From the estallido social to the constitutional convention

Following unprecedented social unrest in October 2019, Chile’s political leaders agreed to launch a fully democratic process to draft a new constitution, intended to replace the one inherited from Pinochet’s dictatorship. Although Chile was long portrayed as a model of stability and success in a volatile region, scholars have argued that this image concealed deep inequalities in political and economic power (Somma et al., Reference Somma, Bargsted, Disi and Medel2021). The widespread, leaderless, and at times violent protests—commonly referred to as the estallido social (social outburst)—were broadly understood by local intellectuals as a demand for profound systemic change (Canales, Reference Canales2022; Mayol, Reference Mayol2019; Ruiz, Reference Ruiz Encina2020). In response, hopes for a peaceful resolution and a more equitable future coalesced around the prospect of reshaping the country’s foundational framework through a constitutional process.

In a referendum held in October 2020, amid the COVID-19 pandemic, a striking 78% of voters supported drafting a completely new constitution, with turnout surpassing 50% despite the voluntary nature of voting. Participation was particularly strong among younger and low-income citizens, likely reflecting their alignment with the demands of the estallido social and the reluctance of older voters to participate due to fears of contracting the virus (Morales, Reference Morales2021). With this decisive result, the path was cleared for a new constitutional process, following the broader trend that most constitutional proposals submitted to popular ratification tend to be approved (Ekins and Hudson, Reference Elkins and Hudson2019).

In May 2021, an ad hoc constituent assembly of 155 members was democratically elected. The assembly stood out for its innovative design, departing from the usual electoral rules and structure of the Chilean Congress. Most notably, it mandated strict gender parity, encouraged the participation of party-less independents, and crucial to our argument, it reserved seventeen seats for Indigenous peoples: seven for the Mapuche, two for the Aymara, and one each for the Rapa Nui, Quechua, Atacameño, Diaguita, Colla, Kawashkar, and Yagán peoples. Although this resulted in notable overrepresentation for some groups whose populations number fewer than a thousand in a country of nearly 20 million, their inclusion reflected the prominence of Indigenous grievances during the estallido social. The Mapuche flag, or Wenufoye, often overshadowed the Chilean national flag in protests (Pairican and Porma, Reference Pairican, Porma, Henríquez and Pleyers2023), while monuments to Spanish conquistadors and symbols of the modern State were dismantled in southern cities (Badilla and Aguilera, Reference Badilla and Aguilera2021).

Officially named Convención Constitucional (henceforth, CC), the assembly’s membership largely aligned with the anti-establishment ethos of the 2019 protests, claiming to represent historically marginalized groups. As traditional elites faced fierce criticism for neglecting long-standing grievances, many scholars viewed the CC’s novel composition as a crucial step toward repairing Chile’s broken social contract (Heiss, Reference Heiss2021; Piscopo and Siavelis, Reference Piscopo and Siavelis2021; Suárez-Cao, Reference Suarez-Cao2021). This configuration has also been interpreted through Laclau and Mouffe’s (Reference Laclau and Mouffe1985; see also Laclau, Reference Laclau2005) post-Marxist theory of populist articulation, which holds that heterogeneous social demands—whether rooted in class, ethnicity, gender, or other forms of exclusion—can be woven together into a shared political project by constructing an antagonistic frontier between “the people” and “the elite.” This logic expands the central antagonism beyond strictly economic terms (e.g., Capital vs. Labor) to encompass broader identities and historical grievances, thereby overcoming classical notions of class essentialism. As Pierre Ostiguy (Reference Ostiguy2022) put it, if one global phenomenon fit Laclau’s model “like a glove,” it was the Chilean uprising. To the extent that the CC served as the institutional catalyst of the estallido social, it inherited its populist ethos (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2022). It brought together disparate claims—Indigenous rights, gender equality, social justice—under a unifying narrative of rectifying historical injustices and dismantling entrenched power structures (Murphy, Reference Murphy2024; Padoan, Reference Padoan2024).

Shortly after the members of the CC began their work, a coalition of social movements, Indigenous representatives, radical leftists led by the Communist Party, and indignados of various stripes secured the required two-thirds quorum, enabling them to dominate the drafting process without significant opposition. After twelve months of deliberation, the CC produced a proposal that scholars (Green et al., Reference Green, Loncón and Carrillo2022; Piscopo and Siavelis, Reference Pairican, Porma, Henríquez and Pleyers2023) and international media outlets dubbed the “world’s most progressive” constitution (Bartlett, Reference Bartlett2022; Mohor, Reference Mohor2022). Among its most notable provisions, the draft declared Chile a plurinational State, introducing parallel justice systems for Chileans and Indigenous peoples; mandated gender parity in all State leadership bodies; guaranteed full abortion rights; outlined an ambitious plan for territorial decentralization, including the creation of regional parliaments; established a unified, State-run healthcare system; recognized the rights of nature alongside the state’s environmental responsibilities for climate change mitigation; and abolished the Senate, long depicted as the bastion of oligarchic resistance to popular demands. Crucially for this paper, the proposal also marked the first-ever declaration of Chile as a secular State, as we will soon detail.

