Let’s Talk about Veiling…
Yes. My daughters and my wife wear veils at Mass. No, I don’t make them.
Here we go, another day in the 21st century—a time when men wearing dresses is called “brave,” but a woman wearing a chapel veil is called “oppressed.” When a girl gluing glitter to her chest is said to be “liberated,” but a woman quietly covering her head in reverence before the Lord of the Universe must, apparently, be the victim of a patriarchal cult.
And so here we are.
Let me make something painfully clear for the emotionally fragile secularists and the polyester-clad Boomer Catholics still high on “Spirit of Vatican II” fumes: Yes, my daughter and my wife wear veils at Mass. And No, I don’t force them to do so. But thanks for projecting.
In fact, I’ve never once demanded, guilt-tripped, or manipulated any woman in my family into veiling. You know why? Because Catholic women who love Christ don’t need to be dragged kicking and screaming into acts of reverence. They choose it. Gladly. Because they know that the Mass isn’t a backyard barbecue or a youth group pizza party—it’s the unbloody re-presentation of Calvary, and their response to that is awe, not Instagram.
But... But... Patriarchy!
Let’s just preempt the screeching, shall we?
The modern world has been trained to see every traditional practice as inherently tyrannical. If a man opens a door, he’s “condescending.” If he lets a woman go first, he’s “reinforcing gender roles.” And if his wife chooses to wear a veil to Mass? Why, that must be abuse!
This hysteria is rich coming from a culture where women are paraded half-naked in corporate-sponsored Pride parades, injected with testosterone in middle school, and conned into thinking that twerking for TikTok is empowerment. And yet somehow, veiling before the Blessed Sacrament is where feminism draws the line? Please.
Let’s be clear: Catholic veiling is not about submission to men—it’s about submission to God.
Shocking, I know. But some women actually want to be reverent.
Let's Talk Scripture (Brace Yourselves)
This whole veil thing didn’t come from Pinterest. It came from St. Paul, you know, the Apostle of the Gentiles and not, as some believe, a member of the Taliban.
“Every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head—it is the same as having her head shaved.”
—1 Corinthians 11:5
Cue the triggered liturgy committees and felt-banner feminists frantically flipping through their Gather hymnals to find a rebuttal.
Sorry, ladies. St. Paul isn’t going to be edited out of Scripture just because your ‘70s theology professor told you it was all “cultural.” The Church has never abrogated this passage, and while the 1983 Code of Canon Law no longer mandates veiling (Canon 6 §1), it also doesn’t forbid it. Veiling is a freely chosen act of piety. Not a dress code. Not a dogma. Not a club requirement for the Handmaids of Trad.
Tradition Isn’t Tyranny
The Church has a long memory, and until about five minutes ago (liturgically speaking), women veiling was normative. For two millennia, women covered their heads at Mass out of reverence, modesty, and sacred symbolism. The veil wasn’t about hiding their glory; it was about recognizing where their glory came from. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t TikTok.
St. Irenaeus didn’t complain about veils. St. Monica didn’t feel oppressed. The Blessed Virgin Mary didn’t burn her linen head covering in a first-century version of a bra protest.
And by the way, Mary is veiled in every traditional image we’ve ever seen. You think that’s a coincidence?
Catechism, Canon Law, and Common Sense
Let’s talk reverence. The Catechism of the Catholic Church says:
“The liturgy is the summit toward which the activity of the Church is directed... it is also the font from which all her power flows.”
—CCC §1074
If the liturgy is the summit and font of all Catholic life, shouldn’t our posture and appearance reflect that reality? If you’d wear a veil to meet the Queen of England, maybe it’s not insane to wear one before the King of Kings.
And then there’s this little detail from Canon 920:
“Once admitted to the blessed Eucharist, each of the faithful is obliged to receive Communion at least once a year.”
Now ask yourself: if the Eucharist is so sacred that the Church obliges you to receive it once a year under penalty of sin… might it also be worthy of some physical sign of reverence?
Modern Catholics clutch their pearls at veils, but think nothing of chewing gum in the pews or wearing cargo shorts to Easter Sunday. We’ve gone from sacred silence to liturgical tambourines, and you think veiling is the problem?
No, She’s Not Doing It for Me
Every Sunday, I watch my wife walk into church and place her veil upon her head. She does it slowly, reverently, and without a shred of self-consciousness. She’s not performing. She’s not signaling. She’s not trying to impress anyone.
She’s preparing to enter into the Holy of Holies.
My daughter, still young, imitates her mother. Not because I force her, but because she sees in her mother someone who takes the Mass seriously. And contrary to what the Department of Modern Gender Studies might tell you, women influencing other women through beauty and piety isn’t oppression—it’s tradition.
Veiling Is True Feminism
Let’s set the record straight: veiling isn’t about cowering before men. It’s about standing before God with dignity and strength rooted in eternal truths. What could be more feminist than a woman who refuses to be reduced to a sexualized commodity by pop culture, a fashion mannequin for fast trends, or a pawn in the genderless utopia dreamed up by rainbow flag revolutionaries? Veiling says: I am not here to entertain. I am not here to perform. I am here to worship. It’s the ultimate rejection of objectification and the most subversive thing a woman can do in a society that values cleavage over character.
But more than that, veiling is a visible declaration that she is sacred.
Everything sacred in the Church is veiled: the tabernacle is veiled. The chalice is veiled. The altar was traditionally veiled. Even the Holy of Holies in the Old Testament was hidden behind a veil, because sacred things are not to be exposed to casual gazes. Sacredness demands reverence. Sacredness demands mystery. Sacredness is veiled.
And now brace yourself for the scandalous Catholic truth: a woman is sacred. She is the only creature in all of creation who can physically participate with God in the generation of new life. Her body is not shameful—it’s holy. And in the context of worship, the veil is not a muzzle—it’s a mantle. A crown of humility, a banner of beauty, a public act of saying: What I carry is precious.
Real feminism isn’t about who shouts the loudest—it’s about who stands the firmest before the altar of Truth. And guess what? Veiled Catholic women aren’t weak. They’re warriors in lace.
Conclusion: The Real Problem Isn’t Veils. It’s You.
If you’re scandalized by a woman in a veil, that says more about you than it does about her. If your theological radar lights up like NORAD because some woman is showing humility before God, you might want to ask yourself when reverence became your enemy.
So no, I don’t force my wife or daughters to veil.
But if they ever stopped veiling out of fear of your scorn or your lukewarm faith?
That would be the real oppression.
And no felt banner, clown Mass, or Glory & Praise guitar solo will ever convince me otherwise