One way of approaching the following essays is to pause here at the beginning and consider the peculiarity of the conversation we will be overhearing. In this volume we will be listening to a group of scholars who are Catholic, Episcopal, mainline Protestant, evangelical, and secularist in their varied backgrounds. They are considering the place of religion in public policymaking. The peculiarity arises if we think about American public life historically. For one thing, we are listening to people who most likely would not have been inclined to interact with each other at the outset of the twentieth century. More than that, they are talking about something that hardly anyone a hundred years ago would have thought even needs discussing.

Patrick Conroy, the secretary-treasurer of the Canadian Congress of Labour (CCL) from 1941 to 1951, was not someone who gave up easily. As a friend observed, the Scottish-born coal miner was a committed trade unionist whose “moral certitude was admirable and… one of his great strengths.” In late 1942, however, Conroy seemed ready to call it quits on the CCL's campaign to win a national collective-bargaining policy in Canada. Since its inception in September 1940, the Congress, which represented most of the industrial unions in the country, had pushed hard for a comprehensive labor policy like the National Labor Relations or Wagner Act in the United States, which protected and advanced the rights of workers. But the Liberal government of Prime Minister Mackenzie King repeatedly refused to move beyond a turn-of-the-century conciliatory framework that emphasized moral suasion and compromise. In late 1942, when a regional organizer asked Conroy whether a collective-bargaining policy appeared likely in the future, the CCL leader replied: “We do not feel it worthwhile to raise people's hopes when the record of the federal government is as it has been.”

Over the last dozen years of the twentieth century, one major change affecting many American public policies consists of increased demands for efficiency. As a result, the demands on bureaucratic agencies responsible for delivery of public goods and services are daunting. Political authorities prescribe economic goals of efficiency and self-sufficiency for agencies while not reducing demands for attainment of political goals like efficacy and equity. Public officials have used techniques encouraging efficient behavior such as downsizing and evaluation through performance-based standards to make government more streamlined while still being effective. Have these changes occurred in different ways at different levels of the federal system? How can we explain those differences? Does the impact on the delivered goods and services vary significantly by level of government?

As the first national law to address racial discrimination in housing, the 1968 Fair Housing Act was truly a landmark piece of legislation. It prohibited homeowners, real-estate agents, lenders, and other housing professionals from engaging in a range of practices they had commonly used to keep neighborhoods racially segregated, such as refusing to sell or rent to a person because of his or her race, lying about the availability of a dwelling, or blockbusting (inducing white owners to sell by telling them that blacks were moving into the neighborhood). The last of the 1960s-era civil rights laws, the Fair Housing Act tackled the arena long felt to be the most sensitive to whites. Intense controversy, demonstrations, and violence over fair housing issues had occurred in many cities and states since at least the 1940s. Although John F. Kennedy promised during his presidential campaign to end housing discrimination “with the stroke of a pen,” once elected, he waited two years to sign a limited executive order. In 1966, a fair housing bill supported by President Johnson failed in Congress. Unlike other civil rights bills, the issue of housing evoked opposition not just from the South but also from the North. Opponents claimed that it challenged basic American values such as “a man's home is his castle”; to supporters, the symbolism of homeownership as “the American Dream” only underscored the importance of ensuring that housing was available to all Americans, regardless of race.

As it had for countless other children in Arlington, Virginia, the idyll days of summer had come to end for eleven-year-old Edward Leslie Hamm Jr. on the morning of 5 September 1957. After donning a pair of clean khaki pants and a freshly pressed, short-sleeved white shirt, Hamm was heading back to the classroom along with twenty-one thousand other students in this Northern Virginia community. That alone was enough to put a pit in any child's stomach. But for Hamm the day possessed an added dimension. Instead of riding a bus for forty-five minutes to the Negro school six miles across the county, his parents were dispatching him, along with two other black pupils, to challenge the continued exclusion of blacks from the all-white school, one mile from their isolated exclusively black neighborhood. A full three years after Brown v. Board of Education, not a single black student had yet attended a white public school in Virginia, seen by many observers as the frontline state of resistance to school integration. The three children were nervous and took no comfort in thinking of themselves among a vanguard of the civil rights movement. “I wasn't into an integration thing,” recalled George Tyrone Nelson, who was fourteen at the time and among the trio challenging the segregated schools that day.

In 1971, a coalition of legislators and advocates put together a bill to establish the foundations of a public, universally available day-care system in the United States. Backed by Democrats, Republicans, and a highly mobilized set of interest organizations, the bill's middle-class appeal made it seem like a political sure bet in the months preceding the 1972 election season. Over the course of 1971, however, support for the bill eroded, and by December most House Republicans had jumped ship. On December 9, President Nixon vetoed the legislation, criticizing its “fiscal irresponsibility, administrative unworkability [sic], and family-weakening implications.” Such direct federal provision of day-care services, he claimed, “would commit the vast moral authority of the National Government to the side of communal approaches to child-rearing over the family-centered approach.” The day after the veto, however, Nixon signed the 1971 Revenue Act, which included tax breaks for families who use private day-care services. In late 1972, Congress passed legislation to reauthorize Head Start, a program providing early childhood education and health services for disadvantaged, preschool-aged children. Nixon's own welfare-reform proposal included day care for poor women. Clearly, only the middle class was at risk from “communal approaches” in federally supported child care; poor families, and particularly women on welfare, could use public day care while the middle class would be subsidized to solve their child-care problems through the private sector.