However, the constitutional draft required ratification by the adult population through a referendum, this time under mandatory voting rules. Although public sentiment was generally supportive at the outset of the CC’s work, the political climate shifted over time. Chileans increasingly questioned whether the radical institutional changes proposed by the drafters offered a true improvement over the existing system (Sazo, Reference Sazo2023). In September 2022, amid accusations of misinformation and deeply divisive rhetoric, the proposal was decisively rejected, with 62% voting against and only 38% in favor.

Religion in Chile: the long road to the “secular” State

As a former colony of the Spanish Empire, Chile was culturally and institutionally shaped as a Roman Catholic country, with minimal syncretism from pre-Columbian religious traditions. After gaining independence in the early 19th century, the Chilean State retained many colonial structures, including its privileged relationship with the Catholic Church. The 1833 Constitution recognized “Apostolic and Roman Catholicism” as the official religion (Collier, Reference Collier2003; Mancini, Reference Mancini2020), though a later amendment clarified that other faiths could be publicly practiced. The Church’s privileges were balanced by the State’s inheritance of ecclesiastical patronage rights—such as appointing archbishops—rooted in Spanish colonial law (Gill, Reference Gill1998). By the mid-19th century, liberal forces challenged the Church’s special status, pushing for civil marriage, secular cemeteries, and secular education in public schools. This sparked a prolonged struggle between progressives seeking deeper secularization and conservatives defending Church influence, shaping Chile’s main political cleavage of the 19th century (Scully, Reference Scully1992). As historian Sol Serrano (Reference Serrano2008) put it, the core question became “what to do with God in the Republic.”

The rise of workers’ parties and the growing importance of class-based cleavages by the early 20th century gradually reduced the political salience of religion. The 1925 Constitution, enacted under President Arturo Alessandri, made no mention of religious establishments—a silence widely interpreted as marking the separation of Church and State (Sigmund, Reference Sigmund1986; Smith, Reference Smith1982). Nonetheless, the Catholic Church retained significant—often hegemonic—influence in public and private life throughout the 20th century. Unlike Mexico, Chile did not undergo top-down secularization driven by modernizing or revolutionary forces (Serrano, Reference Serrano2008). In the 1960s and 1970s, Chilean Marxists, like counterparts elsewhere in Latin America, allied with liberation theology (Sigmund, Reference Sigmund1992), while the subsequent neoliberal dictatorship exalted the Virgin Mary (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2020; Sjørup, Reference Sjørup2017). That same dictatorship drafted the 1980 Constitution, amended by later democratic governments but unchanged in essence. Regarding religion, it made no significant departures from the 1925 framework: while no official religion is recognized, the text guarantees freedom of conscience, the right to express beliefs, and free exercise of faiths, provided they do not contravene morality, good manners, or public order (Thurston, Reference Thurston2000).

In practice, Catholics have continued to enjoy privileges in many areas of public life—from judges swearing “by God our Lord and by these Holy Gospels” to Congressional sessions opening “In the name of God” (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2019, 233–34). Despite long-standing demands from other Christian denominations for equal treatment, the Catholic Church has sought to block spiritual competition (Fleet and Smith, Reference Fleet and Smith1997; Gill, Reference Gill, Jelen and Wilcox2002). The so-called Law of Cults, enacted only in 1999, granted hundreds of Evangelical and Protestant congregations legal personhood, allowing them to access benefits previously reserved for Catholic organizations—such as tax exemptions and the ability to operate publicly funded schools. This law also guaranteed every citizen the right to receive religious assistance from their own faith, wherever they are, including in jails, detention centers, hospitals, and the armed forces (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2020).

Chile’s religious landscape has shifted markedly in recent decades, with a sharp decline in Catholics and a notable rise in nonbelievers. A recent study combining multiple surveys shows that self-identified Catholics fell from about three-quarters of the population in the late 1990s to less than half in recent years, while nonbelievers—including atheists and agnostics—rose from under 10% to around one-third (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2024). Although the decline accelerated after sexual abuse scandals broke in 2010, the downward trend predates those events. Notably, the fall in Catholic numbers has not led to increased evangelical affiliation, which has remained steady around 15%. Scholars thus unequivocally regard Chile as a case of cultural secularization, at least in terms of “church-based” belief (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2024; Mardones and Brahm, Reference Mardones, Brahm and Valenzuela2021; Parker and Pérez, Reference Parker, Pérez, Lecaros and Suárez2024; Valenzuela, 2024). These trends align with Ronald Inglehart’s (Reference Inglehart2020) global report, which identifies Chile as experiencing the sharpest drop in religiosity worldwide between 2007 and 2019.

