This is what happens when we confuse politics with religion.

Treating politics like religion, and vice versa, is why so many of us keep getting frustrated and disappointed, and why our societies are becoming weaker.

photo: Brian Wertheim/Unsplash

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Many of us now live in an agnostic or post-religious world, and even those who still consider themselves religious often find that the society around them no longer is.

Religious rituals have thinned, institutions have weakened, and shared moral languages have fractured. What remains, for many people, is a vague attachment to “values” without the theological or communal structures that once anchored them.

Into that vacuum, politics has rushed in.

Religion, at its core, is about values: how we understand right and wrong, obligation and responsibility, meaning and purpose. It asks what kind of people we should be, and how we ought to live, even when doing so is costly. Politics, by contrast, is not primarily about values at all. It is about interests. It is about power, security, stability, resources, advantage, and leverage. Politics can use values as language or branding, but its engine is calculation, not conscience.

The growing confusion between religion and politics has led many people to misread the world around them. We expect moral consistency from political actors. We look for ethical alignment where only strategic alignment exists. And when politicians act in ways that feel cynical or contradictory, we experience shock or betrayal — when, in reality, we are projecting religious (i.e. moral) expectations onto political behavior.

Israel and its regional relationships offer a clear illustration of this dynamic.

For the two years that followed October 7th, Egypt publicly blasted Israel like a broken record. To many observers, this looked like moral condemnation — perhaps even sympathy with Hamas or deep concern for Gaza’s civilians. But that reading misunderstands Egypt’s incentives.

Egypt’s overriding fear was not Israel’s conduct as such, nor Hamas’ ideology, but the possibility that Gaza’s population would spill into the Sinai and then into Egypt proper, destabilizing Egyptian society and threatening the regime itself. Egypt’s public posture was political pressure, aimed at preserving internal stability and regional leverage.

Now, with a ceasefire in place, reports have emerged that Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu plans to travel to Cairo to sign a $35-billion natural gas agreement with Egypt. The apparent contradiction dissolves once values are removed from the equation. Public denunciation and private cooperation are not opposites in politics; often, they are complementary tools. Interests change, circumstances shift, and rhetoric adjusts accordingly.

The same logic applies elsewhere in the region.

During the Israel–Gaza war, the United Arab Emirates was notably quiet. For those who frame geopolitics in moral terms, this silence felt puzzling or even damning. But politics does not reward loud virtue-signaling; it rewards positioning.

More recently, sensational claims attributed to a senior Arab royal whistleblower have suggested that Israel and the United Arab Emirates are engaged in a quiet effort to reshape Gulf power dynamics, potentially at Saudi Arabia’s expense. According to the senior Arab royal:

“There are no rules anymore; there are no consequences anymore. Gulf unity is a myth and all those carefully manicured media images you see of crown princes and emirs standing together in harmony is a load of rubbish. Behind the scenes there is bitter rivalry and lots of back-stabbing.”

“After the United Arab Emirates signed the Abraham Accords with Bahrain in 2020, Kuwait began to move its allegiance from Saudi to Abu Dhabi. The Saudis have been too slow to support Israel and sign the Abraham Accords, so the Israelis are now keen to change the power dynamics in the Middle East.”¹

In other words alliances shift not because of shared values, but because of perceived advantage. From another recent report, the United Arab Emirates was the undisclosed customer of a $2.3-billion arms deal with Israel’s Elbit Systems.²

Whether every detail of these reports proves accurate is almost beside the point. The broader pattern is unmistakable: There are no permanent friends and no permanent enemies, only temporary alignments of interest. States cooperate, compete, and undermine one another simultaneously. Today’s silence becomes tomorrow’s pact. Today’s outrage becomes tomorrow’s contract.

But there is also a darker side of this coin: a sober, uncomfortable reality that many Jews in the West are being forced to confront — often reluctantly, and often too late.

For generations, Jews in liberal democracies internalized a powerful assumption: that the modern state would protect them. That citizenship, equal rights, and the rule of law had finally resolved the Jewish condition. Antisemitism might linger at the margins, but institutions would respond, police would intervene, governments would act, and courts would enforce. History, we were told, had moved forward.

That assumption is now under serious strain.

Across many parts of the Western world, Jews increasingly find themselves asking whether their safety truly aligns with state interests. When protecting Jews is politically costly — when it risks inflaming sociopolitical movements, immigrant constituencies, trade relationships, or geopolitical coalitions — state responses can become hesitant, procedural, or symbolic. Condemnations are issued, task forces are announced, but enforcement weakens, red lines blur, and exceptions multiply.

This is not necessarily because governments are hostile to Jews (though some are, or at least actors within them). More often, it is because governments are governed by interests, not by moral obligations. States prioritize social cohesion, electoral stability, economic ties, and international positioning. If defending a small minority threatens those interests, protection can quietly slip down the list of priorities.

