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Euthanasia and the Right to Die as a Nonreligious Project? The Belgian Case Entangled with Global Dynamics

Niels De Nutte is affiliated with the history department and the Secular Studies Association Brussels research group at Vrije Universiteit Brussel as a guest professor and postdoctoral researcher. He serves as an associate director to the International Society for Historians on Atheism, Secularism and Humanism and editor to the Secular Studies journal (Brill). Niels’s research interests include post-war organised non-religiousness and unbelief, with specific expertise in church-state relations,  the history of bioethics, and end-of-life in Belgium and abroad.

Much of the public and academic discourse surrounding euthanasia tends to frame the practice as a fundamentally secular concern[i] — a rallying point for humanists, atheists, and liberal-minded progressives. Yet, this framing is not only historically simplistic but also obscures the deeper, more entangled social, moral, and even religious and worldview genealogies that shape the right-to-die movement. This contribution shortly displays some key findings from my PhD project on the entangled history of the right-to-die in Belgium. For my project, which was graciously funded by the Fonds Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek (FWO), several archival collections – which included organisational documents, egodocuments, legal document and newspapers – were analysed.[ii]

Far from being a strictly secularist crusade, euthanasia advocacy in Belgium for instance, emerged from a complex constellation of ideas, anxieties, and institutional actors that defy easy categorisation. This complexity is especially apparent when one moves beyond legislative milestones, such as the 2002 law decriminalising euthanasia,[iii] and examines the decades-long evolution of public attitudes, philosophical undercurrents, and socio-political dynamics.

Beyond the Secular–Religious Binary

It is true that humanist and freethinking organisations — particularly the Humanistisch Verbond (HV – Humanist Association) and the Unie Vrijzinnige Verenigingen (UVV – Union of Secular Associations) — played key roles in Belgium’s euthanasia debate.[iv] These groups were vocal proponents of individual autonomy, often framing their arguments in terms of zelfbeschikkingsrecht (the right to self-determination) and critiquing medical paternalism and what they perceived as “therapeutic tenacity.[v]” However, even within these secular circles, the justification for euthanasia was far from monolithic or exclusively rooted in anti-religious sentiment.

Many of the early discussions on euthanasia in Belgium — dating back to the 1930s — were not advanced by advocacy groups, and predate them significantly, but emerged through journalistic inquiry, literature, and courtroom drama. Letters to the editor in socialist newspapers like Vooruit in 1950, for instance, reveal a surprisingly receptive attitude among the secular (vrijzinnig) populace toward euthanasia as mercy killing, long before it became institutionalised within the humanist sphere or dedicated end-of-life advocacy groups.[vi] These expressions of support did not always originate from irreligious motives; rather, they reflected evolving ideas about suffering, dignity, and the limits of medical intervention.

Moreover, while secular humanist organisations were pivotal in advancing the right-to-die cause, they were responding to — rather than initiating — wider shifts in cultural sensibilities. From the 1960s onward, an increasing awareness of overmedicalisation, coupled with dramatic advances in life-prolonging technologies, prompted both religious and nonreligious individuals to reconsider what a “good death” meant.[vii] This mirrors Philippe Ariès’ influential critique of “therapeutic tenacity,” which lamented the erosion of natural death in favour of endless medical intervention — a critique not bound to secular thought.

Entangled Histories, Not Isolated Ideologies

The claim that euthanasia was solely the domain of secular advocacy also ignores the transnational and cross-ideological nature of the movement. Belgian right-to-die societies were deeply influenced by foreign counterparts, such as the Dutch Nederlandse Vereniging voor Vrijwillige Euthanasie (NVVE) and the American Hemlock Society.[viii] Yet unlike in the Anglophone world, where early euthanasia debates were often entangled with eugenics and notions of social utility, Belgian advocacy was largely disconnected from such problematic legacies. This detachment allowed Belgian organisations to frame euthanasia more clearly as an issue of compassion and choice, rather than social engineering.

Importantly, religious responses to euthanasia in Belgium were not uniformly hostile. While official Catholic doctrine continued to oppose euthanasia, some Catholic opinion groups began to express sympathy for limited end-of-life autonomy by the late 20th century.[ix] In fact, elements of Catholic moral reasoning — especially the emphasis on intention and discernment — overlapped in practice with certain secular arguments for pain relief and palliative care. This moral convergence suggests that the secular–religious dichotomy fails to capture the full ethical landscape in which euthanasia advocacy operated.