In parallel with shifts in Chile’s religious landscape, a series of legal reforms—mainly in family law, reproductive rights, and sexual morality—have advanced despite the Catholic Church’s longstanding opposition, underscoring its declining political clout. Over the past three decades, the Church’s stance has been defeated on multiple fronts: legal recognition of children born out of wedlock (1999); abolition of sodomy laws (1999); legalization of divorce (2004); introduction of the morning-after pill (2010); enactment of the first anti-discrimination law (2012); recognition of same-sex partnerships (2015); decriminalization of abortion on three grounds (2017); passage of the first gender identity law (2018); and legalization of same-sex marriage (2021). These milestones show how Chile’s cultural secularization—marked by declining religious adherence—has coincided with political secularism, defined as the retreat of the Church’s influence over law and institutions (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2024). Borrowing Charles Taylor’s (Reference Taylor2007) nomenclature, Chile’s experience reflects a correlation between type-one secularity (institutional separation of Church and State) and type-two secularity (declining religious belief and practice).

This is the context in which the members of the CC were tasked with rethinking the institutional relationship between politics and religion. Their challenge was to translate the fact of cultural secularization into the political language of secularism within the constitutional text. Accordingly, for the first time in its republican history, Chile’s State was expressly declared as laico—the Spanish term, derived from the French laïcité, used to denote political secularism. Article 9 of the proposed chapter on General Principles stated:

It might be argued that no substantial change occurred here, since religious disestablishment had been the constitutional norm since the 1925 Constitution. However, the explicit assertion of the secular (laico) character of the State seemed to convey a normative message worth unpacking. As Galioto (Reference Galioto2024) reports, members of the CC intermittently discussed the scope and meaning of laicidad across various committees: while some advocated an “inclusive” form of secularism—welcoming and regulating all religions in the public sphere without favoring any—others supported an “exclusive” version, where religion is kept entirely out of the public or State arena. Although the CC never definitively adjudicated between these views, some conservative intellectuals feared that the proposed formula—Chile as estado laico—signaled not neutrality but an aggressive secularism aimed at abolishing religious symbols from public life, including holidays like Christmas (Corral, Reference Corral2021), and cutting financial support for religious education (Svensson, Reference Svensson2021). Outside academic circles, however, the debate drew little attention from the broader public.

Further on, within the chapter on Fundamental Rights, proposed Article 67 stated:

At first glance, this wording largely restates the religious freedom already guaranteed under Chile’s constitutional order. However, one notable feature stands out: the explicit recognition of the right to apostasy—that is, to change one’s religion or belief. While this right can reasonably be seen as implicit in broader religious freedom, it has also been treated as a distinct issue. For example, in the Islamic legal tradition, the right to religious freedom does not extend to Muslims wishing to leave the faith, and some jurists even argue that apostasy warrants the death penalty (Adil, Reference Adil2007; Saeed, Reference Saeed2017). By explicitly affirming apostasy, the drafters framed religious identities and beliefs as fluid and changeable. Although this provision could be read as sympathetic to the abandonment of institutional religion, it did not spark significant public or academic debate.

The secularizing program was also evident in the chapter on the educational system. While the constitutional proposal upheld freedom of religion, including its exercise through teaching, Article 36 specified that public education—the system’s “strategic axis”—should be laica, thereby limiting that freedom or confining it to privately funded faith-based schools. Members of the CC openly debated the legitimacy of religious schooling within the system; while they did not rule it out, many delegates emphasized that the State should not subsidize religious educational projects (Galioto, Reference Galioto2024).

This tension between “freedom of religion through teaching” and the secular goals outlined for the educational system appears in multiple provisions. Proposed Article 36 also stated that the entire educational system—public and private—“should promote the diversity of artistic, ecological, cultural, and philosophical knowledge that coexists in the country,” with no mention of religious knowledge. Similarly, proposed Article 35 set out educational aims such as fostering critical thinking. Promoting critical thinking could be interpreted as encouraging autonomy in a strong, comprehensive sense. But some religious groups believe that education should prepare children for life within their own community, not for “sustained rational examination of self, others, and social practices” (Galston, Reference Galston1995, 521; see also Burtt, Reference Burtt1994, Reference Burtt1996). The very paradigm of rationality underlying critical thinking has been challenged by religious groups on epistemological grounds (Pring, Reference Pring2018).

