When Church and Politics Meet

By Dr Raymon Perrier – This month, we consider how the year 325 AD was a critical date in the life of the Christian Church. Even if the date, or the name of Nicaea, is not familiar to many Catholics in the pews, the words of the Nicene Creed — originally in Greek, then in Latin and now in every language under the sun — are ones that we recite each week: hopefully loudly, clearly and with conviction. The wonderful rhythm of the words, “God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God”, really helps us to remember them.

The Council of Nicaea owed its existence as much to the Emperor Constantine as it did to the wishes of popes, patriarchs or prelates. Ruling over an empire in which (then just recently legalised) Christianity was first tolerated and then increasingly encouraged, Constantine did not want these various leaders fighting among themselves. A united Church would serve a united Empire.

The Council of Nicaea marks an important moment of harmonising the theology of Christianity, especially with regard to the nature of the Trinity. But it also marks a momentous move towards politicising the ecclesiology of Christianity.

From this point, the Church starts to become part of the political establishment. This brings with it power, protection, prosperity, privilege and access to the people who matter (even to those who do not share your beliefs). But with this also comes the risk of being “captured” by the state who might then use the Church, and the strong loyalty that it engenders, to serve not religious but political ends.

Therein lies a dilemma which has been manifested in so many ways across the intervening 1700 years. One very clear example of this is in the history of European expansion. It is undoubtedly true that the close relationship of the Church to colonising powers gave it a huge advantage in being able to preach the Gospel — the Spanish and Portuguese empires enabled the growth of Catholic missionaries; later the British Empire saw the spread of Anglican and Methodist missionaries.

But it can also be argued that the churches were a useful device that enabled the colonisers to distract from, hide, or even justify some of their less benign activities. As the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu was fond of quoting: “When the missionaries came, we had the land and they had the Bible. They said: ‘Let us pray.’ And when we opened our eyes, they had the land and we had the Bible.”

Titles of power

The age of expansionist national churches seems a long way away, but some of the echoes still remain. We are used to adopting the terms “My Lord” when addressing a bishop and “Your Grace” for an archbishop. But we may be unaware that these titles were coined as a way of integrating the Church hierarchy into their appropriate tiers of the nobility in feudal times. These titles have no roots in Scripture nor in the Early Church.

We still sometimes refer to cardinals as “Princes of the Church”, but this is so at odds with the more moving idea of religious leaders as “Servants of the Servants of God”, which is one of the titles of the pope.

Similarly, the purple worn by bishops is a throwback to a political tradition: Roman senators added purple edging to their togas. And while it would be nice to think of the pope surrounded by his cardinals, or a local bishop by his chapter, as being inspired by Jesus and the disciples, historically the link is much closer to the kings or dukes and their courtiers.

The era in which the pope was regarded as one of the monarchs of Europe (as the head of the Papal States) continues through his status as the head of state of Vatican City. That is why there is a “national” flag for the Vatican — but flying it as if it was the official flag of the Catholic Church is as misguided as if South African Anglicans were to fly the Union Jack or South African Muslims the flag of Saudi Arabia to represent their faith.

The intersection

It is valuable to consider the intersection between religion and politics. We saw for ourselves how the Catholic Church in South Africa, by virtue of being outsiders (remember “die Roomse gevaar”!), were better able to be critical of apartheid than the Dutch Reformed Church, which was very much part of the political establishment. Yet we still look with envy at countries in Africa where Catholicism is much more entrenched, and perhaps wish that the South African Catholic Church had that kind of power and influence. The experience of what the Church did — and did not do — during the genocide in Rwanda should, however, give us pause for thought.

It is tempting to think that when the Church enjoys political power, it is better able to influence society for the good. But the writer Malcolm Gladwell suggests that this is the wrong way to look at the problem.

Drawing on a religious story to illustrate this, Gladwell argues that the young shepherd boy David was able to overcome Goliath not by being more like him but by being the very opposite. David’s strategy was not to compete with the strengths on which Goliath was bound to win (strength, size, terror) but instead apply the advantages which he, David, had over Goliath (speed, agility, quick-wittedness). Since Gladwell is a Canadian, he might be reflecting even more deeply at the moment on how David can see off the bullying of a Goliath.

The trap of trappings

Sadly, we often fall into the trap of thinking that our religious leaders need to match the external trappings of our political leaders if they are to be taken seriously: in the houses they inhabit, the cars they drive, and the public adulation they can draw (though at least not the number of wives they have!). The reality is that they are unlikely to match, let alone surpass, politicians and so risk appearing as “also rans”. Similarly, we might think that the Church needs to be a lobby group with as much clout and funding as rivals — but the danger is that the Church will never match these groups and compromise itself by trying to.

Is the role of the Church to push itself forwards to get a seat at the top table with Dives, or to be sitting outside on the stoep with Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31)? Perhaps we can try to do both, but then we need to be very honest about where our hopes really lie.

As people in the Global South, far from the social hierarchies of Europe and much closer to those who are oppressed than those who were oppressing, do we not have an opportunity to model a different ethos of religious leadership? Or do we succumb to local traditions that are just as domineering as those of the Global North?

Ascendant political leaders are busy — in South Africa and around the world — grabbing power and patronage; meanwhile, their rivals respond by trying to ingratiate themselves or by competing. But they do not seem to be very successful at achieving either.

Faced with such political games, what is the role of the Church? To try and pick up some crumbs of power and remain always indebted to political masters? Or to speak Truth to Power, whatever the consequences?

We know what strategy Constantine initiated 1700 years ago. And, if we read the Gospels, we can see what approach Jesus of Nazareth modelled for us 2000 years ago.