In 1938, a young girl pregnant with her first child arrived at Indianapolisís
Suemma Coleman Home for unmarried mothers.† When the women running Suemma Coleman
learned that the girl was Catholic, they quickly contacted St. Elizabethís Home,
the cityís Catholic Home for unwed mothers.† Although the Suemma Coleman Home
was not an official Protestant institution, the cityís social workers had long
accepted the practice that Coleman Home would serve the cityís Protestant girls,
St. Elizabethís its Catholic girls, and the Jewish Family Service Society its
Jewish girls.† Care for unwed mothers in particular strictly followed religious
lines.† This religious division of labor was found not only in Indianapolisís
private maternity homes in the 1930s.† Many of the cityís public welfare agencies,
including the Juvenile Court and the Marion County Department of Public Welfare,
cooperated with faith-based institutions in providing assistance, care, and
guidance for needy children.
In the early decades of the 20th century the connections between religion
and the cityís larger social welfare matrix were complex, involving at one end
of the spectrum social services defined by religious boundaries and on the other
end cooperative public-private endeavors.† Religion fit squarely within Indianapolisís
larger social welfare matrix.† Although the decades following the 1930s saw
many of these religious boundaries disappear, and not a small number of these
cooperative ventures end, faith-based organizations nevertheless continued to
thrive, often in cooperation with public bodies.† This history calls into question
the once widely held belief that the voluntary sector must necessarily contract
in size as the welfare state expands.
To assess accurately the voluntary sectorís contribution
to social welfare, we must focus on the faith-based organizations
that dominated the voluntary sector.† Historians of social welfare have paid
little attention to the story of religionís role in social service provision
since the 1930s.† They usually describe religionís role in social services in
terms of a decline, from dominating social welfare at the beginning
of the 20th century to becoming only one part of a much larger matrix at the
end of the century.
To understand religionís impact on social welfare since the 1930s, we must
be wary of the theme of decline because it encourages us to pay more attention
to what religion used to do rather than to what it is doing.† Declension
as a starting point limits the questions we ask and the answers we receive.†
As policy studies scholar Lester Salamon has noted, much of the current social
welfare literature implies that ďthe nonpublic sector had ceased to exist sometime
during the New Deal era of the 1930s, when federal involvement in social welfare
began to grow.Ē But this
was not and is not an accurate picture.
Throughout its past, Indianapolisís
public and private organizations have worked together, referring cases
to one another and engaging in cooperative endeavors.† Seeking the most effective
way to offer services, public agencies instituted policies and programs
that helped reinforce the voluntary sector.† Government often turned to faith-based
neighborhood organizations to house and co-sponsor their programs.† Eager to
serve the needs of the cityís poor, faith-based organizations embraced
these public-private ventures.
Indianapolis provides a good place to examine the
changes in faith-based social welfare since the 1930s.† Like most of the nationís
cities, Indianapolis confronted the Great Depression by calling on
a mix of local governmental and private social welfare organizations.† At the
center of this mix were the cityís civic leaders who initially believed that
private social welfare organizations could deal with the rising tide of hardship
and deprivation.† In 1931, private relief expenditures outpaced public
spending by approximately 25 percent.† Only four years later, however, federal, state, and
local government spent twenty times more money on relief than did private agencies.†
As was true elsewhere, Indianapolis saw its social welfare network
transformed by the public spending programs of the New Deal.
The growth in public expenditures notwithstanding, public
agencies did not completely displace voluntary social welfare activity.† In
the years following the New Deal, the number of faith-based organizations
involved in social welfare actually grew in Indianapolis.† For example, between
1929 and 1946, the number of faith-based social service organizations
that were members of the Community Fund rose from 15 to 22. All but one of the
original fifteen operated continuously in this period. These numbers alone suggest
that the welfare state created by Rooseveltís New Deal did not eliminate faith-based
social welfare, even as it enlarged the federal governmentís share
of the burden.†
Throughout the 1930s and continuing at least
into the 1960s, religion was one of the key forces helping shape social services
in the city.† Most of the cityís private and public social service organizations
accepted the notion that Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish organizations should
be able to claim responsibility for ďtheir own,Ē and that the system must respect
and help reinforce these religious boundaries.† Into the 1960s social workers
in public and private agencies recognized religious affiliation as a key consideration
when deciding where to refer clients, both children and adults.†
Catholic Charities claimed jurisdiction over all kinds of childrenís welfare
services.† Committed to the belief that the religious heritage of the cityís
Catholic children ďmust be guarded,Ē Catholic Charities worked out arrangements
with many of the cityís other private and public agencies to refer dependent
Catholic children to it. †The leaders of Catholic Charities were confident that
they could provide ďa suitable atmosphere for the religious welfare of these
childrenĒ and that ďthe private agency and an enlightened laity are most essential
as cooperating bodies to the public agency.Ē  †
Through the 1950s, the
Juvenile Court respected this claim to childrenís welfare services, assigning
custody of almost all the cityís dependent Catholic children to Catholic Charities.†
For the most part, the Marion County Department of Public Welfare
(MCDPW) also accepted this relationship.† MCDPW also provided Catholic Charities
with financial support for its institutional and foster home care programs.†
By accepting religious boundaries, the emerging public welfare agencies
in fact reinforced the boundaries claimed by the cityís faith traditions.
