Berkley Center

One of the most frustrating aspects of French culture has been the general lack of concern for personal space. As I walk through the stalls of farmer’s markets, I feel like I am a part of a herd, each of my steps dependent on the continued movement of those in front of me. My calves face relentless battering from the precariously swung shopping baskets of old women in the supermarket. On the metro during rush hour, I relinquish all attempts to support myself, instead relying on the surrounding bodies to keep me upright.

When I walk out my door in the morning, I no longer function as a solitary unit. Though my ties to the city are minimal—limited to the bonds that I have formed with my host family, my friends, and my professors—everywhere I go, I feel like I am in close physical contact with another human being.

Although I have accepted this loss of personal space as a reality, it continues to perplex me in certain contexts, most notably during Mass. Beautiful old churches and cathedrals dot the landscape of Lyon, providing a plethora of options for church every Sunday. However, each one presents the same situation: a sprawling church that contains only a few worshippers.

In spite of this pervasive emptiness, churchgoers cluster together, as if searching for some semblance of community. The first time I went to Mass in France, I was annoyed by the number of people who chose to sit in uncomfortably close proximity to me, especially given the practically endless seating options. Over time, however, I have come to understand this desire for closeness as a manifestation of the country’s struggle to form a religious identity.

Historically, France is a Catholic country. In fact, the country was know as la fille aînée de l’Eglise, or the eldest daughter of the Church, after the conversion of King Clovis I in 496. France has since undergone a religious transformation, initially driven by the ideological secularism of the French Revolution in 1789. This continued into the beginning of the twentieth century with the implementation of laws that formally stipulate the separation of church and state.

However, the French concept of laïcité differs greatly from the American understanding of secularity. One night my host family and I were discussing Mitt Romney’s chance of winning the presidency, and my host father explained that religion is an entirely private matter in France. He said that a candidate like Romney, who is an openly devout Mormon, would never have a shot at winning public office in France.

The French laws governing secularity aim to completely strip the public sphere of any religious influence, expressly prohibiting the “ostensible” display of one’s religion. With such a privatization of religion in France, the reconciliation of the individual as believer and as citizen remains confusing and difficult. Rather than questioning the role of religion in their daily lives, the French people appear to compartmentalize it, separating the Church’s moral teachings—which are relevant to their existence as social beings—from their actual practice of worship.

Despite the overwhelming percentage of French people who identify as Catholic, the number of those who regularly practice their faith is much smaller. Churches remain empty as a result, and the sense of community among the members of the body of Christ (which has been fundamental in my life as a Catholic) is difficult to find.

During Mass, worshipers display reverence and devotion, but the social aspect of the congregation is lacking. The kiss of peace consists of curt nods and the occasional handshake; after Mass, no one talks to each other, and the participants disperse just as quickly as they entered. The stark distinction between people’s religious and social lives is clear.

French culture is rich in social rituals, from la bise, or the double kiss that remains the standard for greeting someone, to the sacramental significance assigned to meals: the breaking of bread and sharing of wine with loved ones. In my host family, the children come home from school every day to eat lunch with the rest of the family. In a restaurant, you have to ask for the check because it is considered extremely rude for the waiter to bring it upon clearing the dishes; to do so would prematurely end the meal and conversation. Social norms are treated with such reverence in France that it is difficult for me to understand why this sense of community is absent from the practice of Catholicism.

For those who feel pulled toward the celebration of their faith, the vacant churches and lack of social interaction among the faithful present discouraging obstacles. In order to overcome the social taboo of being overly public with one’s religion, it seems that the French search for comfort in physical, rather than spiritual, closeness with one another. When they gather together for their social rituals, the French seek a sense of a community that is lacking in the country’s individualized Catholicism.

Over the next couple of months, as I become more familiar with the local culture, I hope to deepen my understanding of the French psyche, particularly its attempt to define religion’s position in society.