Among the educational principles, the drafters also included nondiscrimination, which may be controversial for some religious communities that assert a right to discriminate on religious grounds, as seen in globally debated cases like Hobby Lobby and the “gay cake” (Gasper, Reference Gasper2015; Sandberg, Reference Sandberg2011). The proposal further stated that all education should be “non-sexist” and incorporate a “gender perspective”—principles fully reasonable, even imperative, from a progressive standpoint but potentially challenging for religious or traditionalist views of the family. Conservative scholars warned that such provisions could render their beliefs unconstitutional (Salas et al., Reference Salas, Imbarack and De la Cerda2022). Proposed Article 40 affirmed that “every person has the right to receive comprehensive sexual education that promotes the full and free enjoyment of sexuality,” including “the recognition of the diverse identities and expressions of gender and sexuality.” As Ruth Wareham notes—writing about the UK but with broader relevance—there are clear tensions between these progressive aims and conservative faith-based education, which may promote misogynistic and homophobic views, rely on pseudoscience, or “justify leaving certain topics (such as same-sex relationships or trans rights) out of classroom discussion altogether” (Reference Wareham2022, 707). Additionally, some faiths reject the idea of sexuality as a vehicle of pleasure (Schenker, Reference Schenker2000) or may struggle with a constitutional imperative to normalize what they see as deviations from natural law or outright sins (Moon, Reference Moon2014). Indeed, the Chilean Conference of Catholic Bishops voiced its opposition to the proposed sexual education provisions, particularly criticizing the “strong presence of gender ideology in the text … that seeks to impose itself as hegemonic thought,” which they argued violated religious freedom in education (CECH, 2022).

In sum, from the first-ever declaration of a “secular” State to the treatment of education, the drafters made clear their aim to secularize political institutions and keep the influence of mainstream religion at bay.

Indigenous worldviews as ethno-religions

Thus far, we have shown that the drafters of the proposed constitution aimed to secularize the Chilean State and its key institutions, notably the educational system. This section examines how Indigenous worldviews were incorporated into the constitutional text, highlighting the parallels between these ancestral beliefs and the mainstream religions whose influence the drafters sought to limit. In doing so, it identifies what we call a secular paradox: rather than curtailing the role of religion, the drafters effectively replaced one form of religion with another.

As discussed in Section I, the CC reserved seventeen of its 155 seats for representatives of Indigenous peoples, nearly half of whom were from the Mapuche, Chile’s largest Indigenous group. Through a tactical alliance with left-wing parties and grassroots movements, these representatives wielded significant influence throughout the drafting process. Most notably, for the first time in Chile’s history, the country was declared a “plurinational” State—a political unit recognizing multiple “first nations” alongside, and distinct from, the Chilean nation. Of the 388 articles in the final draft, 56 explicitly referred to “indigenous peoples,” compared to none in the existing constitution (Lankes, Reference Lankes2022). These references addressed historical claims over natural resources such as land and water, demands for political autonomy and territorial self-determination, and unprecedented provisions for parallel justice systems. For this paper’s purposes, we focus on the sections recognizing ancestral lifestyles, knowledge, and worldviews.

While these ancestral lifestyles, knowledges, and worldviews cannot be fully equated with religion in the mainstream sense, we argue that they contain core religious elements. Critical theorists have long challenged “liberal” conceptions of religion for narrowly framing it as a matter of individual conscience or doctrinal belief in the Western Protestant tradition (Asad, Reference Asad1993; Mahmood, Reference Mahmood2009). Here, we adopt a more expansive and multidimensional approach—one that includes cosmic narratives, conceptions of the good life, and community rites that differ from monotheistic traditions and institutional religions. Do Indigenous worldviews qualify as religions, once we adopt this broader sense?

In Mapuche culture, at least, the cultural and the religious are deeply intertwined. As Rolf Foerster’s seminal work (Reference Foerster1993) shows, Mapuche identity, tied to land and nature, merges with the sacred through divinities and ancestors. Like other Indigenous religions worldwide, Mapuche religiosity can be described as cosmic, animistic, and shamanic (Riveros, Reference Riveros1998). Its cosmic dimension addresses ultimate questions about humanity’s place on Earth and its relationship with a higher realm that sustains the world. It is animistic in perceiving nature and its elements as infused with hidden powers that can help or harm. Shamans—known as Machis, as we will soon discuss—intervene to harness these powers and restore balance. These dimensions are socially structured through rituals central to Mapuche identity, both cultural and religious, such as the nguillatún, which continues to be celebrated today in both rural and urban settings (Curivil, Reference Curivil2007; Palet et al., Reference Palet, Osses, Castillo and Gloël2020).