Such endeavors were not limited
to Catholics, and they did not always or even usually involve the
exchange of funds.† During the middle decades of the 20th century, the
Juvenile Aid Division of the Police Department cooperated on a regular basis
with the Church Federation in dealing with troubled youth.† In a seven-month
period during 1948, the Police Department referred 876 children to
the Church Federation, which in turn referred the children to 217
different churches located throughout the city. The Church Federation celebrated
this programís success in fostering ďa closer relationship between probation
officers and ministers.Ē† Significantly, this alliance bolstered the
organizationís vision of itself as the cityís moral center for both religious
and civic life.† By encouraging the cityís churches to provide guidance to the
cityís wayward children, the Church Federation believed it was successfully
ďbringing home to churchmen the needs of the city and channeling into the community
the important services which churches can offer. ď
Public health was another
realm in which public-private endeavors abounded. Since the late 19th century, privately
sponsored public health programs, including the Public Health Nurses
Association, had reached the cityís poorest by working through neighborhood-based
institutions.† When the Department of Public Health sought to increase its role, it
too established clinics in neighborhood-based centers, often in partnership
with private neighborhood centers that had long-established reputations. Methodist-affiliated
Fletcher Place Community Center was one such institution.† Since before the
turn of the century, it had provided extensive social, recreational, and
welfare services to its largely poor constituents. †Beginning in the 1930s and
continuing intermittently through the 1960s, Fletcher Place maintained
this tradition by co-sponsoring well-baby, prenatal, and
dental clinics with the Department of Public Health.
These stories highlight the
spaces in which private faith-based and public agencies overlapped.† Obviously, there
are other examples where faith-based organizations or public social welfare
agencies worked alone.† But what is significant is that so many of the cityís
public agencies established working relationships with faith-based organizations, suggesting
both that they respected religious affiliations and that they recognized such
cooperative endeavors as a way to achieve their own goals.† As public agencies
sought to extend their reach, they often did so by acknowledging the
cityís religious landscape.
With Protestant, Catholic, and
Jewish organizations often claiming responsibility for ďtheir own,Ē it is clear
that religious boundaries helped define the cityís social welfare matrix.††
However these boundaries did not lead to isolation, for faith-based
organizations actively participated in the cityís larger social welfare community, often
initiating cooperative ventures with the cityís public agencies.†† That the
cityís public agencies were eager to embark on these partnerships suggests that
these religious boundaries were widely accepted.†
The experience of Indianapolis challenges many assumptions
historians hold about the development of social welfare. †††Political scientist
Theda Skocpol contends that scholars too often describe the relationship between
the voluntary sector and government as a sum-zero game, with the one expanding
only at the expense of the other.† Lester Salamon argues that the voluntary
sector is poorly understood because ďpolitical ideologiesĒ have led observers
to overlook this sector or downplay its role.† Liberals, he says, fear undermining
the role of the state in welfare provision.† Conservatives fear that †an expansionist
government will squelch private efforts to help the poor.
† As we seek a better understanding of privately sponsored social welfare,
we must look closely at faith-based institutions, in particular because their
role has been largely ignored.
 Lester Salamon, ďThe Civil Society Sector,Ē Society,
34:2 (January-February 1997): 60.
On May 19, Research Notes hosted
a roundtable discussion held at the Indianapolis Center for Congregations.
Participants had been provided beforehand with the text of this issue of RN,
and were invited to respond to the issues raised in the paper. Olgen Williams
is executive director of Christamore House, a community center of Indianapolis.