The Role of Bioethics and the Medical Profession

Another key insight from my research is the role of bioethics as a potential mediating force. The emergence of bioethics on the continent in the 1980s brought with it a new language for discussing death and dying that transcended traditional worldview boundaries. Discussions about living wills, patient rights, and medical consent became central, with both secular and religious voices contributing.[x] It is in this space — not in abstract philosophical disputes about the sanctity of life — that the practical contours of the euthanasia debate were shaped.

Interestingly, early medical resistance to euthanasia was not primarily religious in nature. Many doctors feared legal liability or saw euthanasia as an admission of professional failure. As medical confidence in palliative care grew, however, so too did the openness of some physicians to end-of-life autonomy. This shift highlights the importance of professional ethics and scientific culture in shaping euthanasia debates — realms that do not map neatly onto religious/secular lines.

From Grassroots to Legal Reform

Belgium’s euthanasia law of 2002 is often portrayed as a triumph of secular rationality over religious conservatism, but this narrative overlooks the decades of “prepolitical” activity that made such legislation possible and a societal consensus that significantly predated law-making successes. From the living will storage facilities established by HV in the 1980s, to the increasing number of public debates, media campaigns, and court cases that normalised the issue, euthanasia advocacy was driven as much by grassroots moral reflection as by formal secular ideology, yet notably with much less mobilising success than the abortion movements.[xi]

Notably, support for euthanasia among the Belgian population grew steadily over time, and not just among self-described secularists. Opinion polls from the mid-20th century already revealed openness to euthanasia in secular and socialist circles and support for the wider idea of euthanasia as a medical practice was almost at 90% by the late 1980s.[xii] Arguments even in the 1950 often lacked theological justifications and were instead motivated by compassion, family consultation, and a sense of moral responsibility — values that transcend religious affiliation.[xiii]

Conclusion: Rethinking the Nonreligious Frame

To cast euthanasia and the right-to-die purely as secular projects is to overlook the rich tapestry of beliefs, experiences, and institutional dynamics that have informed end-of-life debates, Belgium being a good test case. Advocacy for euthanasia did not emerge in a vacuum of unbelief; it developed through the interaction of scientific progress, shifting death practices, political realignments, and human concern — concerns shared by religious and nonreligious people alike.

Indeed, what my research illustrates is that euthanasia advocacy was not a reaction against religion, but a response to the changing meaning of death in modern society. As medical technologies challenged the boundary between life and death, and as traditional rituals lost their explanatory power, people from diverse backgrounds — secular, religious, and in-between — began to seek new ways of dying well.

In that sense, the right-to-die was never solely a secularist project. It was — and remains — a human one.

[i] For the American and British cases, see: Ian Dowbiggin, A Merciful End. The Euthanasia Movement in Modern America (Oxford: University Press, 2003); N.D.A. Kemp, Merciful Release: The History of the British Euthanasia Movement (Manchester: University Press, 2002). For Belgium, this is exemplified quite early on in an opinion piece: Het Handelsblad, 12/01/1936, p. 10. The author of this lengthy column is Wilfried Broeckaert, a catholic opinion maker and medical doctor.

[ii] I consulted archival material from the following institutions: Centre for Academic and Secular Humanist Archives (Brussels), Felixarchief (Antwerp), Association pour le Droit de Mourir dans la Dignité (Brussels), Royal Library of Belgium (Brussels), Wellcome Library (London), University of Washington Libraries, Special Collections (Seattle).

[iii] Belgisch staatsblad 12.3.2014, Wet tot wijziging van de wet van 28 mei 2002 betreffende de euthanasie, teneinde euthanasie voor minderjarigen mogelijk te maken, https://pha.be/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/45-wet-euthaniasie-voor-minderjaringen-1.pdf.

[iv] Niels De Nutte, “So to live, that one has also at the right time one’s will to death! Humanist euthanasia advocacy in Flanders between the 1970’s and 1990’s. A story of personal choice and therapeutic tenacity,” Essays in the Philosophy of Humanism 28 (2020).

[v] This concept originated in France and, through the Dutch connection of Belgium and the Netherlands found its way into the English language, see: Niels De Nutte, “Lighting the spark? Murder Trials in the 1960s and 1970s in the Liège Court of Assizes and Their Influence on Belgian and International Attention for the Issue of Euthanasia,” Derecho en Sociedad 19, no. 2 (2025) forthcoming.

[vi] Niels De Nutte, “In the face of death. Societal attitudes and popular opinion on medical aid and dying in Belgium 1936-1950,” Secular Studies 4, no. 1 (2022): 71-92.

[vii] This is exemplified by the sheer number of publications that emerge in this period which include ‘good death’ (in Dutch ‘waardig’) in their title. Interestingly enough, the word meant something different depending on who published. For end-of-life advocates it referred to dying without suffering and with medical interventions to hasten death, whereas for religiously inspired opponents it meant a natural death, without any form of intervention.