The question of the status of Indigenous worldviews has gained prominence in Latin America since the enactment of the Ecuadorian (2008) and Bolivian (2009) constitutions. Both Andean countries introduced the principle of “Good Living” (Buen Vivir), frequently associated with Quechua (Sumak Kawsay), Aymara (Suma Qamaña), and Mapuche (Küme Mogen) cultures. Although its meaning remains contested and its boundaries imprecise (Alonso and Vázquez, Reference Alonso and Vázquez2015), with its practical implications also debated (Caria and Domínguez, Reference Caria and Dominguez2016), there is broad agreement that it describes a non-anthropocentric relationship with nature, emphasizing harmony and balance. From this starting point, the literature offers two distinct emphases. On one hand, Buen Vivir is framed as a post-neoliberal development model or sustainable socio-productive strategy (Bretón, Reference Bretón2017; Merino, Reference Merino2016; Vanhulst and Beling, Reference Vanhulst and Beling2014; Walsh, Reference Walsh2010). On the other hand, it is portrayed as a substantive philosophy or worldview that underpins public policy—a discourse, practice, and commitment inseparable from spiritual and moral dimensions, encoding an ideal of holistic wellbeing (Fabricant, Reference Fabricant2013; Godden, Reference Godden2021; Irigaray et al., Reference Irigaray, Girard, Irigaray and Da Silva2016; Widenhorn, Reference Widenhorn2013). Closer to the latter sense, some even describe it as an outright religious category, linking the living with ancestors, future generations, the spiritual world, and the divine (Estermann, Reference Estermann, Longkumer, Sorensen and Biehl2016). If Buen Vivir is thus more than a development model—embodying a set of personal and collective ethics that can be broadly understood as a weltanschauung, “comprehensive doctrine,” or “conception of the good” (Rawls, Reference Rawls1999, Reference Rawls2005)—then it shares salient religious features.

The drafters of the Chilean constitution implicitly embraced this understanding. One of the CC’s first tasks was to develop an internal “code of ethics,” which stated that the members’ behavior should be guided by “the principle of Buen Vivir, the Biocentric principle, the principle of Itrofill Mongen, the principle of Suma Qamaña and Sumak Kawsay,”—different names for broadly the same idea. While Küme Mogen is the common Mapuche translation for Buen Vivir, Itrofill Mogen refers more specifically to biodiversity in its relationship with human life (Rommens, Reference Rommens2017). Consistently, Indigenous delegates in the CC defended Itrofill Mongen as a “philosophy” and “worldview” that should inspire and constrain law and public policy going forward (Espinoza, Reference Espinoza2022).

In the General Principles section of the final proposal, Article 8 declared that the State should not only recognize but also “promote” the principle of Buen Vivir as a substantive guide to living a morally good life. Here we follow Brian Leiter’s (Reference Leiter2014) distinction between a minimal “recognition-respect” and a positive “appraisal-respect.” In a minimal sense, recognition entails that the State acknowledges the factual existence of Indigenous peoples, their cultural significance for national identity, and their right to hold ancestral worldviews and pursue traditional lifestyles. In a positive sense, recognition requires not just respect but also active endorsement. The drafters’ wording reflected the latter, revealing the secular paradox: while mainstream religion was sidelined to advance a secular State, another substantive ethical framework was effectively promoted.

To be sure, the principle of Buen Vivir does not fundamentally conflict with Christian doctrine, but tensions remain. Traditional Christianity sees nature as serving humanity, a view that clashes with ecocentric and ancestral perspectives, granting nature equal moral standing. The Chilean drafters, following Ecuadorian and Bolivian models, conferred rights on nature itself—an idea that can conflict with certain theological interpretations of the imago Dei, rooted in anthropocentrism (Moritz Reference Moritz2011, Reference Moritz2020). Despite these tensions, both worldviews share commitments to equitable resource distribution, a communitarian ethic, and compassion for the suffering. They have converged further since the Catholic Church’s environmental turn under Pope Francis’ encyclical Laudato Si, which fuses social justice with care for our “common home.” Notwithstanding its substantive appeal as a biocentric philosophy—especially in the shadow of ecological crisis—this paper questions whether the “world’s most progressive constitution” remained secular while advancing Buen Vivir as a substantive doctrine.

