Against Christian Nationalism: A Catholic Response to Stephen Wolfe

“They call themselves Christian Nationalists if they’re Evangelicals. Integralists or Postliberals if they’re Catholic.” So says one commentator. But the truth is quite otherwise.

While the idea of Christian Nationalism in many ways resembles the Catholic vision of politics, the two are essentially opposed. In short, while Catholic integralism proposes a subordination of the State to the Church, Christian Nationalism entails a subordination of the Church to the State. And so, I will argue, Christian nationalism is a regression into paganism, wherein the royal power is the mediator between God and man. In contrast to nationalism, the Catholic Church offers a robust patriotism that supports the flourishing of human community, including at the national level, but also upholds the legitimacy of sub- and supra-national politics.

In short, there is no “Catholic Nationalism.”

Clarifying Terms

Let’s begin by disambiguating postliberalism and integralism. In my own presentation, I would say that one may reject one label or the other for strategic reasons, but concretely speaking they very often coincide.

Postliberalism is obviously a negative term, insofar as it places one in opposition to political liberalism, while also making it clear that we cannot simply revert to a pre-liberal era. We must push forward, working with reality as it exists, transforming society according to the ideals of the Gospel in light of the achievements of the past but also aspiring to heights not yet achieved in the history of the Church.

Integralism, on the other hand, is not only a rejection of the liberal notion of the separation of Church and State, but is also a positive vision of what God has ordained, that the State ought to be united to the Church in harmonious concord (cf. Arcanum Divinae, 36). And while the State has its own proper competence and autonomy, wherever the obligations of the Church and State coincide, the State ought to govern according to the laws of the Church. This is typically expressed by the analogy that the State is ordered toward the Church as the body toward the soul (Immortale Dei, 14).

One might come to the conclusion that Christian Nationalism is just an Evangelical Protestant version of the same ideas. From the perspective of political liberalism these movements are basically indistinguishable, since they all threaten the bedrock principle of liberalism: the primacy of individual autonomy, especially in matters of religion.

Stephen Wolfe, for instance, writes in The Case for Christian Nationalism, “If civil government ought to direct its people to true religion, then it ought to direct them to the Christian religion, for that is the true religion” (p. 185). This is almost a verbatim repetition of the Catholic position as articulated by Pope Leo XIII: “Since the profession of one religion is necessary in the State, that religion must be professed which alone is true” (Libertas, 21).

Wolfe’s work is, in many ways, laudable and offers a helpful critique of liberalism in this Protestant majority nation. Though my objections are many and great, it should not obscure the value of what he has accomplished. In The Case for Christian Nationalism he offers an excellent defense of cultural Christianity, not unlike what has been offered by Ahmari, Pappin, and Pecknold. He is also quite correct to talk about the courage that must be cultivated to effectively bring the Church into the public square. Christian Nationalists and integralists may be united in our opposition to certain common opponents, but we cannot overlook the fundamental differences that divide us.

The Prince and The Pope

Once we look at the positive proposals of each approach, we see they are not just slightly different. They are totally opposed. Yes, both reject the liberal ordering of Church and State, but they have mutually exclusive understandings of their proper ordering. And this difference, not surprisingly, stems from incompatible views of the Church as such.

In short, while Catholic integralism understands the State as hierarchically subordinated to the Church, Christian Nationalism proposes the opposite, namely, a Church that is subject to the authority of the State, though the Christian Nationalists might not articulate it quite so starkly. But let’s consider the arguments that Stephen Wolfe puts forward.

His strident anti-Catholicism prevents him from being able to accept a highly institutionalized vision of the Church, or even of a truly global Christian community. He says, for example, “The instituted church, to be clear, is not a supranational society or institution, as we see in the Roman church.” Rather, he claims, it subsists essentially in “local assemblies” that may grow to “national churches,” but to conceive of it as a “global organization” is not permitted (p. 303).

