One effect of politicians' deference to the church has been the creation of a secular body of opinion that ultimately rejected the idea that church and State went hand-in-hand, writes Diarmaid Ferriter
There are many reasons why the Ferns report into clerical child sex abuse can be viewed as one of the most important documents in modern Irish history. Not only has it underlined the extent of the suffering inflicted on innocent children and the failure of the Catholic Church to prevent it; it has also facilitated some of the most explicit denunciations of the church from Irish politicians regarding its role and status in Irish society.
This week, Progressive Democrats TD Liz O'Donnell went further than most by asserting that the church is incapable of self-regulation and unworthy of consultation on any issue affecting reproduction, relationships, sexuality or family planning.
It is time, she insisted, for a clear division between church and State, the implication being that it is time to assert, loud and clear, that Ireland should be a secular state in practice. The relationship between church and State went to the heart of Irish politics and society for much of the 20th century. Few will deny the validity of O'Donnell's observation that there was, for many years, "unrelenting deference expected and given" to the Catholic Church from the State.
There was a simple reason for this - most of the previous generation of Irish politicians saw themselves as Catholics first and politicians second. In 1999, after the archive of Archbishop John Charles McQuaid was opened to researchers, John Bowman highlighted the correspondence between McQuaid and Seán MacBride, leader of Clann na Poblachta, in 1947 and 1948. Their exchanges encapsulate the essence of the relationship that existed between church and State and how it was viewed by both sides.
When elected a TD in a byelection in October 1947, MacBride wrote to McQuaid "as my first act, to pay my humble respects to Your Grace and to place myself at your Grace's disposal". He repeated these words after the general election of 1948 when Clann na Poblachta became part of the coalition government that replaced Fianna Fáil, adding that he would welcome any advice "which your Grace may be good enough to give me". McQuaid replied: "When the occasion arises, I will not hesitate to avail of your services."
Research into 20th-century Irish history in the National Archives also throws up many examples of the church being consulted on impending legislation, particularly on issues of sexuality or morality. Indeed, given what is now known about sexual abuse by clerics, it is truly ironic that the church was continually being looked to for guidance on legislation that was supposed to protect Irish citizens from sexual immorality.
The hierarchy was not always strident or, on the surface, demanding. What is most striking is the extent to which politicians continually asked for guidance. When a government committee had investigated the incidence of venereal disease in the Free State in 1927, a meeting was arranged between a government representative and Archbishop Byrne of Dublin, who was "hesitant in giving an opinion either for or against publication" of the VD report but, after pressure from the government representative, Byrne "made it clear he rather favoured postponement of publication". The government acquiesced.
In 1932, minister for justice James Geoghegan met the bishops to discuss changes in the law relating to the age of consent and prostitution and informed them he wanted a Bill "which would bring the law into accord with the best Catholic practice and teaching on these subjects". Bishop Daniel Keane, secretary to the hierarchy, duly asked for any heads of a Bill to be "communicated" to him. When sensing that the Catholic environment was changing, the bishops could be more forceful. In 1965, taoiseach Seán Lemass asked his justice minister Brian Lenihan about the possibility of introducing divorce "for those of our citizens whose religion tolerates it". Lenihan replied that McQuaid, through the chancellor of the Dublin diocese, Dr Sheehy, had made it clear there would be "violent opposition" from the hierarchy, after which Lenihan concluded, "in view of the above, there would not appear to be much point in pushing the matter any further".
There are many other examples of this unofficial, behind-the-scenes deference, but there is also documentation revealing occasions when the church did not get its way. De Valera's 1937 Constitution may have accorded a "special position" to the Catholic church, but this was not enough for some of those pressurising him to have it declared "the one true church".
Seán Lemass was well able to stand up to the bishops on the issue of liberalising the licensing laws in 1959. When McQuaid objected, Lemass informed his civil servants "his Grace's letter does not call for a reply".
The portrayal of the State as demonstrating a consistent cowering deference is a simplification of the complex distribution of power in Ireland. There is a danger in isolating individual letters and brandishing them as evidence that 20th century Ireland was a Catholic theocracy in all but name. Politicians frequently consulted members of all churches when legislating for so-called moral issues.
It is also the case that the label "church/State clash" is often misleading. Those with a determination to oppose or impose change were frequently lay groups who brought the church on board, as happened with the Irish Medical Association during the "Mother and Child" controversy in 1951 and with the Catholic lay lobbyists who pressed for a pro-life amendment to the Constitution in 1983. In both cases, powerful and unrepresentative lay organisations sought to highlight the supposed danger to Catholic morals if certain proposals were not adopted or rejected.
In terms of social change, deference to Catholic pressure, whether imposed by lay or clerical representatives, has in reality been politically irrelevant for nearly 20 years now. Those campaigning to save the soul of traditional Catholic Ireland unwittingly created a sizeable secular body of opinion that ultimately succeeded in rejecting the idea that church and State went hand-in-hand. What developed as a backlash against the divisive campaigns of the 1980s, and the failure of politicians to resist pressure groups, was a sufficiently robust resistance to the idea that Catholic teaching in relation to sexual mores could exist in abstraction from the reality of people's lives.
Politicians gradually came to reject, in the words of Barry Desmond, former minister for health, the idea that "the common good" was the same as "the Catholic good".
Granted, it took decades for that position to be reached, and the unravelling of a complex web of alliances, built up over many years. Undoubtedly, their control of primary education and the alliances it is based on needs to be debated, but to isolate the Catholic Church as the sole villain, as Liz O'Donnell did this week, is to conveniently let State and society, and indeed all the political parties, off the hook for their role in allowing the sort of unfettered power that the Ferns report exposes. Post-Ferns report, it is likely the Catholic Church's future lies in campaigning for social justice rather than policing Irish morals. Some of the most admired and respected activists in the contemporary church - Cori, Bishop Willie Walsh, Fr Peter McVerry, Sr Stanislaus Kennedy to give a few examples - have been doing precisely that for years, highlighting a Catholic Church that seeks not to further its own power, but to promote a fairer society.
Diarmaid Ferriter lectures in Irish history at St Patrick's College, DCU, and is author of The Transformation of Ireland 1900-2000 (Profile).