Tom Gabrick is director, Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Indianapolis.
Jan Shipps is professor emeritus of history and religious studies at IUPUI.
Mary Mapes, a historian at The Polis Center, wrote the paper under discussion.
Kevin Armstrong is senior public teacher at The Polis Center. The following
is an edited version of their discussion, which was moderated by Armstrong.
ARMSTRONG: The collaboration among faith-based institutions, social
service agencies and government is enjoying national attention these days.
Charitable Choice is a topic of wide interest. And we can point to religious
and social service collaborations here in this city such as the Front Porch
Alliance, and Faith and Families. These new partnerships are exciting
to some, troubling to others, but what may be significant
is Maryís assertion that these new partnerships arenít really that new. We
have with us today two historians and also two practitioners deeply involved
in the work of social service and social ministry. Olgen, how did
Christamore House start and what was its mission?
WILLIAMS: Christamore House was started in 1905 on the eastside of
Indianapolis as a residential Christian mission to help the immigrant population
and blue collar workers. Over the years it got away from its Christian mission
and became a social mission. In the 1920s Christamore House moved to the westside
where there were sixteen different European ethnic groups who had come to
work in the ironworks and factories there. Whatís interesting is that some
of the supporters of Christamore House didnít want to serve the African-American
community, so the move from the eastside was also motivated by the
desire to get away from blacks.
ARMSTRONG: Tom, give us a brief synopsis of Catholic Charities
and its mission.
GABRICK: As an organization, it began around 1919, although
components of Catholic Charities were formed prior to that. In this diocese
today we consist of eight social service agencies serving 39 counties. Three
of the eight social service agencies are located within the city of Indianapolis:
St. Elizabethís Home, Catholic Social Services and St. Maryís Child
Center. Weíre quite de-centralized Ė each of the eight agencies has certain
responsibilities and authorities that they carry out under the general oversight
of Catholic Charities.
ARMSTRONG: Mary and Jan, why historically did public organizations
turn to faith-based groups to house and co-sponsor some of their programs?
MAPES: One of the key reasons is that respecting the religious heritage
of children was a principle accepted by both the faith-based community and
the public agencies. With many of the services directed towards children, it
helped solidify not only the importance of the faith-based organizations, but
the importance of religion as a principle by which the social service matrix
would operate. So I think itís both the organizational vitality of the faith-based
groups and a general acceptance of religion as an organizing principle of
SHIPPS: For so long, the notion of who you were, your
identity as a person, was tied to your religious identity. I find
the Christamore House story interesting from this standpoint. It starts on
the eastside as a Protestant institution, and then moves to the
westside to serve immigrants whose main identity was not only European but
Catholic. At that point, race trumped religion Ė or vice versa.
Christamore House moved away from race, to serving Catholics, whereas
had they stayed on the eastside they would have been serving black Protestants.
Itís a fascinating insight into the attitudes of people in Indianapolis.
MAPES: In the work I did on city missions in Chicago I found the same
issue being raised. When a primarily Catholic immigrant population turns into
a primarily black population it poses a problem to these organizations that
often see themselves in evangelical terms. The racism feeds into that. Itís
easy to say, we donít want to serve this black population because
weíre evangelical, theyíre already Protestant, so whatís
ARMSTRONG: So, it would seem then as the cityís population has changed,
we no longer see ourselves primarily as Catholics or Protestants or evangelicals
Ė or at least a shrinking percentage of the population sees itself that way.
What should follow then is a decrease in the relationship between social
service and religious institutions, is that true?
SHIPPS: But something else was happening. When my husband was teaching
at Wayne State in the Ď50s, we worked in an Episcopal home for teenage
girls. Nine-tenths of the girls in that home were juvenile court placements, so
the government was in fact making deals with faith-based institutions long
before the current notion of using the church to do counseling or social services.
And most of these placements were Protestant. The juvenile court in Detroit
placed Catholic kids in a similar home for Catholic teenagers.
GABRICK: I was most taken in the essay in reading of the St. Elizabethís
Home and how they took care of the Catholic kids and the Catholic mothers.
The Catholic population then was mostly poor immigrants. Over a few generations
many became upwardly mobile, but there was a time when the church felt, "We
have to take care of our own. Only we can take care of our own and do it very
well." The relevancy of that today has lessened considerably. Today we
embrace the population as a whole regardless of religious tradition. Whatís
being taught in the church is that we have a responsibility for all people.