What he calls the “visible” or “instituted” Church, where one finds the governing body of the clergy in their pastoral function, has no coercive power. “No ecclesiastical institution wields civil-like power over itself or over its members” (p. 304). In contrast to the medieval theo-political notion of “two swords,” one temporal and one spiritual, Wolfe cites the seventeenth-century Scottish Presbyterian Samuel Rutherford, distinguishing temporal and spiritual power as “one power … coactive by the Sword, the other free, voluntary by the Word” (p. 303).

The one sword appears in clear contrast to the traditional Catholic understanding of two swords. The two swords doctrine comes from the teaching of Pope St. Gelasius I. In a letter to Emperor Anastasius I in 494, the Pope distinguished the “spiritual authority” from the “royal power.” Gelasius recognized, thereby, a distinction of competence between the Church and State. “Inasmuch as it pertains to the order of public discipline, even the bishops themselves obey your laws,” Gelasius writes to the Emperor. But “nevertheless you devoutly bow your neck to the leaders of divine matters, and from them you await the causes of your salvation, and you recognize that … you must be submitted to the order of religion rather than rule over it.”

Wolfe, in refusing to acknowledge the supreme authority of the Roman Pontiff, would rob the Church of both her universality and her governing authority. Without the Pope the Church is reduced to a collection of local assemblies. For Wolfe, the only truly universal Church is the “invisible” communion of believers, and this is governed by Christ directly invisibly, without the mediation of a Supreme Pontiff. And yet the notion of a visible head of the Church and Vicar of Christ is not so much absent from Wolfe’s schema as it is simply embodied in the temporal power whom he dubs the “Christian prince.”

“Having the highest office on earth, the good prince resembles God to the people. Indeed, he is the closest image of God on earth. … The prince is a sort of national god” (p. 287). Wolfe hopes for Christian Nationalism to be a “pan-Protestant” order (p. 382), and since the Protestant denominations and hierarchies are so diffuse, he must appeal to temporal authority as the principle of unity.

For Wolfe, the Christian prince does not merely govern the members of the Church in matters of temporal concern (as Gelasius acknowledged to be legitimate), but he exercises a dogmatic authority within the Church itself:

The only major distinction then between the Prince and the Pope is that the Pope exercises universal jurisdiction. For Wolfe, this is impossible. “A Protestant nation does not recognize some universal, supranational, and earthly authority that decides what it observes and when it observes it” (p. 319). And this is the failure of Christian nationalism–it is ultimately more nationalist than it is Christian.

The Return of Paganism

Very subtly, then, the spiritual common good (which is the concern of the Church) becomes subordinated to the national common good. “National uniformity in sacred ceremonies will certainly contribute to national solidarity” (p. 315). Thus, under Christian Nationalism, “one looks more to the prince for his good than even church ministers” (p. 289).

There is nothing new in Wolfe’s proposal; St. Thomas Aquinas helps us to understand that it is a purely natural impulse.

Aquinas recognized that in the pre-Christian world, religious ritual was ordered toward the common good of the people as a temporal society (cf. Summa Theologiae I-II, 99.4). To use Wolfe’s terms, religion was good for “national solidarity.” And so, naturally, the care of religion was committed to the temporal power, that is to say, the Prince. This was true even among the Jewish people and their God-given structures of governance. But this was only because, prior to the coming of Christ, man’s eternal destiny had not yet been revealed. We did not yet know our eternal telos or how to achieve it.

Wolfe remains clear that the Gospel does not fundamentally transform natural religion, such as was practiced prior to Christ. “Prior to revealed religion, civil government ought to have directed people in natural religion,” and this, apparently, remains the case, since, “natural religion is not rescinded and its truths are assumed in the Christian religion” (p. 206, n.13). He will repeatedly claim, for example, that “the Gospel does not supersede, abrogate, eliminate, or fundamentally alter generic nationalism; it assumes and completes it” (p. 11).

But here, Aquinas would say that Wolfe has failed to appreciate the truly revolutionary power of the Gospel. Man’s eternal destiny and how we are to approach it have been revealed in Christ, and this “message of reconciliation” was entrusted to the Apostles, not to Caesar (2 Cor. 5:19-20). It was to Peter and the Apostles, not Pilate or Herod, that He said: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you” (John 20:21), and “He who hears you hears me” (Luke 10:16). These men and their successors are spiritual rulers, not temporal rulers, and it is they who are to “sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel” (Matt 19:28). Therefore, we must agree with St. Thomas, that in the light of the Gospel, the care of religion does not remain committed to the temporal powers.