[viii] Niels De Nutte, The right-to-die in Belgium: A history of societal attitudes, conceptual confusion and advocacy concerning euthanasia between the 1920s and 1993 (Vrije Universiteit Brussels, 2025), unpublished PhD dissertation.

[ix] Notably, the first president of the Association pour le Droit de Mourir dans la Dignité, the first Belgian Right-to-Die Society, was a socialist catholic physician.

[x] For instance, see the entry on euthanasia in the interuniversity governmental report: s.n., Bio-ethica in de Jaren ’90 (Antwerp: Omega Editions 1987):367-369. To understand how these issues related to proposals of law in the 1980s, see: Niels De Nutte, “Dealing with the ambiguity of end-of-life decision-making. Living wills and patients’ rights in Belgian end-of-life advocacy in the 1980s and 1990s,”  in Pieter Dhondt e.a. (eds.), Dealing with medical uncertainty in and through the history of medicine eds  (Leiden: Brill, 2025), 231-252. (Clio Medica Studies in the History of Medicine and Health).

[xi] For the history of the abortion legalisation in Belgium see: Els Witte, “Twintig jaar politieke strijd rond de abortuswetgeving in België (1970-1990),” Res Publica 32, no. 4 (1990): 436-437.

[xii] Institut Interuniversitaire de sondage d’opinion publique, Les soins de santé dans la société belge (Brussels, 1988), 56.

[xiii] Niels De Nutte, In the face of death.

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Nonreligious Recollections of Religious Educations in Flanders, Greece, and Norway

Sofia Nikitaki, KU Leuven Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies

Keywords: nonreligion, religious education, cross-cultural research, qualitative research, Belgium, Greece, Norway

While literature regarding the inclusion of nonreligious worldviews into religious education (RE) curricula is growing, the experiences of nonreligious individuals regarding RE are not often the topic of discussion. This contribution shortly presents how 64 nonreligious adults from different European contexts described their past experiences of RE, by presenting part of the outcomes of a larger qualitative study with nonreligious individuals in Flanders (Belgium), Greece, and Norway. The research participants were all Millennial (born 1981-1998), described themselves as nonreligious, and had attended their primary and secondary education in the countries explored.

RE in Flanders, Greece, and Norway

Before proceeding, some educational specifics in these three contexts should be briefly outlined. Unlike Greece and Norway, where attending a public school is most common, the Belgian/Flemish education system is divided into two networks: government-aided public education (‘officieel onderwijs’) and government-aided private education (‘vrij onderwijs’), with the latter including a very large network of Catholic schools. As a result, a significant number of the Belgian participants were enrolled in a Catholic school, at least during some point during their childhood. This often limited their option to follow non-confessional RE1. However, since switching between different types of school is common, many interviewees had attended both confessional and non-confessional RE classes during their school years.

For the Norwegian participants, the situation was also complicated because of constant changes in the Norwegian RE curriculum during the years that interviewees had attended school (Jarmer, 2022: 781). In 1997, Norway moved from a parallel model with a choice between attending ‘confessional’ or ‘non-confessional’ RE – similar to the one currently existing in Belgian public schools – to introducing an integrative RE model with the course ‘Christianity, Religion, and Ethics’ (Kristendoms- religions- og livssynskunnskap/KRL) (Andreassen, 2014). Consequently, some Norwegian participants attended school when they could choose between the two courses, some experienced the change to integrative RE during their school years, while a few began attending school after the integrative curriculum was implemented.  

In contrast to Belgium and Norway, where RE has greatly changed during the past three decades to reflect religious pluralism2, RE in Greek public schools remains catechetical in nature. Overall, RE in Greece greatly prioritizes Orthodox Christianity, with law 1566/1985 describing the development of citizens “driven by loyalty towards their country and the fundamental principles of the orthodox Christian tradition” as one of the aims of primary and secondary public school education. Consequently, and in addition to the confessional nature of RE, the Greek public school environment is also Orthodox-centred, with daily morning prayer, a yearly school blessing, occasional church visits, and Christian iconography displayed in every classroom. Furthermore, the Greek research participants never had the choice of following non-confessional RE because this option was not – and still is not – available in Greek public schools.

Nonreligious Recollections of RE 

When recalling their relation with religion while growing up – and no matter whether they described coming from religious, nonreligious, or culturally/nominally religious family backgrounds – participants in all contexts often mentioned RE as a common childhood contact point with religion. Despite this shared contact point, a clear distinction emerged between, on the one hand, the experiences of Belgian and Norwegian participants and, on the other, the experiences of the Greek interviewees. 