The chapter devoted to education offers further examples of sidelining mainstream religion while safeguarding Indigenous worldviews. As discussed in the preceding section, the drafters sought to secularize educational goals and principles. However, when it came to ancestral worldviews, proposed Article 36 affirmed “the autonomy of indigenous peoples and nations to develop their own establishments and institutions in accordance with their customs and culture.” No comparable autonomy was granted to mainstream religious educational projects. While religious education was constrained by universal aims such as critical thinking and gender perspective, Indigenous worldviews were exempted due to their positive recognition. Noting this asymmetry, the Bishop’s Conference questioned why “this recognition is made explicit only to indigenous peoples and not to other collective bodies with their own worldviews” (CECH, 2022, 6)

The following table summarizes the key provisions contained in the constitutional proposal that have a religious or spiritual resonance:

Though not codified in the constitutional text, it is worth mentioning that ancestral authorities also received special treatment while in the CC. Francisca Linconao, one of the most prominent Indigenous delegates, insisted on being addressed as Machi, her title as a spiritual leader of the Mapuche. While not a priest, rabbi, or imam in the conventional monotheistic sense, the Machi holds premonitory dreams, claims supernatural revelations, and is believed to cure diseases. Mostly—but not exclusively—women, Machis serve as healers, shamans, and mediums (Bacigalupo, Reference Bacigalupo2004). Regarding Linconao, it has been noted that “no sharp separation between the religious and the political” is possible in her role (Araya and Cárcamo, Reference Araya, Cárcamo, Del Valle and Cebrelli2023, 101). Invoking the CC’s supposed secular spirit, delegate Gaspar Domínguez objected, arguing that while Linconao might be an “ancestral authority,” he would not address her by a religious title. Domínguez posed a crucial question: “If there were a bishop here, should we call him Bishop as well?” (Vargas, Reference Vargas2021). The CC leadership sided with Linconao and asked delegates to use her spiritual title. Domínguez thus experienced the secular paradox firsthand.

In sum, the drafters inadvertently created a paradox: in seeking to diminish the influence of mainstream religions such as Catholicism, they simultaneously endorsed ancestral worldviews closely akin to religion. While a traditional Western faith like Christianity was shown the door, an ethno-religious outlook like Buen Vivir entered through the window. Borrowing from Daniel Chernilo’s reframing of the secularization debate (Reference Chernilo2023), we conclude that the drafters did not embrace secularism as a neutralist-procedural ideal but instead affirmed an alternative set of substantive doctrines that effectively took on religion’s role. The underlying reasons for this paradox are explored in the next section.

The secular vs. religious as a second-order cleavage

In Section II, we showed that the drafters of the “world’s most progressive” constitution aimed to secularize political institutions, starting with Chile’s historic declaration as a laico State. This was chiefly understood as curbing the influence of mainstream religion in the country’s social and political life, especially in education. However, as argued in Section III, the drafters simultaneously recognized, promoted, and granted autonomy to Indigenous worldviews that share key features with the very institutional religions they sought to exclude—particularly in offering substantive visions of the good life. This is what we have called the secular paradox. This section unpacks that paradox.

For this paper’s purposes, we distinguish between first- and second-order cleavages that shaped the work of the CC. In political sociology, cleavages are understood as deep, enduring divisions within society that shape political behavior, party systems, and collective identities. Lipset and Rokkan (Reference Lipset and Rokkan1967) famously identified four classical cleavages: State vs. Church, Capital vs. Labor, Urban vs. Rural, and Center vs. Periphery. These have been widely used to explain Chile’s political evolution: an initial phase focused on struggles over religion in public life; a second phase driven by industrialization and the conflict between the working class and business elites; and a third phase marked by tensions between agricultural interests and urban lifestyles (Scully, Reference Scully1992; Valenzuela, 1995). After the Pinochet dictatorship, scholars have debated whether these cleavages still meaningfully shape Chilean politics (Tironi and Agüero, Reference Tironi and Agüero1999; Torcal and Mainwaring, Reference Torcal and Mainwaring2003), particularly questioning whether religion continues to play any significant role as a dividing line (Raymond and Barros, Reference Raymond and Barros2014; Valenzuela et al., Reference Valenzuela, Scully and Somma2007).

We employ the concept of cleavage in a deliberately broad sense, as a dividing line between opposing camps that may emerge contingently within a given process. Our argument is that the secular–religious cleavage—a broader version of the classic State–Church divide—proved secondary to a far more politically salient one: oppressed vs. oppressor, which loosely overlaps with the people vs. elite divide outlined in Section I. This latter divide can be interpreted as a modern adaptation of the classic Capital vs. Labor cleavage, reframed to avoid the “class essentialism” critiqued by contemporary left-populist thinkers (Laclau and Mouffe, Reference Laclau and Mouffe1985). The mass protests that erupted in Chile in 2019—the estallido social—were widely portrayed as a “populist moment” in Ernesto Laclau’s (Reference Laclau2005) sense: a convergence of unmet social demands and marginalized groups that came to recognize themselves as a unified people, linked through a chain of equivalences and positioned against political and economic elites (Bellolio, Reference Bellolio2022; Ostiguy, Reference Ostiguy2022; Selamé, Reference Selamé2022). Insofar as the Constitutional Convention was the institutional heir of the plebeian and rebellious ethos of the estallido social, it reproduced this logic of vindicating the oppressed people against the oppressive elites.