Thus, in order that spiritual things might be distinguished from earthly things, the ministry of this kingdom has been entrusted not to earthly kings but to priests, and most of all to the chief priest, the successor of St. Peter, the Vicar of Christ, the Roman Pontiff. To him all the kings of the Christian People are to be subject as to our Lord Jesus Christ Himself. For those to whom pertains the care of intermediate ends should be subject to him to whom pertains the care of the ultimate end, and be directed by his rule (De Regno, ch. 15, §110).

To revert to the pre-Christian order of the subordination of the spiritual authority to the temporal power is a constant temptation. Christian Nationalism succumbs to it, but so did the Church of England when King Henry VIII declared himself Head of the Church. We see the same problem in the Caesaropapism of the Eastern Orthodox.

This is the order of an ungraced nature, and so it is entirely predictable that, as one separates from the communion of the Holy Catholic Church, a latent paganism would return. And I offer this as a sincere call to conversion for all Protestants who realize that the State, separated from the salutary effects of the Gospel, atrophies into disorder: understand that there is no Christendom without Rome.

At the end of The Case for Christian Nationalism, Wolfe offers this ultimatum: “Experience over the last decades has made evident that there are two options: Christian nationalism or pagan nationalism” (p. 381).

Not at all. Experience over millennia has made evident that there are two options: pagan nationalism or Roman Catholicism. There is no “Catholic Nationalism.” In fact, Catholicism is the only real alternative to nationalism. For God “has set down the Chair of His Vicar on earth, in this city of Rome which, from being the capital of the wonderful Roman Empire, was made by Him the capital of the whole world, because He made it the seat of a sovereignty which, since it extends beyond the confines of nations and states, embraces within itself all the peoples of the whole world” (Pope Pius XI, Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio, 67).

As St. Thomas put it, “Because the priesthood of the gentiles and the whole worship of their gods existed merely for the acquisition of temporal goods the priests of the gentiles were very properly subject to the kings. … But in the New Law there is a higher priesthood by which men are guided to heavenly goods. Consequently, in the law of Christ, kings must be subject to priests” (De Regno, ch. 15, §111).

The impulse to subordinate the Church to the State is nothing other than a revival of paganism, and nationalism is an essential aspect of this phenomenon. Christian Nationalism, Anglicanism, Gallicanism, Caesaropapism, and even the more overtly pagan forms of post-Christian fascism bear this same mark.

Fascism is a term so overused that it has basically been emptied of all meaning, but there is a real historical phenomenon of fascism. It was articulated by Benito Mussolini in “The Doctrine of Fascism,” written in 1932. Fascism is, in short, the subordination of all things to the State. Mussolini writes: “The keystone of the Fascist doctrine is its conception of the State, of its essence, its functions, and its aims. For Fascism the State is absolute, individuals and groups relative. Individuals and groups are admissible in so far as they come within the State.”

No wonder, then, that these regimes, whether claiming the name of Christian or not, find the need to turn to nationalism to provide a locus of solidarity. Fascism and ethnocentrism are the logical outworking of the project that was begun at the Protestant Reformation. In the place of Catholic Christendom we received the Peace of Westphalia’s policy of cuius regio, eius religio–in other words, the subordination of all things to the State. And Wolfe himself repeatedly admits that unity in Christ is not sufficient to establish peace (p. 199).

The Case for Catholic Patriotism

The rise of nationalism is only possible in a post-Reformation world. The dissolution of the unity of Christendom meant a re-paganization of Europe. The project of Christian Nationalism is, sadly, only a step toward the return of ethnocentric polytheism. By contrast, Christ’s true Church, as Catholic, is the principle of unity of all peoples, as Christ is the Second Adam, and thus head of a new Humanity.

