The Tabernacle of the Womb

When I went to Mass on St. Lucy’s day, I knelt at my regular pew. When I tried to look up at the tabernacle, I realized that the large portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe, left out from the evening before with offerings of flowers around it, blocked my view. I wasn’t about to actually move from my regular spot, but I was little disappointed that it was blocking my regular view.

As Mass went on, I continued to look at Our Lady of Guadalupe. Her feast being the day before, I had been reading up on her and just recently learned that the image portrays a pregnant Mary. Throughout the Mass, my eyes kept darting to the position where I can normally see the tabernacle. Instead was the middle of this image. I couldn’t stop looking at her womb, knowing the tabernacle was just behind it.

I’ve never had the biggest devotion to Mary. I know she’s our mother, the Mother of the Church, the Mother of God. I usually attribute to my Protestant background; no aversion to her, but we keep a WASPy familial distance. I see others with their deep devotions to her, their daily rosaries, their consecrations. I know her, but not like that.

But there are brief moments like this when I see it—her power in our story of salvation. She said yes and bore God. She cradled him and nursed him and mourned him. She wants us to see who she sees. Unleavened bread and golden boxes don’t always seem so relatable. But she is. The tabernacle is in the womb. She cradles our salvation.

St. Odilia of Alsace

Today is the feast day of St. Lucy, who has a special place in my heart. But it is also the feast saint of another woman saint, and one who undoubtedly benefited from Lucy’s prayers.

Odilia of Alsace was born around 662 to the Duke of Alsace. She was born blind. Her father did not want a handicapped daughter, so her mother sent her to be raised by peasants. When she was 12, she was baptized at a nearby monastery, and her eyesight was miraculously restored.

Her brother had her brought back to the household (she was now useful to be married off). Her father became so enraged at his son that he killed him. Odilia revived her brother and fled.

She crossed the Rhine, and a cavern opened up to her. She hid there and when her father approached, he was injured by falling rocks and returned home.

When her father later fell ill, she returned home to care for him. He wound up founding an Augustine monastic community for her. She went on to establish a second  monastery and hospital of Niedermünster. The buildings burned down during the Peasants’ War in the sixteenth century, but the well is still said to cure eye diseases.

Odilia died in 720. She is the patron of good eyesight and Alsace. She is often depicted with a book on which lie two eyes.

Under a Veil

When I was in RCIA and still trying to sort out the dos and don’ts of Catholicism, I pondered why women had once covered their heads and now didn’t. But it was clear now that no one did, and therefore, it fell low on my figuring out priority list. But there was a lingering feeling that the reason the practice stopped was more cultural than theological and that I needed a better reason.

Two years ago, I finally got the courage to veil. And it did feel like it took courage. It was such an outward sign, and I was afraid people would think I was a radtrad or acting holier than thou. I decided to veil for Advent—just a four-week exercise, and if it helped me in worship I would continue. I thought maybe it would help me remember that I was in a holy place, maybe it would make it meeker.

I didn’t expect to feel empowered, but I did. I felt strong, for an inexplicable reason. I like veiling in church. I like the motion of putting it on as I enter, acknowledging the sacred space. I like the edges of the veil keeping my vision forward, toward Jesus, as I pray. I like the solidarity I feel with all the women who historically have covered their hair. It makes me feel humble and protected and noble. It helps, so I continue the practice.

I’m glad it’s a voluntary practice. I wouldn’t tell another woman that she should veil, and I don’t know how I would feel if it were still obligatory. But I know that for me, it’s a beneficial devotion. Or, as Fred says in A Christmas Carol: “…though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

Some women do it because they attend Latin Mass or are more conservative. Some do it as a sign of their God-given femininity. Some do it to emulate Mary. Some do it because sacred things are covered, like tabernacles. I think a lot of people assume the reasons and apply judgments when they see veils, but the reasons are varied and frankly, private.

Judgement can come from both sides: those who oppose or take offense to it, and those who are a little too excited to see it. I myself judge men who think women have to veil. I read my own assumptions into that—that they’re conservative, possibly sexist, rigid. Men shouldn’t have a say in telling women specifically what to wear to Mass. I know some men that prefer women who veil, who like the devotedness of it. But I worry about fetishization. I’m not doing it for men or to signal to men or anyone else. I don’t want to stand out. I don’t want to be stared at or have assumptions placed on me. But if I do, it’s the gazers’ problem, not mine. I’m still going to veil. But it was never about them; it’s about me and Jesus, and we’re cool with it.

