The Young Catholic Women Bringing Back Veils
August 25, 2024
“I definitely don’t feel like the odd woman out
anymore.”
Nicole Moore, 30, wears a veil to church every
Sunday. Sometimes called a mantilla, these sheer head coverings are usually made
of lace or silk; Nicole’s is gray, with a floral-like pattern. Worn by women
throughout the Catholic church’s history, chapel veils fell out of favor during
the late twentieth century, but in recent years there’s been “an explosion of
veiling,” says Moore, who attends St. Vincent Ferrer Catholic Church in
Manhattan.
Her pastor, Father Peter Martyr Yungwirth, 39,
tells The Free Press he has also noticed an increase in
veiling over the last two decades. Indeed, Veils
by Lily, a website that sells mantillas, has gone from filling 30 to
60 orders per month to an average of 900 in the last ten years. And it
seems to be young Catholics driving the trend. “I have definitely noticed an
increase of women, especially young adult women, wearing veils,” says Father
Roger Landry, 54, Catholic chaplain of Columbia University. He interprets the
veiling trend “as an attempt to be maximally reverent to God at Mass and in
receiving Holy Communion.”
That may be the ultimate reason for veiling, but
it’s not the only one. To better understand what’s behind the boom, I reached
out to over a dozen Catholic women, ranging in age from 19 to 42, who choose to
wear a veil to church.
Havens Howell, 26, of Virginia, tells me that
donning the mantilla does indeed remind her that she’s entering a sacred space,
“with things that are holy and don’t happen anywhere else.”
Initially at least, the appeal can be aesthetic. “I
just thought it was really pretty,” Bernadette Patel, 27, of New York, says.
Meanwhile Amanda Kengor, 22, from New York, tells me she began veiling because
“everyone started doing it.”
Yet all the women I spoke to say veiling has become a profoundly meaningful religious practice in their lives.
Veiling ceased to be the norm after the Catholic
Church’s modernizing reforms of the 1960s, commonly known as “Vatican II”—which, among other things, placed
restrictions on whether parishes could offer the Traditional Latin Mass (TLM).
In the following decades, these regulations were
gradually relaxed. But the roots of
the mantilla’s resurgence lie in 2007, according to Father Landry. That’s when
Pope Benedict XVI increased younger generations’ exposure to the TLM by officially lifting
the restrictions on it.
Pope Francis reversed this decision in 2021.
By that point, however, it had caught on. The year before, a survey found a “high
volume of participation” in the TLM among 18- to 39-year-old practicing
Catholics in the U.S.
Veiling at the TLM is the norm, but many women
“just kept veiling,” Father Landry says, even when they attended the modern
Mass.
Maria Grizetti, 42, a religion teacher at St.
Vincent Ferrer’s all girls high school, explains that before Benedict XVI,
“there was the Pope John Paul II generation that had grown up without” the TLM.
Then that generation learned what worship was like before Vatican II. “They
learn that their grandmother prayed this way,” said Grizetti, “and they’re
like, ‘I want to pray like this.’ ”
She does not wear a veil herself, but several of
her teenage students have recently approached her to ask where they might
acquire mantillas.
boom is organic—occurring neither at the direction
of, nor in defiance to, church authorities. There is a social element to it.
When Cora Scheib, 24, from Maryland, saw young college women veiling, she found
it “intriguing and mysterious because I didn’t really know what requirements
that you had to meet. Were they, like, part of a group?” When she realized
there were no “requirements,” she bought herself a veil.
Kengor told me that most of her friends, and her
sister, are “really traditional Catholics”—and when they started veiling,
Amanda wanted to follow suit. It was only after she started wearing it that
someone told her the veil had a scriptural basis.
In his first letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul
instructs women to cover their heads, to both comply with contemporary
standards of modesty and emphasize a distinction between the sexes.
“When I realized it was biblical,” Amanda said, “I was like, ‘Oh, well, there you go. That’s my reasoning.’ ”
Veiling prepares worshippers to the enter sacred
spaces, “with things that are holy and don’t happen anywhere else.”
But over time, Amanda’s appreciation for veiling
deepened. “I reached a point where I feel it’s a kind of mystical thing,” she
said. For her, stepping into church and “putting on my veil just reminds me of
the fact I’m in a different place. I don’t do this anywhere else.”
The same is true for Patel, who converted to
Catholicism in 2016 when she was at college in California. She moved to New
York in 2019. There, she saw other young, traditionally minded women veiling,
which she thought was “pretty.” But after she got her own veil, she “fell in
love” with it as a way to show that “Jesus is really present in the Blessed
Sacrament”—that is, the bread and wine Catholics believe is transformed into Christ’s body and blood at
Mass.
Now, she never leaves her apartment without her mantilla: “I always carry my veil, my phone, my keys, my wallet.”
Catholicism is experiencing a wave of nostalgia for
an ancient, more solemn and reverent form of the religion—the kind that
inspired Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Even many Catholics who attend the modern Mass
remain attached to the pre-Vatican practices and help to preserve some of the
church’s reverent traditions. Among the laity, this might mean wearing formal
attire instead of jeans, or kneeling at communion and having the priest place
the host directly on one’s tongue rather than standing and receiving by hand.
Among priests, it might mean facing the altar as opposed to the congregation,
or insisting on male-only altar servers.
And among women—it might mean wearing a veil.