In the place of nationalism, the Church offers patriotism as its authentic alternative. What is the difference? Pope St. John Paul II stated it this way: “Whereas nationalism involves recognizing and pursuing the good of one’s own nation alone, without regard for the rights of others, patriotism, on the other hand, is a love for one’s native land that accords rights to all other nations equal to those claimed for one’s own” (Memory and Identity, 67).

Pius XI put it similarly, saying that patriotism, “love for country,” becomes gravely disordered when it descends into “nationalism,” forgetting that “all men are our brothers and members of the same great human family” (Ubi Arcano, 25).

Wolfe, for his part, defines nationalism as merely “the nation acting for its national good” (p. 165). But it seems to me that his operative definition is other than this minimalist one that he nominally offers. Implicit in Wofle’s nationalism, indeed in any definition of nationalism, is the idea that a nation ought to strive for statehood or at least that “each nation ought to seek and have sufficient political and social autonomy to order and secure themselves” (p. 164). Correlated to this is the notion that multiple nations living under a single temporal ruler (as in the United Kingdom) is less than desirable and that “amicable ethnic separation” is likely preferable (p. 149).

What is a nation? It is admittedly a difficult term to define, but Wolfe doesn’t offer a formal definition or even an historical account. Instead he appeals to the term as something of which we all have a common experience. He does say that, for him “ethnicity” and “nation” are virtually synonymous, and therefore that, “no nation (properly speaking) is composed of two or more ethnicities” (p. 135). The upshot being that each group should “prefer their own people over others” (p. 149). In a footnote, Wolfe denies the label of white nationalist and says that being white is not relevant to his project (p. 172, n.3), and an apologia of the book against the accusation of kinism can be found here. I leave to the reader judgment of whether or not these defenses are convincing.

Regardless, here is where I think nationalism, in general, misses the mark and why the language of patriotism is to be preferred. I am patriotic for my home state of Oregon. But this is not in conflict with my love for California, where I have lived for over a decade. Nor is it in conflict with my love for the United States as a whole. Because patriotism refers to love of one’s homeland, it can refer to various scales of larger and smaller designations of “home.” As Chesterton said, we should even have something like patriotism for the universe itself. 

Given Wolfe’s definition of a nation/ethnic group, why should we consider America a nation and not a multinational system like the UK? After all, how do Oregon, Hawaii, Georgia, and Massachusetts all form one coherent national identity? Or how could ‘nation’ be said univocally of, say, Poland or Hungary?

For the patriot, this is not so important, because I can at once be a patriotic Oregonian and a patriotic American. Another may simultaneously be a patriotic Hungarian and European. But the nationalist, who is set on drawing rigid lines between peoples, and perhaps even enforcing those lines as borders, the question is unavoidable.

Patriotism does not face the same problem because it is a love of affection, so it need not be in conflict with other loves. Nationalism involves a necessarily conflictual and exclusivist perspective. As Wolfe says, “conflict” between nations or ethnic groups should be seen as “natural” and not the result of sin (p. 146).

From the Catholic perspective of subsidiarity, we exist in communities on many different levels ranging from the very local to the global. We ought to have a love for our “home” at each of those levels, while recognizing that some competent authority exists to direct each of them toward their common good. The nationalist fixes a monopoly of state power at one particular and arbitrary level, undermining the exercise of legitimate authority on both sub-national and supra-national levels.

While we can and should address local problems with more-empowered local authorities, we should also address global problems with proper international authorities. But instead the nationalist project has us fixated on only the “national” level, which can often be either too big or too small for the task at hand.

What, then, is a Catholic integralist response to the movement of Christian nationalism in America today? Without question, it is to love America, to pursue her flourishing, to defend her rights, including the protection of her borders. But this is in no way in conflict with the empowerment of human community at both a smaller and larger scale. Most importantly, it is a recognition that America is a temporal not a spiritual power, and thus is in no way competent to govern the Church. America, rather, must be subject to a higher power, namely, the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church of Christ, whose Vicar is in the eternal city of Rome.

