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.
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 secondmonastery 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.
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.
