In his recent piece relaunching the Democracy Seminar, Jeff Goldfarb continues a project in which he has been engaged for many years: the creation and preservation of genuinely plural spaces. These are the kinds of spaces where people with diverse fundamental commitments can encounter one another in their differences, engage in debate as equals, and discover issues of common concern. It is because the Seminar has itself long been a space woven through with this ethos – an ethos lacking in so much public discourse today – that I take its renewed presence as both an “escape toward freedom” and a “small act of repair.”
For my part, and from my own particular commitments as a Catholic priest and a sociologist, I feel a deep desire to find, or create, just such spaces. In our own dark times this desire emerges as a felt need to be a part of communities that are united not by pre-existing commonalities but by a commitment to a common search for the common good. Communities, that is, like the Democracy Seminar. It is because the Seminar is such a space that I take it to be a good place to raise a question that emerges from my own commitments and yet is, I think, of shared relevance.
This is the question: to what extent can the Catholic Church be taken as an ally in the ongoing project of combating authoritarianism and reconstituting both the systems and the ethos of democracy? This is a pressing question not only because of the fragility of many actually existing democracies but because, at least since Pope Paul VI’s address to the United Nations in 1965, the Catholic Church has been among the strongest supporters of a democratic, multilateral, human-rights-based, international order. Can it still be counted on for such support?
Officially, the answer is unquestionably yes. Yet despite the supportive words and actions of its current leader, the recently elected Pope Leo XIV, the Church’s capacity to play this role is under serious internal strain. The question I want to put before the Seminar, then, is not whether Catholicism officially supports democracy – it clearly does – but whether it has the internal resources to maintain control over the meaning of its own tradition in the face of forces (many of them internal) that are attempting to conscript Catholic language and practice for anti-democratic ends. Since Catholicism is far from the only officially pro-democratic institution whose discursive tradition is currently contested from within, I offer this analysis in hope of uncovering portable concepts and patterns that may be helpful to other traditions under similar strain.
Paternal or Fraternal? Two Versions of Catholic Modernity
Some history will be helpful in sketching the particular shape of the Catholic dilemma. The political détente between Catholicism and democracy was part of a much larger and longer reconciliation process – the formation of what the historian James Chappel has called a Catholic modernity. As he argues in Catholic Modern, the ceasefire between Catholicism and modernity was forged not during the Second Vatican Council but in the interwar period of the 1930s. It was then, in the face of the twin ideologies of fascism and communism, that Catholic leaders came face to face with the fact that a straightforward, ultramontanist opposition to modernity was no longer viable. In Chappel’s telling, it was in these years that the question began to shift from whether one could be modern and Catholic to how. What he shows is that the two answers given to this “how” question split Catholicism into two dueling strands – strands that are still vying for control of the Catholic discursive tradition today.
The first strand, which Chappel calls paternal, is a stance toward modernity that arose in opposition to communism. This paternal modernism accepted many modern, classically-liberal, norms but sought to use them to defend the private sphere – the space that remained for religion and the family within the modern social order. It is because the state could be used to preserve, protect, and control this space that paternal modernists were, at times, open to collaborating with authoritarian regimes. But as Chappel takes pains to note, this was not the only strand of Catholic modernity. The second strand, fraternal modernism, is distinct in that it originated not in resistance to communism but fascism. Exemplified by Catholics like Jacques Maritain (whose work provided the philosophical background for the U.N.’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights), this strand of Catholic modernism supported: plural civil society, interfaith encounter and collaboration, and individual human rights grounded in the theological conviction that every person possesses a dignity that precedes and limits all political authority.
It is this last point – the status of human persons as bearers of individual rights – that bridges these rivalrous ways of being a Catholic modern. It is this internal overlapping consensus between the paternal and fraternal strands of modern Catholicism that has, over the last six decades, allowed the Church to make public appeals not only on its own behalf but as a spokesperson for all who share such convictions. This internal overlapping consensus, in other words, is what has allowed the Church to help in building up an external overlapping consensus – one that reaches far beyond the walls of the Church to include all who support human rights. It is because it has, for many years now, been willing and able to play this role that Catholicism has proven itself to be an imperfect and yet highly reliable ally to those engaged in the long battle to sustain democratic institutions and a democratic ethos. As Jose Casanova has argued, it is also why so many secular persons have learned to look not to their own, increasingly unreliable, political leaders, but to the Pope for moral articulations of these overlapping ideals. They do so, he contends, because it is he who has “learned to play, perhaps more effectively than any competitor, the role of first citizen of a catholic (i.e., global and universal) human society. One could almost say that the pope is becoming the high priest of a new global civil religion of humanity.”