Either Catholicism or Liberalism

Brian Welter, trans., Either Catholicism or Liberalism: The Pastoral & Circular Letters of St. Ezequiel Moreno y Diaz (Waterloo, Ontario: Arouca Press, 2022)

St. Ezequiel Moreno y Díaz was a friar of the Augustinian Recollects and bishop of Pasto, Colombia. Canonized in 1992, he was, according to St. John Paul II, a model evangelist. In 1975, St. Paul VI spoke similarly at the bishop’s beatification: “His indefatigable zeal never let up when he preached the Word of God … and firmly defended his flock from the errors of the day. Yet he also expressed great love and gentleness for those who had been misguided.” (233) These saintly popes have set St. Ezequiel before the eyes of the faithful as a man of heroic virtue and a zealous pastor. 

In the volume Either Catholicism or Liberalism, Arouca Press presents a new English translation of some of the saint’s letters, together with a biographical sketch, the above-excerpted remarks from his beatification and canonization, along with Moreno’s last will.

Because so few know of the life of this holy pastor, it is worth retracing the main contours of his biography before considering the content of his letters in more detail. Ezequiel Moreno y Díaz was born in Spain in 1848. For fifteen years, from 1870-85, he was a missionary to the Philippines as an Augustinian Recollect. After a few years working in Spain, he was sent by his order to Colombia in 1888. In 1894, Pope Leo XIII appointed Moreno a bishop, assigned first as Vicar Apostolic of Casanare, before being transferred a year later to the diocese of Pasto in the southwest of Colombia, near the Ecuadorian border. This was a time and place of great political and spiritual turmoil. Colombia was in the midst of a religious revival, returning to greater public expressions of its Catholic identity, after years of “liberal-led decay.” (xv) However in 1895, neighboring Ecuador had its own liberal revolution, affecting considerably the members of Moreno’s flock.

Contained in this volume are a total of ten letters from St. Ezequiel’s episcopal ministry. In his letters he often draws upon the authority of the Syllabus of Errors, which had been promulgated by Bl. Pope Pius IX in 1864. Of particular influence was Pius’ condemnation of the proposition: “The Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, reconcile himself, and come to terms with progress, liberalism and modern civilization.” (n. 80) Moreno also makes frequent reference to Leo XIII’s 1888 encyclical Libertas, in which this pope wrote: “Many there are who follow in the footsteps of Lucifer, and adopt as their own his rebellious cry, ‘I will not serve’ … usurping the name of liberty, they style themselves liberals.” (Libertas, 14) Following this, St. Ezequiel consistently refers to liberals as “Lucifer’s imitators.”

This holy man understood the struggle against liberalism to be of paramount importance for Christians in the modern world. He wrote in his last will and testament:

I desire that in the hall in which my remains are exposed, and even in the church during the funeral rite, a large sign be placed so that everyone can see and on which is written: “Liberalism is a sin.” (230)

When St. Ezequiel boldly proclaims: ‘Liberalism is a sin,’ he is not engaging in bombastic rhetoric. He is, in his mind, defending his flock against a pernicious heresy, as he would surely have done against movements of such heresies as Donatism or Arianism should they have arisen his diocese.

He writes:

The Church, then, spoke so energetically, expressively, and categorically of the prohibition of reconciliation between Catholics and liberals that there is not the smallest doubt. If, then, the Church has addressed and condemned this reconciliation, no one can propose or accept doing so, and those who propose or accept such reconciliation are working against what the Church teaches and desires. It is necessary to teach this doctrine in such a loud tone so that all hear it, and hear it clearly, and that all understand it. … Reconciliation between Jesus Christ and the devil, between the Church and its enemies, and between Catholicism and liberalism is not possible. No, let us be firm: either Catholicism or liberalism. Reconciliation is not possible. (173-4)

And yet, since those who are prepared to reject the formal condemnations of liberalism by Bl. Pius IX will probably not be persuaded by the words of the holy bishop of Pasto, in today’s context, of what use is such a text?