Maybe thatís true in other denominations as well.
ARMSTRONG: What do you see, Olgen? Are congregations connecting
with Christamore House in a way that says, "The world is my
WILLIAMS: I see a coming together. When I was younger I thought that
only the Catholic church did anything for the poor. Thatís all I ever saw
in movies and on TV. The Catholics say, "we take care of our
own." Youíve got hundreds of Protestant denominations, Baptists, Methodists, Pentecostal, so
who are their own? But now I see people are realizing that they all belong
to us. Weíre not fighting for membership any more; weíre fighting for the
social and spiritual change that people need.
SHIPPS: If you had a child who came from an Islamic home, you
wouldnít turn him away?
WILLIAMS: No, we donít turn anybody away, but
itís hard for Muslims to work with us, and for us to work with them.
Christamore being a social agency, if the Islamic Temple wants to
send me a check, Iím going accept it. The Nation of Islam minister, Damon
Muhammed, is sending some of his people to do some training for
me and help me set up an emergency shelter. So Christamore has those partnerships.
But my church probably wouldnít have come up with that partnership, because
there would be some conflict there.
ARMSTRONG: What kind of pressures does this put on the religious community
when internally there is a growth in the understanding that weíre here to
serve more than just the people in our house, and the public understanding
is that these congregations are supposed to serve others in the community?
There seems to be this growing sense that the world is our parish and not
just those in our home constituency.
WILLIAMS: I get calls quite often from churches who want to help in
some way Ė suburban churches, not just churches right under my roof.
I think a lot of the pressure for congregations to do that comes from the
non-believer, especially young people. Theyíre telling the believer, "What
are you doing? You proclaim this message, but youíre not feeding
the poor, I donít see you out here with me." And the congregations
are saying, "You know, we better do more for the
MAPES: You raise an important point there. It is oftentimes through
social services or social welfare that an internally-focused congregational
community reaches into the larger community. And that larger community has
certain expectations of what that relationship should be like Ė expectations
which are based on the assumption of what it means to be a religious person.
SHIPPS: I want to change the direction a little bit. For a long time
the way in which the various religious organizations served everybody was
that they established hospitals and denomination-connected health clinics.
Now what does it do to perceptions when hospitals are called Methodist Hospital
or St. Vincentís Hospital but the name has become all thatís left of the connection.
Does it undercut perceptions of religion doing something different?
GABRICK: With the two Catholic hospitals in Indianapolis, St.
Vincentís and St. Francis, it has created a considerable tension
because in essence both are still controlled by religious orders of nuns.
They require adherence to the general teachings of the church, while
these hospitals operate in an environment where there are tremendous pressures
to offer a full array of services and to compete in the marketplace. Both
are really making the effort to honor their religious heritage and theyíre
struggling to find a way to reconcile these tensions.
ARMSTRONG: I visit more Methodists at St. Vincentís than I do at Methodist, and
my Catholic priest friend visits more Catholics at Methodist than he does
at St. Vincentís. It clearly makes no difference to our parishioners any longer
that one institution is historically Methodist and the other institution is
historically Catholic. And if that is true, how will the institutions
respond if they are no longer drawing upon or being directed by a particular
GABRICK: We talked about how for denominations the mission has been
broadened from taking care of oneís own to a general responsibility for the
well-being of all people. Could not a similar dynamic be taking place within
the healthcare system, where theyíre fulfilling their larger mission
to deliver quality healthcare to persons who need it. Missions have evolved.
Maybe market forces enter into that, but there has been an evolution.
SHIPPS: Do we have anything called an orphanage anymore in Indianapolis?
GABRICK: Not by that title...foster care.
SHIPPS: No, you call it Childrenís Home, Childrenís
Center, foster care, that sort of thing. But in the first
half of the century, we had orphanages, we had settlement
houses, we had hospitals. What else in the area of social services
was there that could be called faith-based?
MAPES: Plenty of the community centers stemmed out of churches, Fletcher
Place Community Center being a prime example.
SHIPPS: And homes for unwed mothers, have they virtually
GABRICK: Theyíre there, but again itís called by another
MAPES: Part of this is somewhat inevitable because the population
they were supposed to serve changed, and their objectives had to
alter as the problems and perceptions in society changed. Foster care grows
into a bigger program because of the assumption that orphanages arenít good
for children. Then an institution like Catholic Charities will redefine its
goals and its mission to serve in a new way, and at times that can
alter other aspects of the institution as well.