In fact, CC members broadly understood their mission as vindicating historically oppressed groups in Chilean society. As the left-wing delegate and jurist Fernando Atria (Reference Atria2023) put it, their goal was to create “the constitution of the excluded”—the first truly “plebeian” charter. Among the most excluded were Indigenous peoples, particularly the Mapuche. They were primary victims of Spanish colonialism in the 17th and 18th centuries and later suffered systematic violence under the modern Chilean State in the 19th and 20th centuries. Their history includes military extermination campaigns (officially termed “pacification”), land dispossession for extractive industries, forced assimilation into the Chilean nation, and persistent racism within a mestizo society. Under both left- and right-wing governments, their economic marginalization and cultural discrimination have remained largely unchanged. The CC thus took on “a decolonial character” (Suárez, Reference Suárez2024), aiming to remedy structural injustices through substantive recognition and symbolic gestures. Chief among the latter was the election of Elisa Loncón, a Mapuche woman and scholar, as the Convention’s first president—a move seen as a challenge to colonialism, patriarchy, and neoliberalism (Rivera-Soto, Reference Rivera-Soto2024).

But for the constitution to be “genuinely of the excluded,” delegate Atria added, “it was essential to exclude those who are always included” (Reference Atria2023). In other words, it was necessary to exclude those historically positioned as oppressors. Among the most entrenched powers in both colonial and postcolonial Chile, institutional religion—particularly the Catholic Church—was singled out. The Church evangelized through coercion under Spanish rule and later aligned with the modern Chilean State in its campaigns of territorial occupation and eradication of Indigenous traditions. Although the Church also promoted some progressive policies in the 20th century inspired by Catholic Social Doctrine, by the years preceding the 2019 protests it was increasingly viewed as a regressive force blocking cultural progress. Unlike its pivotal role defending victims during Pinochet’s dictatorship, its recent history—marked by sexual abuse scandals and coverups—had badly eroded its political influence, helping explain why, unlike in the Philippines during the 2020 “Junk Terror Law” protests, Chile’s clergy played no significant role in the 2019 protests (Rivera, Reference Rivera2022). Protesters notably attacked, burned, looted, and desecrated churches and religious symbols—not out of “Christophobia,” as Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro claimed on Twitter, but as a repudiation of abuse and symbolic rejection of entrenched power (Gatica, Reference Gatica2020).

Accordingly, we argue that the inclusion of ethno-religions represented by Indigenous worldviews and the exclusion of mainstream institutional religion—primarily the Catholic Church—flowed directly from the first-order cleavage: oppressed vs. oppressors. Within this divide, Indigenous worldviews aligned with the oppressed, while institutional religion was grouped with the oppressors. This framing helps resolve the secular paradox: had the dominant cleavage been secular vs. religious, ethno-religious views should also have been sidelined. But here, the secular/religious divide was secondary to the oppressor/oppressed axis. Given Indigenous peoples’ long history of exclusion from social, economic, cultural, and political life, the substantive ethno-religious character of their beliefs was overlooked. They were seen primarily as historically wronged communities deserving recognition and reparation—not as religious actors.

This claim is further illustrated by the following episode: one month after its inauguration, the CC held celebratory events and rites. As one delegate described, Christian masses were replaced by ceremonies honoring Mother Earth (Pachamama), amidst the scent of Andean herbs—“historically subjugated views now emerging… [in] aesthetics alien to hegemonic taste” (Fernández, Reference Fernández2021). The CC building was adorned with a colorful display reflecting Chile’s cultural and territorial diversity: the Mapuche flag, the Wiphala, the Rainbow flag, and regional flags from Easter Island (Rapa Nui) to the Antarctic land of Magallanes. No flag bearing a cross or Christian symbol was included. When Evangelical leaders protested, CC President Elisa Loncón replied that Chile was a secular State and that Christianity had historically “colonized the Mapuche world” (Sánchez, Reference Sánchez2021). Her response is telling: she saw no contradiction between secularism and the promotion of ancestral worldviews, while justifiably excluding Christian symbols based on their oppressive legacy. Later, Loncón met Evangelical leaders to ease tensions. As Evangelicals are often portrayed as marginalized within Latin American Christianity, Loncón acknowledged that, particularly in their progressive factions, they too belonged to the oppressed camp (Castillo et al., Reference Castillo, Contreras and Henzi2023). In fact, many Mapuche are Evangelical (Castillo and Medel, Reference Castillo and Medel2024). Their late-stage inclusion reflected their underdog status rather than their religious character. This episode underscores how the oppressed vs. oppressors cleavage overrode the secular vs. religious divide: religion existed on both sides of the main cleavage, rendering the secular/religious distinction politically secondary.

