Christians and Politics: Bearing Witness to Another Kingdom

This Saturday, Australia votes (unless you did the pre-poll). There will be democracy sausages, cardboard booths, and overflowing bins of discarded how-to-vote papers. We’ll argue about the economy, housing, climate, Aboriginal justice, the influence of Trump, and who can be trusted. And then, in an orderly fashion, we’ll hand power to one party or another. It’s easy to become cynical about it all, but the fact that we get to do this peacefully, with each vote carrying equal weight, is a profound privilege.

As Christians, we should be the first to give thanks for this system, and the last to idolise it.

We are not apolitical, nor are we party operatives. We are citizens of a heavenly kingdom and neighbours in an earthly one. The question is not whether Christians should engage politically; the question is how.

We start with Jesus.

Some people say Jesus wasn’t political, but they would be wrong. Jesus was crucified on a Roman cross under the charge of sedition: “King of the Jews.” His birth was a threat to Herod. His teachings challenged the purity codes, undermined elite piety, and lifted the poor. He entered Jerusalem on a donkey, enacting a royal procession—not for Caesar, but for himself. He told Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world,” which was not a denial of politics but a redefinition of power.

Jesus didn’t campaign, legislate, or run for office. But his life was profoundly political—because it confronted the assumptions that govern all politics: who has power, what it’s for, and who counts.

That’s why theologians and ethicists like Stanley Hauerwas and Oliver O’Donovan remind us that the church is political, not because it seeks to rule, but because it embodies a counter-politics. It tells the truth in public. It forms communities of patience and justice. It practices forgiveness in a world built on vengeance. It proclaims a King who wears a crown of thorns.

This means we should not be neutral. Love of neighbour demands political concern. But we must be different. We do not baptise the platforms of the left or the right. We don’t seek control but witness. We speak up for the voiceless, even when it costs us. We advocate for policies that reflect justice, mercy, truth, and care for the vulnerable, not because they win votes but because they reflect Christ.

Dorothy Day believed that Christians must refuse the normalisation of injustice. We should be the first to lament cruelty, whether it comes from our preferred side or not. We are people of the cross before we are people of the ballot box.

Christian political engagement must also be hopeful, not naïve, but rooted in resurrection. We are not condemned to cycles of corruption and failure. Grace breaks in. Leaders can act justly. Systems can be reformed. But only if people of good conscience, shaped by truth and humility, stay engaged.

This is not easy. Political life tempts us toward simplification, tribalism, and outrage. But our Lord calls us to a more challenging path. As David Brooks writes, politics is downstream from culture, and culture is shaped by character. What kind of character do we bring to our civic life?

We must form consciences shaped more by Scripture than by algorithms. We must vote not only for self-interest, but for the good of those on the margins. We must hold our politicians to account, pray for them by name, and reject the spirit of contempt.

Tim Costello says that our votes can be acts of love. Who we vote for—and how we vote—reveals something of our vision of the good. Does it include the asylum seeker? The unemployed? The unborn? The environment? The future?

This doesn’t mean there’s one Christian party or platform. It means we vote thoughtfully, pray fervently, and live out our politics daily, by what we do with our time, money, and attention.

The church is political, not because it seeks to rule, but because it embodies a counter-politics. It tells the truth in public. It forms communities of patience and justice. It practices forgiveness in a world built on vengeance. It proclaims a King who wears a crown of thorns.

One of the most striking recent examples of Christian political witness was Pope Francis. He never ran for office, yet his leadership had a profound political impact, not because of partisanship but because of prophetic consistency.

Francis refused to let power blocs co-opt the church. He embraced migrants at the border, washed the feet of prisoners, and reminded wealthy nations of their responsibility to the poor and the planet. He spoke of a “politics of tenderness” that begins not with ideology but with encounter.

In Laudato Si’, his encyclical on the environment, he framed climate justice not as an activist cause but a moral obligation rooted in Christian discipleship. When he spoke of the “globalisation of indifference,” he was naming a spiritual crisis behind the political ones. His politics was not the grasping for power, but the disruption of comfort by love.

Francis showed us that to be political, in the way of Jesus, was to make visible those the world hides, to insist that dignity does not come from usefulness or success, and to speak from the margins with clarity, humility, and hope. In that sense, he modelled the politics of Jesus.

So, how should we vote this week?

Vote with love. Vote with wisdom. But vote knowing this: your political convictions are secondary to your Christian witness. If your politics make you cruel, you’ve misunderstood both. If your political losses leave you hopeless, you’ve misplaced your trust.

The church doesn’t exist to win elections. It exists to be a signpost pointing toward a different way of being human, a different kind of power, and a different kind of King.

So vote. But more importantly, live the politics of the gospel—where the last are first, enemies are loved, and mercy gets the final word.