What is most striking in this collection of letters is what Popes Paul VI and John Paul II noted of the saint: his pastoral zeal. St. Ezequiel does not approach the problem of liberalism as a philosopher, abstractly identifying its inner contradictions and tracing its varied history. Much less does he engage these problems as a political ideologue. There is not the least sense of mere partisanship in his writing. Instead, in these letters one unmistakably hears the voice of a shepherd and a father—at times heartbroken, at times moved to anger, but always filled with love.

Anti-liberalism has come to take many forms in the twenty-first century. It is my hope that the Catholic post-liberalism of our day might take on the spirit of St. Ezequiel. He never shrank from bold, forceful, and clear condemnations of error, but above all he never lost sight of what is truly at stake, namely eternal life. In his tone, I cannot help but be reminded of St. Paul’s Letter to the Galatians, in which the Apostle, with a wide range of emotions, is so evidently motivated by the salvation of souls.

As a demonstration of his pastoral spirit, and hopefully also as a motivation for Catholics today to read this impressive work, let me conclude with St. Ezequiel’s four practical recommendations for preserving the faith. In a letter to be read in all the churches of his diocese, he gave the following advice:

First, we must practice “a humble obedience to the guidelines of our Holy Mother the Church. The good Catholic humbly accepts and believes everything that the Holy Church orders and teaches. Suspicious of his own judgment, he eagerly follows even the smallest rules of the Holy See, whether these are doctrinal, discipline-related, or other.” (52)

Second, we must be careful to lead a truly Christian life. “Those who enter into sin easily come to lose faith because the existence of the truths that the faith teaches are awkward for them.” (55) Compromises in personal morality cloud our intellect and eventually will lead us into the same errors we now detest.

Third, the company we keep must be prudent. By surrounding ourselves with those who practice or defend immorality, we become compromised, little by little. “At the beginning, perhaps one does not approve of his evil insinuations, and even expresses disgust. But bit by bit, this disgust disappears, and then these are not even thought of as evil. Later, they are regarded as humorous events. Finally, they penetrate the entire soul, and come to occupy the same place that religious beliefs used to occupy.” (58)

Finally, we must always be courageous in confessing our sins—frequenting the sacrament of reconciliation is essential—but so too must we be mindful of the obligation to confess our faith. Among the sins of omission is the cowardice of failing to proclaim the truth when it needs to be proclaimed.

Here Moreno concludes with a word of warning about the effect of the sin of liberalism. He mourns that “liberal Catholics” feel no aversion to “sins against the faith, which even seem for them to be insignificant.” On the contrary, he writes, “being a rationalist, materialist, liberal, etc., is more sinful than being a drunk, thief, killer, or other such things.” (64) And why is this? Because such sins against the faith destroy in the soul the very basis for repentance.

Let us beseech, therefore, the intercession of St. Ezequiel for our contemporary society, continually plagued by liberalisms of every sort. Following his example, let us also look to the Sacred Heart of Jesus as our model and our hope.

Sacred Heart of Jesus, I turn to you! I put all my hope in you. You will be my help, my treasure, my wisdom, my strength, and my refuge…. These words will be a continuous and powerful stimulation so that this Sacred Heart will reign everywhere—in families, peoples, and nations—and fill everyone with his sovereign influence. (17)

Reading Laudate Deum in Context

It is a sad reality that many Catholics continue to see the social teaching of Pope Francis as somehow at odds with the history of Catholic social doctrine reaching back to Pope Leo XIII. Yet if we are to say that the temporal power ought to be subordinate to the spiritual power, we cannot with much credibility undermine the legitimacy of the Pope’s intervention into public life. But more to the point, what Pope Francis has put forward in his encyclicals Laudato Si’ and Fratelli Tutti is truly in harmony with the social vision that the popes have been advancing for the past 130 years.

To that end, what I intend to do is to situate the Pope’s most recent apostolic exhortation, Laudate Deum, within the context of the history of the Church’s social teaching. I propose to read the document as, at its heart, a critique of a technocracy which manifests itself in an individualist anthropology and a nationalistic global order. 