Final thoughts

This paper examined a specific aspect of the failed Chilean constitutional process: its treatment of religion. We identified an apparent paradox at the heart of the draft constitution. While the drafters sought to secularize the Chilean State and its principal institutions—reducing the influence of mainstream religions, particularly Catholicism—they simultaneously endorsed ancestral worldviews that share many hallmarks of religion. To explain this paradox, we argued that the secular/religious divide was secondary to a more politically salient axis: oppressor vs. oppressed. Had the dominant cleavage been between secularism and religion, consistency would have required the exclusion of ethno-religious worldviews as well. However, because Indigenous peoples have faced long-standing exclusion from Chile’s social, economic, cultural, and political life, the substantive, ethno-religious nature of their beliefs was largely overlooked. These communities were primarily seen as historically wronged groups meriting recognition and redress. By contrast, the exclusion of mainstream institutional religion—above all the Catholic Church—stemmed less from theological concerns and more from its enduring association with colonial oppression.

From this, we draw three modest analytical conclusions. First, although the draft constitution—Chile’s first to propose declaring the country a secular State—was ultimately rejected, it is implausible to blame its failure on the secularizing agenda. Empirical studies tracing voters’ reasons for rejection do not cite the laico declaration. While some resistance to sexual rights and abortion provisions was noted, especially in conservative quarters, research shows the most decisive factors were “plurinationality” and “Indigenous people’s rights” (Bargsted and González, Reference Bargsted and González2022). Chileans across social classes perceived the draft as an “Indigenous constitution” that appeared to grant privileges to a minority and weaken national identity (Pairican, Reference Pairican2022). Thus, the rejection of the “world’s most progressive” constitution should not be seen as a backlash against the cultural and political secularization processes described in Section II. This supports our argument that the secular vs. religious divide was not the decisive battleground; other cleavages shaped the outcome.

A second, related point arises. We argued that religious elements existed on both sides of the first-order cleavage: both oppressors—mainstream institutional religions like the Catholic Church—and oppressed—ancestral worldviews and Indigenous philosophies—embodied substantive conceptions of the good life. In this sense, the drafters did not fully realize a secular project, not merely because they failed to exclude religion from public life, but because they did not embrace a procedural-neutralist vision of the State that avoids endorsing any substantive doctrine of the good (Chernilo, Reference Chernilo2023). This is not to suggest constitutions must be value-neutral—a debate beyond this paper’s scope—but it offers a reframing: insofar as Indigenous worldviews were valorized, the draft might be seen as failing because it was not secular enough.

Finally, combining the religious shifts described in Section II with the secular/religious axis’s relative insignificance in both the process and its outcome, we might speculate that Chile is evolving not only toward Taylor’s type-one and type-two secularity but also toward his preferred type-three secularity: a society where different spiritual ways of life coexist, and belief in God or institutional affiliation is no longer the default but “understood to be one option among others” (Reference Taylor2007, 3). Religious belonging becomes de-dramatized, thus lowering its conflict potential.

Beyond its focus on Chile’s constitutional process, this paper offers two broader contributions to the study of politics and religion. First, it engages with the growing literature on constitution-making failures—an emerging field concerned with cases where States fail either to adopt a new constitutional charter or to implement it effectively (Issacharoff and Verdugo, Reference Issacharoff and Verdugo2023). Chile’s recent experience has sparked intense scholarly debate (Chilton et al., Reference Chilton, Eyzaguirre and Versteeg2024; Landau and Dixon, Reference Landau and Dixon2024; Verdugo and García-Huidobro, Reference Verdugo and García-Huidobro2024), contributing to a wider analysis of stalled or collapsed processes worldwide—from Iceland’s unratified crowdsourced constitution to interrupted efforts across South Asia, Southeast Asia, and parts of the Arab world. While this article does not aim to fully explain Chile’s failure or propose a general theory of constitutional breakdowns, it offers an original perspective by highlighting the overlooked role of the secular vs. religious cleavage in shaping the process. Second, it adds to the ongoing conceptual debate about the meaning of the secular and the religious in non-European contexts—and whether secularism can “travel,” as Taylor (Reference Taylor and Bilgrami2016) asks—by framing Indigenous worldviews in Latin America—especially Buen Vivir—as substantive conceptions of the good comparable to mainstream religious doctrines inherited from colonialism.