In particular, Belgian and Norwegian participants expressed a wide variety of reactions to the RE they followed as children. Recollections ranged from indifference and boredom to considering it a course that interested them and broadened their horizons3. Overall, when discussing their experiences of learning about religion and worldviews in school, the vast majority of Belgian and Norwegian interviewees recalled RE as being ‘just another course’ in their school curriculum, one which was relatively easy, often interesting, and mostly informative and pluralistic in nature. None of the interviewees described their general school environment as ‘religious,’ even Belgian participants who attended Catholic schools.

In contrast, Greek participants expressed a great amount of frustration and disappointment with how RE was taught during their primary and secondary education. Descriptions were largely similar as well as overwhelmingly negative, with RE repeatedly described as Orthodox ‘catechism,’ ‘propaganda,’ and ‘brainwashing.’ The disappointment many expressed however, was not only tied to the confessional content of RE but also to the prevalence of Orthodoxy more generally in the Greek public-school environment. School practices such as morning prayer, church visits for receiving communion, and displaying Orthodox iconography were viewed unfavourably and described in very negative tones. Participants cited both personal negative experiences (e.g. feeling ‘forced’ to pray in school) and general reasons (e.g. the preferential treatment of Orthodox Christianity in public education institutions) for disliking such practices. The prevalence of the Orthodox Church in the broader Greek context was also often cited when speaking about RE, with many negatively mentioning the power and involvement of the Orthodox Church in Greek politics and society.

Some Thoughts on the Relationality of it All  

Comparing the recollections of participants revealed a stark contrast, tightly connected to the educational and cultural particularities of each context. This study highlights the necessity of taking contextual background into account when discussing nonreligious experiences. Despite being a common contact point with religion during childhood for all interviewees, contextual particularities of RE made for substantial differences in how participants described their past relationships with religion – including how they described their upbringing. 

The noticeable difference between reactions of the Greek participants – who had no alternative but to follow catechetical RE in a school environment that promotes Orthodoxy – and Belgian and Norwegian participants – who described their education as more ‘pluralist’ or ‘open’ regarding religion – was made extremely clear. The Greek education system stands out when it comes to negative criticism. Reflecting on these results, it does make sense to ask: Can a person growing up in Greece really have a nonreligious childhood if they have to attend – and undergo RE – in a Greek public school? 

Another possible question could be: Would Greek interviewees have expressed the same views if their experiences of RE and school environment were similar to the ones of Belgian and Norwegian participants? The most probable answer is that they would not, as they would not have perceived RE as undergoing a form of catechism or experienced school as an environment that favours Orthodox Christianity. To use an experience cited by some of the Greek participants as an example, anxiously hiding in the back of the school assembly on a daily basis in order to avoid being called to recite the morning prayer does have an effect on how people understand, experience, and live (non)religion both in their past and in their present. And these are experiences that are worth considering if we aim to attain a well-rounded understanding of religion, nonreligion, and everything in between.

  1. Unlike government-aided public schools, which are required to offer RE in all recognised worldviews including “non-confessional ethics,” government-aided private schools are not required to offer all courses but have the freedom to do so if decided. Being the largest group of government-aided private education, Catholic schools usually offer only one religion, specifically Roman Catholicism (Loobuyck and Franken, 2011: 17-19). ↩︎
  2. Even though the RE curricula in Belgium and Norway prioritized the teaching of Christianity at some point in the past, both countries have largely moved beyond that during the 1990s. For example, the Belgian Roman Catholic curriculum opted to pay more attention “to the reality of religious diversity, (the dialogue with) non-Christian traditions and inter-religious learning,” (Loobuyck and Franken, 2011: 23) while the Norwegian curriculum changed consistently over time to reflect “society’s growing cultural and religious diversity” as well as human rights (Andreassen, 2014: 138). ↩︎
  3. As mentioned, some participants from both countries had switched between confessional and non-confessional RE during their time in school; however, the cultural specifics of each context in combination with the limited sample only allowed for looking at the participants’ general experiences of RE and not for a comparison between recollections of different RE types. ↩︎

Sofia Nikitaki is a postdoctoral researcher at the KU Leuven Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies. Her PhD research, “Living A Nonreligious Life: A Qualitative Empirical Exploration of Nonreligion in Belgium, Greece, and Norway” (2023), focused on an in-depth cross-cultural examination of nonreligion and nonreligious individuals in different European contexts. Sofia is also affiliated with the Secular Studies Association Brussels (SSAB) as well as a part of the international board of the European Society for Women in Theological Research (ESWTR). When not exploring (non)religion and secularity, Sofia enjoys doing (street)art, where she is known under the alias Guilt-free OCD.