At the outset, it must be conceded that the specific scientific data to which Pope Francis appeals is not itself part of magisterial teaching. But Laudate Deum is not setting out to make any specific policy proposals. So the concern about whether or not the Holy Father is correct in his assessment of the risks of climate change seems to somewhat miss the point. For although he writes with clear conviction, he tempers his absolute certainty when he says: 

Certain apocalyptic diagnoses may well appear scarcely reasonable or insufficiently grounded. This should not lead us to ignore the real possibility that we are approaching a critical point. … We cannot state with certainty that all this is going to happen, based on present conditions. But it is certain that it continues to be a possibility.[1]

The Pope is not an authority in climate science, this much is true. But where the Church does exert her authority is as an “expert in humanity.”[2] Therefore what we ought to focus on is the moral core of the document’s message. Laudate Deum is a compelling assessment of the failures of modern society and as such is in substantial agreement with the whole tradition of Catholic social doctrine.

Technocratic anthropology

There is a deep irony in those who want to criticize Pope Francis for addressing an issue such as climate change because of his lack of expertise or competent authority in the matter, for this is an expression of precisely the kind of technocratic ideology that Laudate Deum rightly condemns. After all, who was Leo XIII to talk about economics? Who was Paul VI to talk about international development? They spoke not as “experts” in economics or politics per se, but with moral and spiritual authority as Vicar of Christ. And so now does Pope Francis. 

To contend that on issues such as the environment or international order, we should heed only the voice of specialized experts is to deny the properly human art of politics. Indeed it is a way of excluding ethics altogether and reducing politics entirely to a question of managerial expertise. 

This is what Laudate Deum regards as the “technocratic paradigm.”[3] The regime of experts, in its “admiration of progress” has “blinded us to the horror of its consequences.”[4] In other words, the technocrat is one obsessed with the “how,” but ignorant of the “why.” Such is our atheistic culture, devoid as it is of any sense of teleology. Yet it is precisely this ends-oriented worldview that Francis is looking to reassert. The counter to the technocratic paradigm is one in which “the creatures of this world no longer appear to us under merely natural guise, because the risen One is mysteriously holding them to himself and directing them towards fullness as their end.”[5]

The critique, at its most fundamental level, is that the technocrat has an essentially flawed anthropology. The technocratic view understands man purely as an economic animal, rather than as a properly political animal. That is to say, this flawed anthropology severs the essential link between man’s appetitive dimension and his rational dimension. Our desires are infinite. (And this is why they can only be properly fulfilled in God.) But the technocrat tries to address man’s desire through infinite material advancement, since man is seen as a being “with no limits, whose abilities and possibilities can be infinitely expanded thanks to technology.”[6]

Francis therefore calls for a “situated anthropocentrism,” which is in so many words an appeal to what the Church has taken to calling an “integral humanism,” that is, a “complete humanism,” which considers “the whole of man and all men.”[7] Genuine social progress relies on understanding human nature in all of its dimensions, both material and spiritual. Francis here emphasizes that this requires understanding man as situated within a finite cosmos. 

Contrary to this technocratic paradigm, we say that the world that surrounds us is not an object of exploitation, unbridled use and unlimited ambition. Nor can we claim that nature is a mere “setting” in which we develop our lives and our projects. For “we are part of nature, included in it and thus in constant interaction with it,” and thus “we [do] not look at the world from without but from within.”[8]

It is from this vantage that the Pope addresses the people of the world. Thus he calls upon mankind to “respect the laws of nature.”[9]

International Order

Another common criticism of Pope Francis is that he is too cozy with the United Nations and therefore speaks not on behalf of the faith of the Church but of an insidious globalist agenda. The text of Laudate Deum, however, provides a different picture.

But first, consider the words of Pope Paul VI in his address to the UN: “We are tempted to say that in a way this [international] characteristic of yours reflects in the temporal order what our Catholic Church intends to be in the spiritual order: one and universal.” Cooperation with and an optimistic view towards the United Nations would be nothing new on the part of Pope Francis. And yet, the words of Laudate Deum are hardly so starry-eyed.

The fourth major section of the document is mostly dedicated to recounting the failures of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change to accomplish anything of real substance. “Failure,” “ineffective,” “no progress,” “poorly implemented,” are words that resound throughout these paragraphs.