It's a personal devotion that means a lot to me, but probably less than others think it does. I'm glad I've kept with it, and I intend to do so. Though if I stop, it's no sin.

How can a little piece of cloth mean so much? When it points to God, every little thing matters.

"How Can I Understand?"

I’ve been thinking about the Ethiopian in Acts 8. He is an odd character, not the typical convert that the apostles are meeting in Jerusalem: he’s Ethiopian, he’s a eunuch, he’s in charge of his queen’s treasury, he practices his faith. It is not clear if he is a convert to Judaism or a “God-fearer,” one who believed in the monotheism of Judaism but was not bound by Jewish law. He’s traveled a long way to worship at the temple. He’s reading the scriptures on his own, even though he lacks instruction. He’s a seeker of the truth.

Phillip finds him as he’s reading Isaiah 53:7-8. He asks the Ethiopian if he understands it, and the man says no, that he needs instruction. With Advent coming up, and its readings from Isaiah, I can relate to the man. The prophets are confusing; there is so much cultural context that I can’t understand without instruction. He’s trying, but it’s not clear to him.

Phillip explains how Isaiah predicts the coming and sacrifice of Jesus. The Ethiopian requests baptism, and they stop along the road so Phillip can baptize him. Then Phillip leaves to continue his mission, and the Ethiopian, presumably, returns to Kush (now in Sudan) to spread the Good News he’s learned. Ethiopia does have one of the oldest Christian communities, and the Orthodox community there refers to him as Simeon Bachos.

I really like the account of the Ethiopian’s conversion. While others are joining by the hundreds, this is a personal account. We get to know who he is—where he’s from, his high position, his status as eunuch that probably keeps him from full participation in the community, his faith. He is devout and wants to know the truth. And when it comes to him, he accepts it. The waiting, the seeking, is over: the truth, in Christ, has arrived.

St. Edmund Rich

St. Edmund Rich was born in Abingdon, England, around 1174. From an early age, he practiced asceticism. He taught art and math at Oxford. After his ordination, he taught theology and became the treasurer of Salisbury Cathedral.

He was known as a great speaker; he travelled and preached for the Sixth Crusade. Pope Gregory IX named him Archbishop of Canterbury in 1233. In that role, he became advisor to King Henry III. He urged the king to ratify the Magna Carta, which had been signed by his father, King John. Edmund tried to negotiate between the Church and the king over control of leadership and property in England, making him unpopular to the king. A papal legate was sent from Rome in 1237, and King Henry used the legate’s authority to limit Edmund’s power.  

The feud with King Henry led Edmund to resign his see in 1240 and moved to France, where he became a Cistercian. He died that year and was canonized just seven years later.  His feast day is November 20.

Go, the Mass has Ended

I was recently at Mass, during communion. Most were kneeling in prayer or in line to receive. But several were making their exit. Opening the transept door and letting in the bright sunlight literally spotlighted the families leaving early. Of course the old joke ran through my head: “Judas was the first to leave Mass early.”

As I watched more and more leave, it reminded me of a conversation I’d had with a man a few weeks ago—a devoted man who attends Mass and Bible studies—who, when talking about a Mass that might be going too long, said, “Well, people can just leave after they receive. Mass is over by then.”

Um, Mass is over by then? What does he think Mass is, if it’s over as Christ’s body is still lying on the altar, in the hands of ministers, on the tongues of the faithful? When does he think it ends? I thought these people leaving early just didn’t care, but now I thought that they might not even know what Mass is. I know there are a lot of poorly-catechized Catholics who love Jesus as best they know him yet have no clue what the Church actually believes.

How sad would it be to go every week to church and be in the very presence of God and not know it? To receive Jesus, transubstantiated, and think it was still just bread and a commemoration? To show up to get your prayers said and communion received and not recognize the communal nature of the Mass or respect the solemnity of that time and space? How many are there and don’t know what they’re part of?

Sometimes people need to leave early: uncompromising work schedules, rowdy children, illness. But when it’s dozens of people, I suspect most of the reasons are just apathy about the Mass and the desire to beat traffic to lunch. Are those extra 10 minutes really that important?

For the record: the Mass is ended when the priest or deacon announces, “The Mass is ended.” Even then, it’s polite to wait for the recessional before actually recessing. One doesn’t have to read the Summa to figure out when Mass ends.

And this isn’t to bash those leaving early. At least they’re there at all. Some part of them recognizes the importance of Mass. They care to some extent. But do they understand? If they did, how could they bounce like that?