As unitive as this advocacy has been internally, and important as it has been externally, we do well to note that those who belong to this overlapping consensus do not share the same fundamental reasons for supporting this ethos and these institutions. Of course, the most readily evident fissure in this consensus is the one that separates “religious” from “non-religious” persons – those whose support for human rights is grounded in a theological conviction that persons have rights because they are created in the image and likeness of God and those for whom rights are grounded in individual autonomy. But what Chappel’s analysis allows us to see is that this “secular-religious” fissure is not the only one that runs through this overlapping consensus. There is at least one other: the one that divides these two types of modern Catholic.
As John McGreevy has shown in his analysis of the American case, both the paternal and fraternal strands of Catholic political thought operate from premises foreign to the liberal tradition. Even advocates of fraternal Catholicism, like Maritain or the Jesuit political theorist John Courtney Murray, have non-liberal reasons for supporting the norms of the modern moral order. So, while the Church has often been successful in bridging the gap between these two Catholicisms, contextual changes (such as the radical transformation of institutional authority and the utter fragmentation of the media ecosystem) have meant that previously effective internal bridging strategies are increasingly unable to cover over, suppress, or reconcile these internal divisions. If nothing else, the fact that so many – from Cardinals to the Catholic intelligentsia, from popular priests to lay Catholic influencers – can claim to speak for Catholicism, means that the battle for control over the Catholic discursive tradition is both increasingly fierce and increasingly difficult to regulate.
Viewed through this lens, we can see that the divisions of the current Catholic moment over the “proper” role of Catholicism in politics is not simply a conflict between good theology (fraternal, anti-fascist, pro-democracy) and bad theology (paternal, corporatist, authoritarian). It is an internal conflict over the “proper” meaning of a shared theological vocabulary – personalism, human dignity, the common good; the natural law – and over who can control its deployment in the public sphere.
Pope Leo XIV’s Prise de Position
Where is Pope Leo XIV, the most influential figure in global Catholicism, taking his stand in this battle for control of the Bourdieusian field that is contemporary Catholicism? Although he is just beginning to put his own mark on the papacy, there are already clear signs as to where he stands.
One of the clearest, which can be traced back to his first address from the loggia only minutes after his election, is his consistent call for a “disarmed and disarming” peace. This phrase cuts to the heart of how he understands the Church’s role in the modern world – less as a power broker than a defender of universal human rights, a promoter of dialogue, and a collaborator in global peacemaking efforts. These are themes he has carried forward over the first year of his papacy. For example, in an address given last December to the youth of Italy’s branch of Catholic Action, he advocated for building a world in which “there is room for everyone,” and reminded them that “to make peace is the quintessential ‘Catholic Action’.”
His ecclesial appointments tell a similar story. The most significant sign of how Pope Leo envisions episcopal leadership is his recent selection of Fr. Ronald Hicks to replace Cardinal Timothy Dolan as archbishop of New York. Dispositionally, Hicks is similar to Leo in that he prioritizes listening over speaking – plus he is a South Side Chicago Catholic with substantial experience in Latin America. In Hicks’ case this experience comes from his time in El Salvador, where he worked as director of an orphanage system and was inspired by the example of St. Oscar Romero, the Salvadoran archbishop who was assassinated while celebrating Mass by members of a U.S.-trained death squad. Perhaps just as tellingly, Hicks was ordained by Cardinal Joseph Bernardin of Chicago, the architect of the “seamless garment” ethic that sought to expand “pro-life” from its singular focus on the issue of abortion to include all areas where human flourishing is threatened. If the selection of Archbishop Hicks is a reliable indicator, Leo will be cultivating a fraternal style of ecclesial leadership.
But perhaps most revealing is his recent articulation of what I would like to call a public theology of dialogue. This was most clearly articulated in a recent address he gave to Ambassadors from around the globe currently stationed at the Vatican. He began this address with a reflection on St. Augustine’s City of God – a book that was, notably, written amidst the fall of the Roman Empire. Admitting the many differences between that era and this one, Leo nevertheless insisted that, like Augustine, “we are living at a time of a profound readjustment of geopolitical balances and cultural paradigms.”