Just fifty-five years ago, the idea of a front-running presidential candidate from either the Democratic or Republican parties campaigning at Bob Jones University was unthinkable. After all, BJU was on the cultural periphery owing to its fundamentalist reputation. Having lost the battles in the mainline Protestant denominations and having suffered the ignominy of the Scopes Trial, fundamentalists like those who sent their children to Bob Jones in the 1940s were so busy trying to recover from these defeats that the thought of deciding a presidential election would have been delusional. Carl F. H. Henry spoke volumes for the movement when in his important little book, The Uneasy Conscience of Fundamentalism (1947), he lamented that for “the first protracted period in its history,” the evangelical faith of fundamentalists stood “divorced from the great social reform movements.” Henry, who was emerging as an influential leader of a new generation of fundamentalists, neo-evangelicals as they would call themselves, wrote this book as a protest against fundamentalism's self-chosen social and political isolation. In other words, the task for evangelical leaders at mid-century was to prod fundamentalists back into public life. And this is what makes George W. Bush's appearance at Bob Jones University during the weeks leading up to the 2000 South Carolina Republican primary truly remarkable. It reveals a seismic shift among conservative Protestants. Within a brief period, evangelicals went from denouncing politics as a form of worldliness to demanding a place at the table.

For those who subscribe to the theory of ldquo;responsible parties,” party platforms should offer voters a basis for choosing between the parties and give politicians the basis for a mandate. As Krehbiel points out, U.S. platforms are routinely dismissed as “amorphous” and “hardly ever … (serving) effectively as constraints during the campaign or after the election.” Yet, for better or worse, party platforms are the only authoritative statement of national party positions available, so political scientists have frequently used them as a basis for studies of party policymaking. Contrary to expectations based on the stereotype of “irresponsible” U.S. parties, studies by Gerald Pomper, Jeff Fishel, and others show that U.S. parties make fairly specific policy promises and are able to carry most of them out, even under the adverse condition of divided government. Cross-national studies show that although U.S. parties are not as successful as parties in parliamentary regimes, they look surprisingly good in international comparisons.

At the end of Turbulent Years, his classic study of the labor upheavals of the 1930s, Irving Bernstein unexpectedly announces that the American Federation of Labor “gained a decisive and permanent victory.” This is a remarkable admission. Bernstein had devoted the bulk of his study to the failures of the AFL and the emergence of a more relevant alternative, the CIO. Like most authors, he associated the turbulence of the 1930s with the rise of industrial unionism, which addressed the apparent deficiencies of the AFL, notably its preoccupation with skilled workers and neglect of large-scale manufacturing. Still, the AFL grew more rapidly. Bernstein tries to explain: the triumph of the AFL “was hidden by the mystique of power [John L] Lewis had imparted to the CIO, by the highly publicized contemporary successes of SWOC…and UAW…and the deliberate falsification of membership records.” While these factors may account for the misleading imagery of the CIO, they do not explain the behavior of millions of workers who opted for AFL organizations. Clearly other forces were at work.

Looking back over the century just ended, it is not easy to assess the status and prospects of secularism and the secular ideal in the United States. As is so often the case in American history, when one sets out in search of the simple and obvious, one soon comes face to face with a crowd of paradoxes. The psychologist Erik Erikson once observed that Americans have a talent for sustaining opposites, and he could hardly have been more right. Such Janus-faced doubleness, or multiplicity, is virtually the American specialité de la maison.

Scholars of the politics of public social policy have engaged in contentious debates over “institutional” and “political” theories. Institutional theories hold that U.S. social policy is inhibited by fragmented political institutions and weak executive state organizations. Political theories hold that the United States lacks a left-wing political party and a strong labor movement to push for social policy. Both theories are thus pessimistic about and cannot account for advances in U.S. social policy.

In 1965 abortion was illegal in every state in America except when the woman's life was endangered. Eight years later, in its decision in Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court held that a woman's decision to have an early elective abortion was constitutionally protected.

In this article I want to give at least a thumbnail sense of the background assumptions, policy contours, and vehicles for American Catholicism in engaging in public policy discussions. To do so, I will eventually concentrate on one major recent public policy discussion in the United States: the debates on welfare reform that led up to, and continue vigorously even after, the passage of the Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act of 1996. I do so because American Catholic institutions, including the United States Catholic Conference and Catholic Charities U.S.A., played a crucial and continuous role in these debates about welfare reform. Indeed, New York's Senator Daniel P. Moynihan, a vigorous opponent of the proposed welfare reform bill, in excoriating his fellow liberals for signing on to the bill, could lift up the example of the Catholic bishops' lobbying and exclaim: “The bishops admittedly have an easier time with matters of this sort. When principles are at stake, they simply look them up. Too many liberals, alas, make them up!” This particular debate (which is not, by any means, over) also helps to show some of the unique assumptions behind proposals found in Catholic interventions in the policy sector. In what follows, I will develop, briefly, four sections or subthemes to the paper:

1. Catholilc Social Thought: Five Background Assumptions for Policy: Human Dignity; The Common Good; Solidarity; Subsidiarity; Justice

2. The Move from Background Assumptions to Policy

3. Catholic Policy Proposals: Their Style and Instrumentalities

4. Catholicism and Welfare Policy