Berkley Center

Observing the interaction of religion and politics in France has probably taught me as much about religion and politics in the United States. My approach so far has been to contemplate whether France is more or less religious than it used to be, than the United States, or than other European countries.

I realize now, however, that I have been leading myself astray because of the way I initially posed my question. The formulation had been shaping my answer into a statement not of substance, but of degree. By framing my thought in the comparative, I avoided examining my experience as it is. I prevented myself from unpacking the biases that I brought with me and still carry. In full awareness that the answer is not unified, I hope to respond in this essay not to the question, “"How religious is France?”" but rather, "“How is France religious?”" 

Neither the abundance nor the splendor of religious structures in France preoccupies me, though they are both abundant and splendid. Italy’'s chapels and cathedrals are more succulent, and Spain'’s more varied. Nor am I surprised that they are not more populated than they in fact are. Though it was not until 1946 that a French constitution, that of the fourth republic, institutionalized the phenomenon that is laïcité, the resistance against religious hegemony in France dates from much earlier. During the eighteenth century, the philosophes of the Enlightenment fought their own battles against the monopoly of the Catholic clergy and the monarchy alike.

As American students before me have perceived, the disconnect between France’'s Catholic heritage and the number of attendees is noted, but the numbers do not change the fact that France is doing religion in fascinating ways. The relationship between religion and politics cannot be explained solely by the policies adopted by the state. As a student at Sciences-Po Menton, it is rare for me to pass a day without encountering or speaking of religion. Religion is either explicitly or tangentially relevant to all of my courses, admittedly because of the substance of the program, Middle Eastern Studies, and Islam’'s integrality to the history and politics of that region. The resulting saturation of my daily life with matters of religion must affect my perception of religion in France. Incidentally, I am not entirely sure what I mean when I use the word “religion,” but I think I know it when I see it. Perhaps I see it because I am looking for it, but religion is in politics, in literature, and embedded in the very languages we speak. It is in our hair and in our clothes, shaping the way we interact with one another.

The strange thing is, I always considered myself something of a heathen. The fact that my family and I did not attend devotional services of any kind—ever—placed us among the minority in our overwhelmingly Protestant Richmond, Virginia community. I have always been a skeptic, the child of two skeptics. I have, however, been exposed to many different religious traditions through courses in high school and college and have felt connected at varying intervals to the Jewish ancestry on my maternal side. I always felt less “religious” than the religious people around me, but I was always intrigued by it. The Big Mystery, then, was why people are religious. I still do not know the answer.

I was not entirely prepared, then, for the preconceptions that members of other nations have of Americans with regard to religion. One student, who is well aware of my interest in religion, seemed surprised to learn that I was not, after all, a creationist. He said jokingly, “"Where I’'m from, we think all Americans are creationists."” Looking back toward the United States, I am beginning to understand where this notion comes from. President Obama’'s inauguration ceremony, incidentally the first inauguration ceremony that I have ever watched, completely shocked me. I felt bewildered by the prayers and blessings that figured so heavily into this state event. My discussions with other students, not only French but also other nationalities, revealed similar disbelief. The people of France, I was told, would most certainly not have stood for such a state function.

A second year Sciences-Po student, preparing to spend her third year in the United States, sat across from me as she examined the list of majors offered to exchange students. One of the options was Religious Studies, which she said she “never learned, you know, because France is laïque.” I think this is the point at which I diverge from France’'s policy. Laïcisme does not necessarily suggest to me that religion, as a historical, anthropological, and philosophical phenomenon, cannot be approached from an academic perspective. It can be difficult, however, for people who are religious and people who are not religious to understand each other on these points.

The contrast between Stephen Dedalus, one of the central characters in James Joyce’'s Ulysses, and his comrade Buck Mulligan, helped me to crystallize this debate. The two have very different ways of understanding religion, though they are both professed atheists. Buck Mulligan can hold a mock Eucharist over his shaving kit because, for him, the symbols and rituals have no sanctity and demand no reverence. Stephen’'s approach is to renounce, fear, and flee the religious, which paradoxically constitutes a kind of reverence: it endows the symbols and rituals with a certain power. These two figures do represent modes of dealing with the religiosity of others, but neither ridicule nor suspicion seems to be a productive response. I think it is possible to maintain a separation of church and state institutions, while empowering students to study religion and engage with it intellectually.