For certain devotees, the veil has become a
comforting accessory to prayer, helping them connect to God.
Ann Clare Levy, 28, of Virginia, is one of an
increasing number of Catholics who are drawn to the forms of worship that were
common before Vatican II. She tells me that veiling “just kind of fits this
entire aesthetic” in parishes with Gothic and Baroque architecture, “which you
don’t see in as many modern parishes.”
“When you have a parish that’s filled with women
wearing these finely made pieces of lace, it’s beautiful to look at,” she says,
and this “tangible beauty” is evocative of a “lost type of Catholicism.”
Some Catholics who want the church to move in a
more progressive direction find these practices archaic, or even
threatening.
When Patel, who always carries her veil in New York
City, visited a less traditional parish near her family’s California hometown,
she recalls the priest “glaring” at her throughout Mass. She was wearing her
veil, of course. On another occasion, at a liberal parish in New York, a priest
smiled and welcomed her two veil-less friends but greeted her with uncharacteristic
coldness. Patel’s friends later suggested to her that the priest was put off by
her veil.
“Wearing a veil is making a doctrinal statement,”
one Catholic writes on Reddit. “And I
don’t really believe any younger woman who wears a veil today is unaware of
that, protestations about prettiness aside.”
Another Catholic, who recalls his mother and
sisters veiling before Vatican II, writes that “all the
women I know doing this now are rabid tradcaths with a holier than thou
attitude.”
Some women, aware of such sentiments, worry that their veiling will send a message of moral superiority. “My main concern was that people would think that I was trying to be holier-than-thou,” Moore told me, referring to her early days of veiling. Kengor said it was part of her hesitation too. And one of the frequently asked questions on the Veils by Lily website is: “Shouldn’t I avoid drawing attention to myself at Mass?”
Kengor was concerned that she would be perceived as
holier-than-thou for wearing a veil. She explained that the practice has both
scriptural and aesthetic meaning.
Patel said that while she regrets being
misunderstood, in some cases, the characterization may be partly true.
Bernadette explains that she “got really into the TLM” during the pandemic, but
she noticed a tendency among some TLM Catholics “to think they were better
than” those who attend the modern Mass. Though she disagrees with Pope
Francis’s restrictions on the
TLM, which she finds beautiful, she understands why the Pontiff is concerned
about “a splintering of the church.”
Likewise, Madeline Wiseman, a 19-year-old Columbia
student who grew up veiling, has become aware since starting college in New
York, that many women at Mass “feel like they’re being personally judged by
veil wearers.” While she would still “love to wear a veil,” she refrains from
doing so to be “more approachable” to less traditional or even non-Catholic
students who might be attending Mass.
She’s not the only woman who feels conflicted about
wearing the veil. I spoke to another, who didn’t want to be named, who said she
was “forced” to wear a mantilla growing up, which she says left her with a
“little bit of a sour taste in my mouth.” Her family were part of a sect of
hyper-traditionalist Catholics, the Society of St. Pius V,
which questions the
legitimacy of post–Vatican II popes.
Now 26, she attends the modern Mass in a Virginia
parish where there is no pressure to veil. She still does “from time to time,”
but is still “trying to decide for myself” how she feels about the practice.
She wants to “dig into the 2,000-year history and beautiful scriptural meanings
that are associated with it.”
“I’m trying to rediscover my true devotion for veiling,” she says.
In Corinthians, men are instructed not to
cover their heads. Scholars debate the passage’s precise meaning, but one
theological explanation for the asymmetry lies in Christian symbolism: Women
represent the church, the submissive bride to Christ, while men represent
Christ, the self-sacrificing groom.
Among progressives, the veil, representing distinct
gender roles, is sometimes interpreted as a sign of female subservience. One
op-ed writer for the National Catholic Reporter argues that it
is “backward, if not downright repressive.”
But the women I spoke to rejected comparisons to
the hijab, arguing that the mantilla is not mandatory. The decision to wear one
is and ought to be freely made. They also note that the veil is not worn in all
public places, but simply in church, to signify a difference between sacred and
non-sacred spaces.
“People dress beautifully to go see the King or
Queen,” says Nicole LeBlanc, 25, from Michigan—so it should be with the
Lord.
Kathleen Stenlund, 34, a doctor and mother of five
who’s also based in Michigan, thought veiling was “demeaning” at first. She changed
her mind after reading the late Belgian American philosopher and theologian
Alice von Hildebrand, who criticized feminists for considering mantillas “a sign of [women’s] inferiority.”
“My goodness,” the theologian wrote, “how they have lost the sense of the supernatural.”
“When I realized it was biblical,” Amanda Kengor
said, “I was like, ‘Oh, well, there you go. That’s my reasoning.’ ”
Von Hildebrand argues “whatever is
sacred calls for veiling,” which includes the female body with its unique
capacity to bear life. Reading her work, Stenlund came to believe that veiling
signaled the glory of femininity—and adopted the practice. “The last God
created was woman,” she says, “almost as if woman was his crowning
creation.”
All the women I spoke to felt that the veil
dignified them, and many say it helps them express their love for the Lord.
Nicole Moore, from New York, put it best. For her, the veil has become a
comforting accessory to prayer, and helps her connect to God.
“It’s like feeling I’m under a blanket,” she told
me. “I can kind of shut other things out.”
Madeleine
Kearns is an associate editor at The Free Press. Follow her on X @madeleinekearns.
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