In places like the UK, Australia, France, and Canada, where public order and multicultural harmony are treated as near-sacred values, authorities may be especially reluctant to act decisively if doing so risks controversy (perceived or real). Harassment is reframed as “community tensions.” Threats become “heated rhetoric.” Antisemitism is folded into broader narratives that dilute its specificity. Jews are encouraged to be patient, calm, and understanding — precisely when patience, calm, and understanding are least warranted.

This creates a painful realization: The state’s promise of protection is conditional.

Historically, Jews have learned this lesson many times. The tragedy is not that states act in their own interests — that is their nature — but that Jews forget this, again and again, during periods of comfort and acceptance. Emancipation fosters trust. Trust fosters dependence. Dependence fosters vulnerability when circumstances change.

Recognizing this reality does not mean rejecting the state or abandoning civic participation. It means adjusting expectations. It means understanding that, while the state can protect Jews, it will only do so consistently when Jewish safety aligns with broader political incentives. Where that alignment weakens, Jewish communities must strengthen themselves.

For Jews in the diaspora, this does not mean lawlessness or vigilantism. It means stronger relationships with Israel and Zionism, more effective community cohesion, and greater institutional strength, legal literacy, political organization, and the capacity to advocate relentlessly for Jewish interests. It means investing in Jewish education so identity is not fragile. It means supporting communal security. It means refusing to outsource Jewish survival entirely to systems that were never designed to prioritize it.

Above all, it means clarity. Clarity about what politics is, and clarity about the enduring truth that Jewish safety has never been guaranteed by goodwill alone.

The modern state is a powerful ally when interests align. But history and the present suggest that Jews cannot afford to confuse alliance with dependence. In the end, Jewish continuity and security have always rested on Jewish shoulders. That reality may be uncomfortable, but it is also empowering — because it returns agency to where it has always belonged.

Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese (center) may have lied about the Bondi Beach attackers for sociopolitical and geopolitical reasons. (photo: Anthony Albanese/X)

Israel and Israelis are no exception to the critical distinction between religion and politics. On the Right, religious language is often used to justify political positions that are, at their core, strategic or demographic. Settlement policy, for example, is frequently framed in biblical or theological terms (divine promise, eternal inheritance, sacred land), but in practice, much of the debate is not about theology at all; it’s about security depth, bargaining leverage, population distribution, and future borders. When those interests shift, as they often do, policies change, even among leaders who claim absolute religious commitments. That alone reveals where the real driver lies.

Similarly, appeals to Jewish unity or halachic obligation are sometimes mobilized to defend coalition arrangements, budget allocations, or exemptions from national service. These are presented as matters of religious principle, but they function politically: maintaining governing majorities, securing loyal voting blocs, and preserving institutional power. What looks like faith is often factionalism dressed in sacred language.

On the Left, the confusion runs in the opposite direction. Political positions are framed as moral absolutes, often borrowing the language of universal ethics (human rights, justice, equality). These are treated not as guiding values in tension with security realities, but as self-evident imperatives that override strategic considerations. Withdrawal, concessions, or restraint are advocated not because they reliably produce safety or stability, but because they “feel” morally correct.

Here too, politics is masked as religion. Positions become articles of faith. Evidence that contradicts them is dismissed as immoral rather than mistaken. Security failures are reinterpreted as proof of insufficient virtue rather than flawed strategy. The result is moral certainty without political accountability.

The danger in all of this is not ideological disagreement; it is category confusion. When religion is used to sanctify political interests, compromise becomes betrayal and strategy becomes heresy. When politics is elevated into a moral theology, failure is excused as righteousness and criticism becomes sin.

Israel’s challenge, like that of any state, is to keep these domains distinct without severing them entirely. Jewish values should inform governance and power, but they cannot replace the hard work of political judgment. Security cannot be prayed into existence, nor can morality substitute for strategy.

The mistake that many people in Israel and across the world make is interpreting various actions through a religious or moral lens. We ask: Who is righteous? Who is just? Who is a “good person”? Who is on the right side of history? But politics is not a courtroom, and it is certainly not a place of worship. It does not run on repentance or consistency; it runs on power, security, stability, resources, advantage, and leverage.

This confusion has consequences beyond domestic and foreign policy analysis. When religion is reduced to politics, values become weapons. Moral language becomes tribal. Good and evil are assigned not based on behavior or principle, but on affiliation. Conversely, when politics masquerades as religion, compromise becomes heresy and pragmatism becomes betrayal. The result is maximalism without wisdom and outrage without clarity.

Still not convinced? Take a look at how so many people judge politicians, as if they are moral exemplars rather than power brokers. We ask whether certain politicians are “good” people, whether they speak kindly, signal the right values, or align with our personal sense of virtue. Character, intentions, tone, and moral posture have become proxies for competence. Politics has turned into a kind of public morality play, where leaders are praised or condemned less for outcomes than for perceived goodness.

But this is another category error.

A politician’s job is not to be a “good person”; it is to achieve political results. This doesn’t mean that morality is completely irrelevant, but it does mean it is secondary to performance. The correct questions are far more practical: Are citizens safer? Is the country more stable? Are there more opportunities for work, growth, and mobility? Is the state better positioned against its rivals? Are institutions functioning more effectively than before?