Do any of us fully understand? If we did, how could our minds wander? Physically present but mentally checked out. How could we at times go through the motions or get distracted. If we fully understood, we would approach the altar on our knees, in awe every time. We would never want to leave.

Memento mori

“Remember you will die.” Memento mori isn’t just a phrase, it’s an entire theory and practice in the Church of reflecting on one’s mortality. By turning one’s attention to the fragility of this life, and the eternality of the next, one learns to shun worldly things and attractions and in place focuses on God and the soul.

There is a Daughter of St. Paul who has kept a skull on her desk for the past year and tweets about her reflections from memento mori.

Catholics have long been good about memento mori. Modern goths can only best appropriate medieval to Victorian Christian art. Churches built on the sites of martyrs, or using the bones as the building materials. Skulls, skeletons, and tombs carved on churches and tombs. Rubbing ashes on our foreheads. Death itself personified in danse macabre paintings. The memento mori theme also appears in liturgies, music, and poems.

It seems that times of death, such as war and plague, show a rise in memento mori focus. When death is out in the open, one has to address it. But it might be even more important to remember it in times when death is hidden, tucked away from daily life in hospitals and funeral homes.

I read on some forum recently, “The main purpose is to help people die properly. That’s the main reason to practice Christianity; to make sure that when you die, you do so the right way.”

Everyone will die. And we believe that is not the end. There is judgement, purgation, hell, heaven, resurrection, the world to come. So we must prepare. And that starts with death, the frivolity and vanity of earthly-minded things, and the importance of what comes next.

Remember you will die. Remember death. Remember its defeat.

Passively Praying

I complain about church music a lot. I want good music—sometimes for selfish reasons, but other times because the Mass deserves reverence. Catholicism is a physical faith; we should live as though we believe in the Incarnation. Lex orandi, lex credendi. How you engage your body and your senses in worship is both a reflection of your belief and a guide leading you to belief. Kneel, prostrate, bow, stand, make the sign of the Cross. Gaze upward into rafters and images of saints. Fill your ears with songs of reverence. Breathe in incense. Consume the flesh of Christ.

For the same reason, I often lament the lack of incense too. But it’s not supplemented by another artificial smell. There is either incense or not. Not so with music. I’d much rather have a Mass with no music than one with folksy, vapid lyrics or a thumping drum set. I try to block it out, to focus my mind on God, to pray over the noise, screaming inside my head, reminding myself that “God’s here anyway.” Not only does that type of music not assist me in worshipping; it’s an active distraction I have to fight against.

I shouldn’t have to fight at Mass. I’m so tired of fighting.

On days when the sticky dark cloud comes, I barely make it to church. Being there is all I can offer. I can’t pray. I have to rely on the liturgy to do that for me. And that’s what beautiful about the liturgy. It’s a prayer we’re offering up—the congregation, the universal Church, the angels and saints. If I can’t pull my own weight, the Church will carry me through. On better days, I can help.

I was told by a priest that went I can’t pray at home on those days to listen to music that could do the praying for me. Handel’s Chandos Anthems and Gregorian chants do help. I don’t want modern sounds and contemporary verbiage. I want to be taken into the sacred, my senses shown something beyond the weight of worldly living.

I was recently at a Mass on such a day, when the choir sang in acapella Latin. The song sounded familiar from my choir days but I couldn’t quite place it and I couldn’t quite translate it. But it was simple and beautiful and sacred. And since my mind couldn’t find words and my body couldn’t find energy, I let the choir do the praying for me, and I realized just how important that was. I did pray, through the music. I was drawn closer to God. It made a very bad day at least have a good Mass.

That wouldn’t have happened with the congregational hymns from late twentieth century that plague so many Masses. I don’t want to go into what makes music “good” or proper for Mass or how Sacrosanctum Concilium still places Gregorian chant in preference though. I do believe there is objectively better music that instructs our belief better than others. But for now, I just want to sit in a church when I’m broken and be able to pray.

What’s Wrong with Perfect?

I recently watched a program on the history of the eugenics program in the U.S. The tagline at the opening of the documentary was “What’s wrong with perfect?” It showed how people believed that science could solve all of society’s problems. It was an era of rapid change, and optimism that through those changes utopia was just around the corner.