WILLIAMS: Lots of those changes came because of money. The government
would fund certain things so people changed their missions to chase dollars.
Orphanages are not profitable; foster care is profitable.
MAPES: In some ways the federal dollars can be a positive thing. You
see that with Catholic Charities expanding its scope in the late Ď60s and
Ď70s to the black population, in part as a result of federal dollars
for new programs. You can see the mission being redefined to incorporate a
larger population and thatís not strictly a result of federal dollars but
of these organizations redefining their mission to reflect a larger cultural
focus. I think the war on poverty is one of the critical things that pushed
faith-based organizations to redefine what the community meant.
WILLIAMS: I think the war on poverty pushed religious institutions
out of the social arena because politicians made those laws saying
you canít mix church and state. Then they realize itís not working and they
begin saying, "The church has got to help us. Letís go back
to where we used to be."
SHIPPS: The way history can be helpful is in saying to people in the
public arena, "This is not new, folks. This has been
around for a very long time and the effort to have the rigid separation of
church and state was a historical accident. It was essentially a part of the
Ď60s and the Ď70s. But by the middle of the Ď80s youíre laying the groundwork
for the re-integration of religion into the larger culture. It seems to me
that this is becoming more and more acceptable as people realize that we need
connection to something larger than ourselves.
GABRICK: There is an awakening to the fact that with so many needs
out there that government alone canít be the solution, the church
alone canít be the solution, and that if we really want to address
those needs we have to work in partnership. Mary said that the growth in government
support for social services in the Ď60s allowed private agencies to enter
program areas that they werenít able to go into before. But an interesting
side note is that it caused some tensions when people began to ask, "So
whatís Catholic about the Catholic church? Weíre just an extension of government."
And so you shift from looking at things from one perspective and fighting
one set of battles to having to redefine yourself another way to satisfy an
important part of your constituency.
WILLIAMS: I think as we trained professionals in social work, we
didnít allow the faith message or any spirituality to come into their training.
And so these social workers in the field had no clue that churches and government
had worked together for years, and when it came up they would say, "Oh, you
canít do that."
MAPES: In the very early years of the professionalization of social
work, in the teens and Ď20s when schools of social work first developed, many
of the students were precisely people working in faith-based organizations, who
saw this as an opportunity to acquire new skills. As social work started to
gain a greater sense of being a profession, it saw divorcing itself
from religion as a critical aspect of defining itself. So itís not as though
there were two different movements evolving at once; they were intermingled
and then had to be separated out, and it was a very big struggle.
There were people who had both as part of who they were, who were
going to the professional social work schools and wanting that training, but
seeing it as compatible with their faith perspective. Then the profession
itself changed and left little space for them.
SHIPPS: There was a perception that to be a professional you had to
draw on a body of professional information. A whole body of professional information
developed out of sociology and psychology and divorced itself from theological
training in very interesting ways. Mary Richmond was essentially the founder
of social work, and she carried a very strong religious faith into
it, but came to realize that it undercut what people perceived as
ARMSTRONG: Does this explain why public institutions open their doors
much wider to religious organizations to come in and partner, whereas
religious organizations tend to be reluctant to open up to public and government
SHIPPS: There is a perception that to open the doors of the church
to social workers is to bring in the person who keeps religion at a distance.
GABRICK: A person who is operating from humanistic values as opposed
to religious valuesÖ
ARMSTRONG: Is that only a concern of religious individuals rather
than religious organizations?
MAPES: I think the history of this is a little more varied. You see
pastoral counseling develop and religious groups grab onto these seemingly
"secular" developments in psychology and bring them within the church.
So I think itís moving back and forth all the time.
SHIPPS: In the Ď50s, Ď60s and Ď70s, people were
peeling off, especially from the Protestant ministry, and
going into counseling. People who used to be ministers are now marriage counselors
or getting a degree in social work.
WILLIAMS: When churches saw this happening, saw people become
pure professional social workers and divorce themselves from any God-called
ministry, religious denominations began to say, "Wait
a minute, this takes away the spirituality of the congregation."
I think now itís going the other way in this city. There are more people like
myself. Iím more of a preacher than I am a social worker. Iím not even a social
worker. Iím a preacher ordained to serve communities. Iím in a social field
now but the ministry leads to social work. But thereís still a lot of resistance
because they feel like itís going to contaminate the congregation if you bring
in a basketball program.
