit. “When people donate to our cause,” she explains, “they receive something of equal or greater value. We tell them to go wait for the invisible hand of grace - and on their way.”
Outside, sat the doorway she turns, adjusting her habit like a power suit. A small smile breaking through the austerity. “Miss Rand was right,” she says. “The question isn’t who will let me serve, but who will stop me.”
The pigeons scatter at her step. One lands boldly on the rim of the fountain, staring after her as if awaiting the IPO. For a moment, it seems entirely possible.
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[written by chat gpt 5]