Genetics was a new field. Scientists had made breakthrough gene studies in peas and flies. And some started to see that genes operated similarly in humans; traits could be traced through lineages. With this limited, yet groundbreaking, information came the idea that society should promote the passing of “good” genes and suppress the passing of “bad” ones. But what was good or bad? And what traits were genetically inherited? The biases of the day stepped in to answer those questions: white, Anglo-Saxon, wealthy, sober, intelligent, healthy people were ideal. Non-whites, including Eastern and Southern Europeans, the poor, the drunken, the feeble-minded, the sick or disabled, were all not ideal. Eugenics sought to breed out the genes for social ills such as poverty, addiction, violence, and promiscuity. It didn’t take much to get someone label “feebled-minded” and thus deemed unfit for parenthood.

Programs promoted eugenics and the improvement of American society. People would submit themselves to inspections to certify their good genes. “Better babies, happy families,” the programs promoted. This was about health, individual health and social health. We could use modern science to make people better. Who wouldn’t want healthier babies?

The problem is that hope and promises of solutions masked fear and hate. The neutral science was co-opted for a sinister agenda. We can make society better, by getting rid of them. Those foreigners, those drunks, those poor, dumb people. Eugenics quickly moved from breeding “good” genes to stopping the breeding of “bad” genes to forcibly sterilizing anyone who might pass on “bad” genes. A generational step away from genocide. The Germans admired the U.S.’s ideas of genetic superiority, and it led to actual genocide.

The promise of utopia often leads to disaster. In an effort to be perfect, a society will destroy anyone with flaws or faults. And of course, we are all flawed. People forget that the world is not perfect, and while we can strive to better it, earth will never be utopia. Utopia means “no place.” The “good place” is “no place.” It is not here. It is not coming.

Utopia will not come once all the feeble-minded are sterilized.

Utopia will not come once all the Jews are exterminated.

Utopia will not come once all the drug-users are imprisoned.

Utopia will not come once all the children with Down syndrome are aborted.

I am a flawed person. And thus, I am unfit for a perfect society. Each of us, ultimately, would be found deficient—physically, mentally, morally, philosophically—for inclusion in utopia. Once you weed out imperfect people, there is no one left. Utopia is “no place.” Only God is perfect. And while we strive to perfect ourselves, He meets where we are—in our crippling flaws and sinful faults and messy imperfections.

The Time of the Martyrs

I find it difficult to relate to martyrs. Living in a time and place where one is free to practice (or not) almost any religion, it’s hard to imagine what it’s like to face arrest or death for attending Mass, or live in constant fear of having your home raided and Bible or crucifix found. Those situations belong in hagiographies. But they also are still happening today. Right now.

In China, authorities are ordering the removal of signs of faith in efforts to make religious buildings like churches and mosques look like clubhouses. Churches are reporting that crosses are being replaced with Chinese flags or photos of Xi Jinping and Mao Zedong. Banners quoting scripture and any other religious-related objects were removed. Bibles are being pulled from bookstores.

Children are not allowed to be members of a religious organization. They are not allowed at even the state-sanctioned churches. Sunday schools have been shut down. House churches are routinely raided, but now state-sponsored churches also face raids and harsher stipulations. Information officers are installed to report “anti-state” or “anti-social” behavior.

Over one million Uyghur Muslims have been placed in reeducation camps to rid them of their ethnic identity and faith. The government says they are trying to root out extremists. But any sign of faith seems extreme to the state. People are arrested for reading the Quran, possessing books about Uyghur culture, or wearing a t-shirt with a crescent moon. The prisoners are held for months at a time and forced to listen to lectures, sing songs praising the Chinese Communist Party, and write self-criticisms.

While Islam is not outright banned, there are narrow limits placed on it, such as Muslims are not allowed to pray at home if guests are there. They must register to pray at mosques and sign in to enter under the view of surveillance cameras. Prisoners are told their “radical” beliefs are an “ideological virus” with the camp offering residential care and a cure.

I’m in a book study currently reading about St. John Paul II. It talks a lot about how much the Communists in Poland wanted to suppress religion. It was something I knew as historical fact but could never really understand. Other than monitoring for political speech, what about religious people did Communists fear?

Then I was listening to a podcast talking about the First Amendment, and how the freedoms listed in it follow a logical progression to ensure a liberal democracy. Foremost is the freedom of religion, the right to think and believe whatever you want. Freedom of your own thoughts. From there comes freedoms to express that thought (speech), share that thought (press), discuss that thought with others (assembly), and take action on that thought (petition). But the fundamental freedom is to think freely.

