Politics can be exhausting and indeed discouraging. A few weeks ago, when I asked my 18-year-old freshmen students if they’d registered to vote, half of them nodded; more than a few sheepishly shook their heads. When I asked a cab driver concerned about climate change if he was planning to vote, he replied, “I don’t get involved in that.” Living in the critical swing state of Pennsylvania, I found such attitudes concerning before the election and heartbreaking today.
In a recent New York Times podcast interview,political scientist Yanna Krupnikov argued that the biggest divide in the United States is not between Republicans and Democrats. It’s between those who are politically engaged—that is, people who stay informed about current events and work actively for causes they care about—and the disengaged, who focus on their private lives and avoid the public sphere. Facing political realities that affect not only U.S. citizens, but people around the world living with the realities of war and climate-induced natural disasters, I find such political indifference disheartening. So few Americans realize the power we have and the ways our choices affect people across the world, from Ukraine to Kenya to Lebanon.
I get as tired as anyone of the incendiary political rhetoric and shallow sound bites that have come to dominate our public discourse. At this point, when so many of us are feeling sorrowful about current realities and fearful of the future, I would urge us to seek consolation and strength in the example of Jesus, who spent his entire life dealing with unsavory political authorities. While the temptation to disengage from the moral and ethical issues is high—especially when we feel aggrieved—we must continue to be the “light of the world” that Jesus has called us to be.
The practice of citizenship—of which voting is just one part—is a social responsibility that goes hand in hand with faith. Though Jesus, arrested by the Roman authorities and accused of treason, assured Pontius Pilate that “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36), prior to this moment he spent several years doing hard, often thankless work in the public sphere: teaching, preaching, healing the sick, challenging the hypocrisy of the powerful, welcoming strangers, and building community with the marginalized. No earthly leader could stop Jesus from completing this mission.
Jesus’ public ministry became the basis for the corporal and spiritual works of mercy our Catholic faith urges us to complete. These can lead us to engage in direct charity—such as volunteering in a soup kitchen or a jail—but also to advocate for larger-scale public policies that will create a more just and merciful society. Voting, though a crucial part of this process, is a small act on its own. It is only a starting point to our engagement with the world as we seek to build a society that feeds the hungry, heals the broken, welcomes the stranger and proclaims good news to the poor.
Living in a large, powerful country like the United States, it is easy to feel personally detached from government policies and to believe that our individual actions don’t amount to much. I certainly felt that way in winter 2017. President Donald Trump had just been inaugurated, promising hardline immigration policies and ramped-up construction of the U.S.-Mexico border wall. As a fluent Spanish speaker with many ties to Latin America, as well as a practicing Catholic inspired by the church’s social teaching, I was dismayed by this part of the new president’s program. As it turned out, so were many others in Dubuque, Iowa, the city where I was living at the time.
One local leader convened a small group of concerned citizens—educators, activists, Catholic Workers, priests, and women religious—to ask the question, “what can we do?” A question that so often signals wistful resignation took on new power when raised as a sincere call to discernment. After some brainstorming, we drafted a resolution to urge Dubuque’s mayor and city council to officially recognize it as an open, welcoming city. We discussed the immigrants newly arriving to Dubuque—mostly indigenous youth from Guatemala—and ways we could help them to feel welcomed and safe.
In the coming months, immigration attorneys from Dubuque Catholic Charities led “Know Your Rights” seminars aimed to inform immigrants (documented and undocumented) of their legal rights if faced with police or Immigrations and Customs Enforcement. Working with a local nonprofit, I began interpreting for immigrants at medical and legal appointments, and eventually I became a legal guardian for three young people seeking Special Immigrant Juvenile Status—two of whom successfully received it, gaining the legal right to work and a path toward U.S. citizenship. While such individual efforts may feel miniscule in a country of 350 million, they are the starting point for any movement.
No matter what ideological camp we fall into, I would urge us all to draw strength from Jesus’ example, responding to the political challenges we face with a simple question: What can I do? How, in this contentious political climate, can I have a positive impact on my immediate community and the wider world?
For me, the first response is to get to know my neighbors—including those not ideologically like-minded—and listen to their concerns. During an election season, I can inform myself about the candidates—not just for the presidency, but also Congress and local offices—and make a well-discerned choice. And, I can urge others to vote, as I have tried to encourage my students. I can urge them to seek truth amid disinformation and to remember that in a democratic republic, voting is a responsibility as well as a right.
But while civic participation is often framed as a duty, it is personally rewarding. In 1969, feminist Carol Hanisch published an essay, “The Personal is Political,” which became a slogan for the women’s rights movement. Many of us are familiar with this concept, which argues that seemingly private issues like childcare, division of household labor, and domestic violence can require political solutions. But I believe that the opposite is also true: The political is personal. U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy has declared loneliness an epidemic and public health crisis; our high rates of depression and ongoing opioid epidemic are testaments to this reality.
Murthy’s warnings certainly resonate with me personally. I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and loneliness for much of my adult life—struggles exacerbated by living as a single 30-something-year-old in a small town. While I won’t say that civic engagement “cured” my malaise, it is certainly served as an antidote. My involvement in the immigrants’ rights movement empowered me a new sense of purpose and in the place where I lived. Time spent with thoughtful, discerning, compassionate people of faith—people who truly seek to live what they believe—slowly helped me transform an unfamiliar place into a home.
But the political is spiritual too. When we look at some of our beloved Catholic leaders—Pope St. John Paul II, St. Teresa of Calcutta, St. Oscar Romero, and Servant of God Dorothy Day—we find that their deep spirituality called them toward ever deeper engagement with the world. And many justice-minded activists for equal rights have drawn heavily on their faith for inspiration and encouragement.
Jesus himself made our charge clear: to love God fully, and to our neighbor as ourselves. These commandments lie at the center of our faith. And even though we recognize the importance of separation of church and state, this doesn’t mean religion is only a private affair. The public realm is a zone where faith, morals, and values matter, where we are called to discern how best to work for the common good.
And so, as we face a political landscape rife with division and full of uncertainty, let us resist the temptation to hide or disengage. That the political is spiritual doesn’t mean it is abstract: action is part of our spiritual obligation as members of the body of Christ. It can also be a great source of connection, meaning, and joy, even amid difficulty. We have a responsibility to strive to discern truth in an era of misinformation and to treat our fellow citizens with respect in an era of dehumanization. For some, the outcome of the 2024 election is a source of satisfaction; for others, it has provoked fear, anger, and even despair. Taking the time to experience and process these emotions is essential. But soon, we will need to stand up after our fall, take up the cross again, and ask ourselves sincerely, “What can we do?”
Image: Unsplash/Elianna Gill
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