Growing up half Jewish and half Protestant in New York, I was exposed to a spectrum of religious aesthetics from a young age: the Brutalist architecture of our 1960s synagogue, the stark wooden interiors of Protestant churches, and the fluorescent-lit basements of the various religious institutions I visited for summer camps or friends’ coming-of-age ceremonies. Despite my upbringing (and apologies to my mom), none of these religions quite captured my imagination like Catholicism. 

The asceticism of Protestantism and the modernism of Reform Judaism always seemed worlds apart from the ornate, gold-laden sanctuaries I occasionally glimpsed in movies and photographs or the Catholic camp aesthetics of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Twilight, and The Craft. It’s no surprise, then, that despite my functional atheism and tenuous connection to organized religion, I’ve found myself captivated by the online world of TikTok Catholics.

The visually rich and highly symbolic nature of Catholicism is, for better or worse, tailor-made for TikTok. Gold crucifixes, colorful rosaries, and intricate lace mantillas share the same striking impact as other trendy style “-cores” (cottagecore, gorpcore, balletcore, ad infinitum) on the platform, while Tiktok’s easy algorithm dissemination of visual-rich content pushes scenes of candle-lit prayer to become not just personal expressions of faith, but shared symbols of identity. This streamlined aestheticism helps to transcend the textual barriers of traditional religious practices, making the key elements of Catholicism more accessible and engaging to a Gen-Z, visually-oriented audience. 

This conflation of aesthetics and proselytizing isn’t new for Catholicism. The Church has always understood the power of visual imagery to convey religious truths and inspire devotion. Before widespread literacy, religious imagery was the primary tool of education for the church; message and form were one. This understanding deepened during the Counter-Reformation in the 16th and early 17th centuries, an era when the Catholic Church strategically used art to reassert its dominion and combat the rising influence of Protestantism. Baroque art emerged as a dynamic force in this effort, marked by dramatic scenes and emotional intensity designed to engage and move the observer deeply. The architecture of this period further complemented these artistic expressions, with expansive and ornately decorated churches designed to reflect heaven on earth—elevating a communal worship experience to a transcendent revelation.

Despite my functional atheism and tenuous connection to organized religion, I’ve found myself captivated by the online world of TikTok Catholics.

Catholicism has produced many unintentional style icons in the centuries that followed, from Catholic schoolgirls to depictions of Joan of Arc in romantic medieval paintings and ornamented popes in Prada loafers. But unlike past instances of Catholicism-as-fashion—think Madonna’s Like a Virgin, Lana Del Rey era Tumblr cross necklace enthusiasts, or the 2018 Heavenly Bodies-themed Met Gala—where the aesthetics often subverted or critiqued the religion, today’s revival embraces the faith itself. Even celibacy (not to be confused with incelism) is popular enough that right wing blogs are writing screeds about why, actually, it’s cool to have sex. If mainstream culture is areligious, pro-sex, and feminist, Catholicism, and all its asceticisms, sure start to seem like the counterculture.

If mainstream culture is areligious, pro-sex, and feminist, Catholicism, and all its asceticisms, sure start to seem like the counterculture.

Catholicism's material culture, rich with incense, relics, and the veneration of saints' bones enshrined in literal gold, feels both ancient and otherworldly. These rituals’ solemn grandeur and their palpable sense of connection with the divine mirror the current fascination among a generation deeply embedded online with mysticism and the occult. Just as young women today turn to astrology, tarot cards, and crystals to find meaning and a touch of magic in their daily lives, Catholic traditions offer a similar allure through their sacred ceremonies and tangible links to the past. 

Young people are increasingly drawn to meaning-making and ritual as ways to navigate the challenges of modern society; the blend of the mystical and the material in Catholic practices not only enriches its aesthetic appeal but also provides a form of sanctioned transgression. With growing apprehensions about AI, social media, and other technologies reminiscent of Black Mirror, there is both comfort and a sense of rebellion in turning to traditional beliefs that have endured for millennia. 

For Catholic women in particular, the religion’s visual and symbolic emphasis on purity, modesty, and devotion provides a counter-narrative to the hypersexualized and consumer-driven imagery prevalent in much of contemporary media. By embracing these traditional aesthetics and values, women may feel they are reclaiming control and agency over their bodies and identities—particularly heightened at a time when legislative actions and societal norms increasingly encroach on women’s autonomy through restrictions on reproductive rights, challenges to workplace equality, and the perpetuation of gender-based violence. Aligning with the submissive femininity of all things ‘trad-Cath’ becomes a perceived refuge, an alternative to having patriarchally-imposed identities. This trend towards adopting simplistic, traditionally feminine identities is mirrored in other contemporary movements like the rising number of stay-at-home girlfriends, the adoption of coquettish lace and bows, and 'I’m just a girl' memes. Together, they reflect a nuanced, if controversial, negotiation of modern womanhood.

On TikTok, predominantly female practitioners and influencers are able to cultivate a virtual sisterhood, reminiscent of the communal bonds found in convents.

On TikTok, predominantly female practitioners and influencers are able to cultivate a virtual sisterhood, reminiscent of the communal bonds found in convents. This digital convent allows for the creation of a supportive network where members share not only style tips (“get ready with me to go to confession”) but also personal testimonies and spiritual encouragement. Of course, there's some irony here: most 'trad-Cath' influencers promote a return to modesty, veiling, and traditional femininity—all tenets that hark back to an era of restricted female autonomy. Yet, they’re navigating the very modern entrepreneurial landscape of social media by generating ad revenue and building personal brands. In doing so, they leverage platforms that thrive on visibility and self-promotion, activities seemingly at odds with the humble, reserved virtues they espouse.

As young people curate their Catholic identity online, I can’t help but wonder whether this trend signifies a genuine embrace of faith or another link in the chain of social media performance. But what’s the difference, really? To the very-online, aesthetics aren't just an expression of identity; they’re its very foundation. After all, plenty of TikTokkers wear peasant dresses and call themselves Cottage-core without ever stepping foot in a barn. The idea that simply engaging with the tangible forms of faith—its tokens, visual motifs, and rituals—can suffice as religious practice might feel natural in a culture where surface aesthetics often create meaning. The magnificence of Catholic art and architecture has long been recognized as a form of worship in itself, intended to honor God with beauty. The gold crucifixes, colorful rosaries, and intricate lace mantillas of Catholic-core might just be a modern iteration of this tradition—now broadcast from a digital pulpit.