Doubtlessly, there are many who would want to see the Pope condemn altogether the notion of a supranational authority that can provide the kind of accountability that Francis is calling for. But such a nationalist agenda would itself be the real rupture with tradition. (As has previously been argued here at The Josias, the call for global authority is entirely traditional.)  Francis thus speaks in full continuity with both the pre- and post-conciliar magisterium in calling for a strengthening of international law and accountability.

Pius XI, for example, was emphatic on the need to subordinate merely national interests to the global common good.

Unsuppressed desires … are precisely the source of all international misunderstandings and rivalries, despite the fact that oftentimes men dare to maintain that acts prompted by such motives are excusable … out of love for country. …  [A]ll men are our brothers and members of the same great human family [and] it is never lawful nor even wise, to dissociate morality from the affairs of practical life.[10]

Benedict XVI likewise very famously called for “a true world political authority … universally recognized and vested with the effective power to ensure security for all … to have the authority to ensure compliance with its decisions from all parties.” All this, he writes, is “as envisaged by the Charter of the United Nations.”[11]

Francis therefore proposes nothing new in his advocacy of a strong international order. In fact, the language of Laudate Deum appears considerably softer than previous papal statements on the matter.

The emphasis in Laudate Deum regarding international order is on “multilateralism” as opposed to “a world authority concentrated in one person or in an elite with excessive power.”[12] The Holy Father also points out the importance of the principle of subsidiarity as we consider how global and local authorities interact.[13] The proposal here is quite the opposite of technocratic elitism.

Many today insist on treating political authority, whether national or international, as merely a question of “more” or “less,” but the vision of the Church has never been about more government or less government, but simply better government, suited to the necessities of the present. And insofar as the world now faces problems that are truly global in scope, it follows necessarily that a world political authority is needed. As Catholics we ought to be grateful our Holy Father is wading into such discussions and, if anything, should wish to see more and stronger assertions of this moral authority. 

Francis’ vision for an ethical international order is a strong refusal of the amoral, nationalistic, political realism that has taken root across the political spectrum. The thrust of Laudate Deum is unmistakably a call to conversion. That is why he concludes with these forceful words: “For when human beings claim to take God’s place, they become their own worst enemies.”[14]

Conclusion

The failure of technocracy shows itself both in the atomization of the individual vis-à-vis society, and of the nation vis-à-vis the global community. Laudate Deum is therefore a call to “integration,”[15] or as Pope Francis put it in a 2022 speech: “We cannot live with an economic pattern that comes from the liberals and the Enlightenment. … We need a Christian economy.” The claims regarding rising global temperatures and the proceedings of various climate conferences are simply not the heart of the document. The real thesis of the exhortation, as he states, is the twin claim: “Everything is connected.” and “No one is saved alone.”[16]

In rejecting technocracy, Pope Francis calls us back to “the nobility of politics,” and the reintroduction of both ethical and spiritual concerns in the public square.[17] So despite his failure to align with the political imagination of many conservatives especially in the United States, Pope Francis writes in clear continuity with the tradition of the Church’s social magisterium. 

Br. Anthony Maria Akerman, O.P. is a friar of the Western Dominican Province. He earned a Ph.D. in Theology from Claremont Graduate University and is currently studying at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in preparation for ordination to the priesthood.


[1] Laudate Deum, 17.

[2] Compendium, 61; cf. Populorum Progressio, 13.

[3] Laudate Deum, 20.

[4] Ibid., 24.                                          

[5] Ibid., 65; quoting Laudato Si’, 100.

[6] Laudate Deum, 21.

[7] Compendium, 6-7, 82.

[8] Laudate Deum, 25; quoting Laudato Si’, 139, 220.

[9] Laudate Deum, 62.

[10] Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio, 25.

[11] Caritas in Veritate, 67.

[12] Laudate Deum, 35.

[13] Ibid., 36.

[14] Ibid., 73.

[15] Ibid., 36.

[16] Ibid., 19.

[17] Ibid., 60.