How Church and state relate

In ancient times, before the reign of Constantine in the early fourth century, Christians were seen as a fundamental threat to public order because of their refusal to proclaim an absolute alliance with the Roman empire.

A pro-life protest outside parliament in Cape Town, with the Catholic St Mary’s cathedral and the archdiocesan chancery at its back. (Photo:?Claire Mathieson)

So they were persecuted and killed in attempts to make them submit to absolute authority of the empire.

Through Emperor Constantine, Christianity became tolerated in the Roman empire, and before the end of the fourth century it was the official religion. The Church became Roman and Catholic—in short, part of the political entity.

After the political and religious turmoils of the Middle Ages the state was created as the negotiated platform for the stewardship of public goods, and to balance competing self-interests of members of society.

Because competing self-interests were almost impossible to balance, leading to more wearying factionalism, some form of social contract had to be devised as a point of reference for social interaction and governance. This came to be known as the Constitution, the foundation of the modern state.

When the use of religious controversy by political agents to justify military adventures for national consolidation brought untold tragedies to nation states,  it was eventually agreed that the modern state had to be secular, and a guarantor of public order and peace.

The proponents of this modern state came to be largely known as liberals, mostly because they wanted a non-confessional state and were against the idea of the Church as a visible political entity.

The struggle for a right balance between the secular and religious in the modern state was present from the start, even after the successful separation of state and church.

Yet, as far as back St Augustine’s pertinent book, City of God, the Church argued that authentic secularism—the platform for public law—has direct Christian and theological roots. Accordingly, the sphere of public and political negotiations flourishes only when higher divine commitments are adhered to.

Pope Benedict champions this view and is a crusader of solidarities which exceed and escape the boundaries of public life which must be integrated into it, to imbue public life with depth and moral gravity.

Secularism requires faith if it is to guarantee freedom, because civilised politics must be attuned to the real capacities and dignities of the person, which is what authentic humanism is all about. It is a drive undertaken by people like St Benedict and the order he founded.

Liberal politics tend to reduce the individual to an economic unit and a solitary accumulator of self-interest rights, sometimes at the expense of collective societal communal interests. In this manner the current pope is right that the ethos of liberalism, which is the default of a modern state, can be anti-humanist, and is in need of faith (theology) to arrest its degeneration.

In the South African context, in a nuanced micro stance, I notice the struggle of secularism and faith in the activities of the Catholic Parliamentary Liaison Office (CPLO). The struggle is amiable because there is mutual respect between the CPLO and the parliamentary parties.

As the respectable epitome of faith (Roman Catholic) engaging in public law, policy development and politics, the CPLO is one of the most respected organisations working within parliament—rightly so since its bulletins and submissions are accessible, well researched, and clear without losing the complexities of the issues.

The CPLO sees itself as a bridge between the Church and government. The question is: are bridges not supposed to be links that allow passage from both sides?

The CPLO distributes high-quality information bulletins explaining government policy and the content of legislation. It also makes submissions to parliamentary committees on Bills.

However, what is not so clear is whether its service is designed to champion Church-canvassed views and positions, which are supposed to be filtered back as coherent input to public debates in parliament. It is also not clear how much influence, if any, CPLO submissions have in the process of parliamentary legislation.

The CPLO relates very well with government, but does it gain in return?

There is a widespread attitude of treating the Church, or its organisations, as fodder for human resource government departments like social development. But what does the Church gain in return? When the Church tries to influence the process government it is usually told to mind its own business and not overstep its boundaries.

It is my belief that the CPLO, which operates under the auspices of the Southern African Catholic Bishops’ Conference, should not just be a one-way bridge, but rather a conduit to express and explain Catholic identity to the public and to influence government processes.

As a Catholic I would like to see it push for the Church’s principled position on issues of policy development. But the CPLO is not a lobbying organisation. What is its ultimate goal then?

Let me emphasise that if the CPLO was a lobbyist organisation it would not be taken too seriously by government. Most faith lobbyist groups are perceived by state institutions as unprofessional, soft organisations. This, for me, demonstrates the tension between faith and the state, in our South African context.

The CPLO must serve as a beacon of hope in influencing the drafting of legislation, and I say so as someone working within a parliamentary institution.

It is regrettable that the CPLO bulletins don’t always reach parishes, and even when they do, they are not effectively utilised by Catholics to participate in the public discourse and law-making.