GABRICK: This resistance is experienced more on the congregational
level than it is on the denominational level, is what youíre saying.
SHIPPS: Oh, I think thatís a critical point.
ARMSTRONG: Say some more about that from the perspective of Catholic
GABRICK: Well, it has not been my experience that thereís
a resistance to partnering with government. If anything, the perception
of Catholic Charities is that government is not willing enough to partner.
But if Iím a parishioner in a Catholic parish and I have this soup kitchen, do
I want government involved in my soup kitchen? Thatís where I can see that
there has not been an openness to government involvement. But I think many
congregations are coming to realize that congregations canít do it all alone.
There needs to be some partnership there working together.
MAPES: What you are both pointing to is the diversity of the religious
community itself. Thereís a huge diversity theologically, and among
social objectives, that will inform different positions. Well, my
piece often talked about the faith community as being one, but itís
GABRICK: Itís not one, thatís right.
ARMSTRONG: What do you make of the fact that while more mainline liberals
are jumping on the bandwagon of Charitable Choice, at the same time
others aligned with the so-called Christian right or evangelical movement
are stepping back and saying, "Weíre no longer going to be
involved in that way."
SHIPPS: In the last twenty years, as a neo-evangelical movement
has come into existence, they have begun taking care of their own.
As always when a new religious community comes into existence, it
turns inward before it can turn outward. You look at Willow Creek, it
has the most incredible programs for people who go to Willow Creek, but
itís not social service because itís not open to everybody.
GABRICK: Conservative Catholics will look at Catholic Charities with
disapproval because we have partnered with government. Then there are those
who believe that we are addressing the social teachings of the church by partnering
with others. You know, trying to deal with the variations within
the denomination, and among other denominations, and with
the community as a whole is a pretty challenging and interesting task. You
must continually find different ways to define yourself.
ARMSTRONG: And what about race? A recent study which asked if religious
leaders would be willing to apply for money through Charitable Choice found
that black religious leaders were five times more likely to say yes than their
white counterparts. Whatís the history that drives that?
WILLIAMS: Well, traditionally whites have had more money
than black churches. The smaller congregations look at this as an opportunity
to do a childcare or computer program which in turn will make them money to
build a wing. A lot of this is motivated by the desire for money and they
are missing the point. Youíd be surprised the number of questions I get about
how to write proposals. Not how to save a soul, not how to preach, but
how to write a grant proposal.
SHIPPS: But this is not new. People used to seek money not from the
government but from the wealthy Ė from Carnegie or Pierpont Morgan. But thereís
another factor why black churches might be more comfortable going with the
government and that is the civil rights movement. Black people looked to the
government for protection of their rights and so they see the government not
as dangerous but as helpful.
MAPES: Different assumptions of citizenship feed into different relationships
to the government. I think itís critical in terms of explaining these racial
SHIPPS: There is a perception among academics that Americans have
become more and more self-centered and have moved away from seeing community
as critical to who they are. Iím wondering if the passage of Charitable Choice, and
the willingness of religious organizations to partner with government, might
be a reaction against the super-individualism that was so rampant in the Ď60s
WILLIAMS: Iím a product of the Ď60s. I guess I was an individual.
Iím more involved in the whole of society now than I ever was in my life.
Working together works. Everybody has stopped saying ĎIí. We are working for
SHIPPS: For those of us who think that community is terribly important, this
might be a hopeful sign.
WILLIAMS: Itís very important. America is changing its views on the
subject because our problems have grown faster than our solutions. Iíve heard
more about prayer in school in the last month or two because of the Colorado
incident. People are saying, "We have to do something."
They go back and look for the missing link, and it is the faith-based
MAPES: But I see individualism operating today too, with
welfare devolution, with Charitable Choice. The assumption is that
you donít attack structural inequalities so much as reform the individual.
Individualism is working in a very strong way today with these changes.
ARMSTRONG: Any other critical questions or lessons that you want to
MAPES: I come out of the academic tradition focusing on social welfare
history, where faith-based organizations donít receive much attention.
Practitioners and people whoíve been involved in the field have such a great
knowledge to draw on, and operate from different assumptions than
social welfare historians who focus almost exclusively on the development
of the state. So Iíve found this a very fruitful conversation and Iím pleased
we had it.