And the Communists of Poland in the 1970s or of China in the 2010s don’t believe in freedom of thought. They want to control the people’s minds. It’s not just about capitulating in action but capitulating in will. Religion itself is a threat to the state. It provides the soul things which the state can never do—sacrificial love, hope, eternal life.

The real battles of the world take place over the minds of the people—their faiths, philosophies, loyalties. Propaganda confuses the truth, manipulates the mind, enslaving it to an agenda. Religion will always offer more than this world can, and therefore, it will be a threat to worldly ideologies. The time of persecution is not passed. It probably never will be. It shifts location and form, but it does not leave. Should I be fortunate enough to not face persecution, then I should pray for and stand with those who do.

Don't Go It Alone

God’s first observation of man was that “it is not good that man should be alone.” We are social creatures, and we need one another.

But it’s also really hard to be with people. They can be annoying or uncharitable or too needy. They can make ridiculous rules or form wrong ideas. More dangerously, they can harm—physically, sexually, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. They can break one another, abuse one another, hurt one another. And what then? Is that really better than being alone?

There are a lot of people who have been damaged by individuals or institutions who have isolated themselves. They prefer to be alone because their experiences with others have been tragic. They may have escaped a toxic situation, but that does not mean that isolation is healthy. They suffer the effects of their abuse in silence. They distrust others. They convince themselves the journey can be made alone.

“I don’t need a church. I just need Jesus.” It’s a common thought: that one’s spiritual journey is of individual progress and enlightenment. People want to distill a solitary faith journey into this pure, uncontaminated, spiritual essence. But usually it just comes out as a cobbled-together collection of favorite scriptures, poems, writings without a firm foundation or consistent set of ethics. There is also a lack of accountability, criticism, challenge. With no outside conflict, there is little room to grow beyond what interests you as an individual.

It might feel enlightening, liberating, enjoyable. But it is still a form of isolation. It keeps one away from a community of faith. It doesn’t push you beyond comfort or take  you down roads you aren’t looking for. We need others to help us grow. We need others to hold us accountable. We need others to support us. We need others who don’t support us yet offer us chances to practice grace, patience, and charity. We need to be there for the benefit of others’ growth. We need to do good or pay penance at a community level as well as an individual one.

The devil likes when we’re isolated. Like a wounded animal, we are easier to harm when we don’t have a community to run to for help. It is in isolation that he can feed us lies with no one to contradict him.

And that’s why it’s so important to fight isolation, to not retreat away and hide, even when the world has been harmful. That’s why it’s important for us to listen to victims’ stories, let them know they are heard and loved and welcomed, encourage them to stay in community, and help them journey of reentry if they’ve been gone. Sometimes looking for a community or trying to fit into one can be an isolating endeavor in itself. Sometimes the heart is so wounded, it doesn’t feel safe to be vulnerable again.

I don’t know the best way to welcome and integrate others. I don’t know the best way to stop myself from isolating myself at times. I just know it’s not good that we should be alone.

St. Michael the Archangel

The St. Michael Prayer was recently reinstituted at the end of Mass in my diocese. The prayer used to be recited at the conclusion of every Mass until the revisions in the 1960s. Even without it in Mass, it seems cradle Catholics know it as well as they do the Hail Mary, and I’m scrambling to find it written in the bulletin to follow along. It feels like one more cultural thing I’m missing out on. 

It’s taken me a long time to get some sort of grasp on angelogoy, being so speculative. I’ve grown to believe in and appreciate my guardian angel, and I understand the appeal of the battling defenders against dark forces. But it still feels funny to end Mass by mentioning the evil spirits “who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

Michael means “Quis ut Deus?” or “Who is like God?” It is a rhetorical question, implying that no one is like God. It is also the rallying cry of the Army of God. Satan tried to be like God, and he and his followers were kicked out of heaven. Satan promised Adam and Eve they could be like God, and that led to the Fall. Who is like God? No one. And Michael fights those who say otherwise. 

In the West, St. Michael is called an archangel. In the East, he is called a taxiarchos, or brigadier. Both terms honor him as a high-ranking leader. He is the protector of the Jewish people and later the Church. In Revelation he leads the forces against Satan. He really puts the militant into the Church Militant. 

In the early Church, Michael was seen more as a healer. By the mid-fourth century, he was depicted more as a warrior. As the highest of the lowest rank of angels, the Church credits him with several roles: he is the leader of the Army of God against evil forces, he is the angel of death who leads souls, should they be judged as such, to heaven, and he is the patron of the Church.

Michaelmas is on Sept. 29. It is also considered the Feast of the Archangels, Sts. Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael.