Brian Feeney is right to ridicule Britain's unelected bishops. But before Ireland lectures Westminster on democratic reform, it might first confront the privileged graduate franchise still embedded in Seanad Éireann.

By T.S. Flynn

In a recent Irish News column, Brian Feeney turned his attention to one of Britain's more curious constitutional arrangements. Writing in the wake of legislation removing the last statutory restrictions associated with a Catholic Prime Minister's role in the appointment of Church of England bishops, Feeney argued that Westminster had addressed only the narrowest aspect of a much larger democratic problem. While the constitutional prohibition had finally been swept aside, the more significant anomaly remained untouched. Twenty-six bishops of the Church of England continue to sit in the House of Lords as of right, exercising legislative authority not because they have been elected by the public, nor because Parliament has selected them through any modern democratic process, but because they occupy particular positions within an established church.

It is an argument with considerable force behind it. The Lords Spiritual are one of those constitutional curiosities that seem entirely normal only to those who have spent a lifetime living alongside them. Twenty-six bishops exercising legislative authority by virtue of ecclesiastical office sits awkwardly with contemporary democratic principles. Britain continues to see itself as the mother of parliaments and a model democratic state, yet in this respect it preserves an arrangement that would strike most modern democracies as distinctly unusual. Feeney is therefore entirely justified in asking why churchmen should continue to enjoy a privileged role in the legislature merely because of the vestments they wear and the offices they hold.

The difficulty, however, is that Irish commentators often display a remarkable talent for identifying constitutional deficiencies across the Irish Sea while overlooking those embedded within their own institutions. We readily point to the bishop in Westminster but are considerably less inclined to discuss the graduate in Dublin. We eagerly highlight the democratic shortcomings of the House of Lords while remaining strangely reluctant to examine the anomalies preserved in Seanad Éireann. In many respects, it is a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Before Ireland lectures Britain on democratic modernity, it may be worth considering whether our own legislature is quite as enlightened as we like to imagine.

The Irish Senate contains one of the last surviving examples of what might be called educational privilege in parliamentary representation. Under Article 18 of the Constitution, six members of Seanad Éireann are elected through university constituencies rather than through the ordinary democratic franchise. For most of the State's history, these seats were elected exclusively by graduates of Trinity College Dublin and the National University of Ireland. Possession of a recognised degree from the right institution conferred an additional political voice unavailable to one's neighbours. Whatever merits may once have been claimed for such an arrangement, it rested upon a proposition that sits uneasily with any modern understanding of democratic equality: namely, that educational attainment justifies a special role in the election of legislators.

Supporters of the system have often argued that university constituencies bring expertise and independent thinking into public life. Such arguments are not without merit. Universities have long played an important role in intellectual and civic life, and Ireland has benefited from distinguished senators elected through these constituencies. Yet this is not really an argument for a separate franchise. One can believe that universities contribute greatly to public life while simultaneously questioning whether graduates should enjoy a political privilege denied to other citizens. After all, society also depends upon farmers, nurses, tradespeople, small business owners and countless others whose knowledge and experience are no less valuable to the national conversation. Few would seriously suggest creating separate parliamentary constituencies for each of them.

To be fair, the old arrangement has recently been reformed. The Seanad Electoral (University Members) and Seanad Electoral (Panel Members) (Amendment) Act 2024 abolished the historic Trinity-NUI duopoly and established a new Higher Education constituency encompassing graduates of a broader range of designated institutions. The reform was long overdue, not least because voters had approved constitutional change in this direction as far back as 1979. For decades successive governments managed to ignore the issue, preserving a system that privileged graduates of a small number of institutions while leaving the wider promise of reform gathering dust. The 2024 legislation finally widened access to the franchise and removed one of the more obvious inequities within the university representation system.

Yet broadened is not abolished.

The legislation expanded the category of people entitled to this special privilege, but it left the underlying principle entirely intact. Educational attainment continues to confer access to a distinct parliamentary franchise unavailable to citizens who lack the requisite qualification. The circle of privilege has undoubtedly grown larger, but the existence of the circle itself remains unquestioned. The reform therefore altered the boundaries of the anomaly without addressing the anomaly itself.

Indeed, the new arrangements have merely exposed another inconsistency. Graduates of designated institutions within the State may participate in the Higher Education constituency. Graduates of Queen's University Belfast and Ulster University may not. This is a curious outcome in a political culture that routinely invokes all-island cooperation, all-island institutions and all-island perspectives. Politicians regularly speak of shared economic planning, shared healthcare initiatives and shared educational opportunities across the island. Yet when it comes to participation in the university franchise, two of the most significant universities in Ireland find themselves excluded.

This raises a straightforward question. If university representation is justified because graduates possess some special claim to legislative representation, why should that principle stop at the Border? Why does a graduate of Maynooth University qualify while a graduate of Queen's University Belfast does not? If educational attainment is the basis upon which society is expected to confer an additional parliamentary voice, what principle determines which institutions count and which do not? The answer appears to have more to do with constitutional convenience than democratic logic.

More fundamentally, however, the existence of the graduate franchise itself remains difficult to defend. Defenders of the Seanad often note that university senators must still submit themselves to election, whereas bishops enter the House of Lords automatically. That distinction is perfectly real and should not be dismissed. The mechanisms are different. The degree of democratic legitimacy is different. The historical origins are different.

The underlying principle, however, is remarkably similar.

In Britain, a religious elite enjoys a privileged role within the legislative process. In Ireland, an educational elite enjoys a privileged role within the legislative process. One system reserves influence on the basis of ecclesiastical office. The other distributes influence on the basis of academic credentials. In both cases, certain citizens are granted a distinctive role in the process of selecting legislators that is unavailable to everyone else.

That reality sits uneasily alongside the principle of equal citizenship.

The electrician receives no dedicated Seanad franchise. The farmer does not. The nurse does not. The tradesperson does not. The small business owner does not. The countless citizens whose daily work keeps society functioning enjoy no special mechanism through which they may elect legislators. Yet graduates of designated institutions retain precisely such a privilege. For a republic founded upon notions of democratic equality, this remains an extraordinary constitutional holdover.

What makes the contradiction particularly striking is the selective outrage that often surrounds it. Many of the same commentators who rightly condemn the privileges enjoyed by Anglican bishops in Westminster become noticeably more defensive when similar questions are asked about university representation in Ireland. Ecclesiastical privilege is presented as an indefensible relic. Educational privilege is frequently portrayed as enlightened and progressive. Yet both systems ultimately rest upon the proposition that some citizens should enjoy a greater role in selecting legislators than others. The justifications differ. The underlying principle does not.

None of this is to suggest that Brian Feeney is wrong about the House of Lords. On the contrary, the Lords Spiritual are relics of a different age, and Britain would be a more democratic society if legislative authority rested entirely upon democratic legitimacy rather than ecclesiastical office. Feeney's criticism is well founded. The problem is not that he has identified an anomaly. The problem is that many Irish observers seem unwilling to apply the same standards to their own institutions.

Before Ireland lectures Britain on democratic modernity, perhaps it should spend a little more time examining the constitutional leftovers preserved within Seanad Éireann. The university franchise may wear academic robes rather than episcopal vestments. It may speak the language of education rather than religion. It may be defended in the language of expertise rather than faith. But it ultimately rests on the same proposition: that some citizens should enjoy a special role in selecting legislators which others do not.

The costumes are different.

The principle is the same.

Before we mock the bishops in Westminster, we ought to clean our own kitchen.

Otherwise, it is just one blackened pot shouting at a very familiar kettle.

About the Author

Tim Flynn (writing as T.S. Flynn) is an Irish-Australian writer based in Brisbane. His work explores Irish history, politics, music, memory and identity, with a particular interest in the Irish diaspora and the cultural intersections between Ireland and Britain. Combining historical scholarship with cultural commentary, he writes about the stories nations tell themselves, and how myths, traditions and collective memory continue to shape politics, culture and identity in the present day.

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