Lamenting that “war is back in vogue and a zeal for war is spreading,” Leo went on to critique the “weakness of multilateralism… at the international level” and the replacement of consensus-seeking diplomacy with a “diplomacy based on force.” He went on to critique the erosion of dialogue and the replacement of impartial institutions like the United Nations, noting that their decline ends up “restricting fundamental human rights, starting with the freedom of conscience.” Critically, he called for the protection of this freedom of conscience in a universal rather than sectarian manner: “In requesting that the religious freedom and worship of Christians be fully respected, the Holy See asks the same for all other religious communities.”
In his appointments and emphasis on peace, in his defense of a multilateral order and his advocacy for the rights of all, Leo seems both to be trying to preserve the internal unity of the Church and to move it in a more fraternal direction. It is this continued shift that accounts for the conflicts that have already arisen between a Leo-led Vatican and some more-paternally-inclined Catholics – particularly those who seem, once again, open to making an alliance with state power.
Controlling Tradition in a Post-Traditional World?
The sharpest edge of this conflict is the paternalistic vision espoused by some American Catholics – including Vice President J.D. Vance. While both Pope Francis and Pope Leo have offered a consistent counter-narrative to this nationalistic, integralist conception of Catholicism, their vision of a transnational Church that advocates for the rights of all, defends human solidarity across national borders, and protects the environment as a created good, has not (yet?) been able to exert control over the symbolically divided theological vocabulary of Catholicism.
It is here that we encounter what I take to be the key question, one that is not doctrinal but sociological. In a voluntaristic religious economy dominated by the drive for authenticity, can a traditional religion regulate the production of the sacred taking place under its auspices? This is the question of whether, to use Hans Joas terms, an institutional religion can control the ritual processes through which ideals are formed or whether Catholic symbols and practices will continue to be used in contradictory ways.
The direction that Pope Leo would like the Church to take is clear. What is less clear is whether the tradition continues to have the capacity to regulate the meaning of the word “Catholic,” the symbols associated with it, the theological vocabulary it has developed, or the enormous array of ritual actions at its disposal. It is the capacity to ensure that all of this – the tradition of the Church – is deployed in ways consistent with its own teaching that is under question. It is not that the Church lacks a position on democracy; it is that the conditions of late-modern religious life make it ever harder for any institution to control the meaning of its own tradition. And that rival versions of the “the sacred” continue to be produced – in parishes, on podcasts, in political movements; in stadiums and on social media – by actors who claim to speak for Catholicism while advancing projects that reopen the paternal-fraternal rift.
For the Democracy Seminar, two points emerge with particular clarity here. The first is that the alignment between Catholicism and the modern moral order, while real and significant, is also contingent, historically produced, and subject to revision. Again, both paternal and fraternal Catholics have supported democratic institutions – but they have done so in resistance to different dangers and in hopes of realizing different ends. Moreover, both types of Catholic support the modern moral order for fundamental reasons that are quite different from other members of the overlapping consensus. But in a time when the word “Christian” is all too often just a precursor to “nationalism,” it is helpful to remember that Catholic support for democratic institutions and norms is both real and longstanding – and that there is more than one type of Christian with which one might collaborate in a search for the common good.
The second is that even an institution as hierarchical as Roman Catholicism is, in our dark times, struggling to control the lived meaning of its own tradition. And if the Catholic Church cannot regulate who speaks in its name and to what ends, then other pro-democratic institutions – less hierarchical, less centralized – doubtless face the same dilemma in amplified form. The contest over the meaning of one’s tradition is not unique to Catholicism, in other words, it is a structural feature of our current moment.
There are genuine debates to be had about the shape of democracy – social versus liberal, deliberative versus agonic – and about the anthropologies baked into each position’s assumed goods. But as Jeffrey Stout has argued, these are debates internal to the democratic tradition. They may be fierce, but they can be preserved as debates among rivals rather than between enemies. This is the “intellectual workshop” of the Democracy Seminar – a workshop open to someone like me, a Catholic priest who supports democratic ideals and institutions for reasons quite foreign to some of my colleagues. But it is only because there is a space where conversations like this can take place that our “political culture” can be, as Jeff Goldfarb put it, “a creative ground for action” rather than “a pre-determined destiny.”