When we judge politicians primarily on their personal virtue, we often end up rewarding symbolism over substance. Leaders who speak eloquently about justice, empathy, or values can feel reassuring — even when their policies fail, backfire, or quietly weaken the state. Conversely, leaders who are blunt, abrasive, or personally unlikable may deliver tangible improvements, but are dismissed because they do not pass a moral or aesthetic test.

This shift has distorted democratic accountability. If politics is about interests and outcomes, then leaders should be judged on measurable results. Did they reduce violence? Did they expand economic opportunity? Did they strengthen alliances or deterrence? Did they leave the country better positioned than they found it? These are political metrics, not moral ones.

The obsession with whether a politician is “good” also invites manipulation. Moral signaling is cheap. Anyone can adopt the language of compassion, justice, or righteousness. What is far harder is to make difficult trade-offs under pressure, to accept blame for unpopular but necessary decisions, or to prioritize long-term security over short-term approval. When voters confuse moral performance with political effectiveness, they incentivize leaders to perform virtue rather than govern.

This does not mean character is meaningless. Corruption, deception, and abuse of power matter. But character should function as a constraint, not a substitute for judgment. A politician who is personally decent but politically ineffective can do as much harm as one who is personally defective but professionally proficient. Outcomes, not intentions, are what shape lives.

Benjamin Netanyahu and Donald Trump, two politicians heavily criticized for their personal characters, in 2020 (photo: The White House/Wikipedia)

In a post-religious society, politics has absorbed the role religion once played: defining good and evil, offering redemption, demanding public confession. Politicians become avatars of moral identity rather than agents of statecraft. The result is endless outrage, constant disillusionment, and very little clarity about what success actually looks like.

If we want better politics, we need better standards. Not “Is this leader a good person?” but “Is this leader good at the job?” Do their decisions make the society safer, stronger, and more capable of sustaining itself over time?

Politics cannot replace religion, and politicians cannot replace moral teachers. When we remember that, we stop demanding holiness from power and start demanding competence instead.

Some of us lived during a time when religion functioned as the primary criterion of admission and acceptance. To belong — to a community, a profession, a neighborhood, even a nation — meant sharing a religious framework, or at least publicly conforming to one. Religion established the boundaries of trust. It told you who was “inside” and who was “outside,” who could be relied upon, who could marry whom, who could be listened to, and who could not.

That world has largely disappeared.

In much of the modern, post-religious West, religion no longer determines social legitimacy. Politics has taken its place.

Today, political alignment functions as a new creed. It determines who is welcomed into social spaces, who is deemed respectable, who is employable, who is publishable, and who is morally suspect. Where people once asked, “What do you believe?” in a theological sense, they now ask it ideologically. The answers are no less rigid, and the consequences of getting them wrong can be just as severe.

This shift helps explain the intensity and absolutism of contemporary political life. Politics is no longer merely a mechanism for negotiating interests; it has become a marker of identity and belonging. To hold the “wrong” political views is not simply to disagree; it is to be disqualified. One is no longer mistaken, but impure; not misguided, but dangerous.

In religious societies, heresy was threatening because it undermined shared meaning and social cohesion. In today’s political culture, dissent plays a similar role. It destabilizes the moral consensus of the group. As a result, political disagreement is treated not as a normal feature of pluralism, but as a character flaw. People are sorted, shunned, or elevated based on political orthodoxy, often regardless of their competence, integrity, or humanity.

This transformation has profound effects on how societies and institutions operate. Universities, media organizations, corporations, cultural spaces, and even places of worship rely more and more on political signaling as a test of legitimacy. Public declarations, language choices, and symbolic gestures serve as proof of belonging. Silence, nuance, or heterodoxy can be read as guilt. The question is no longer “Are you capable?” or even “Are you honest?” Increasingly, the question is: “Are you aligned?”

What makes this especially unstable is that politics is a poor substitute for religion. Religious systems, at their best, offered rituals of forgiveness, frameworks for humility, and an acknowledgment of human imperfection. Political ideologies, by contrast, tend to demand constant affirmation and perpetual vigilance. There is little room for repentance, growth, or complexity. Once outside the circle, return is difficult.

The irony is that politics was never designed to carry this weight; it was meant to mediate interests among diverse groups, not to serve as a totalizing moral system. When it becomes the primary criterion of acceptance, it loses its capacity for compromise. Everything becomes existential, every election apocalyptic, every policy disagreement a moral emergency.

In replacing religion with politics, we have not become more tolerant or more rational; we have simply transferred the old instincts for belonging, exclusion, and moral certainty into a new domain — one far less equipped to handle them.

Recognizing this does not require a return to religious society. But it does require remembering what politics is for, and what it is not. Politics should manage disagreement, not erase it. When political alignment becomes the price of admission to public life, we are no longer practicing democracy; we are enforcing a new form of orthodoxy, without the safeguards that once tempered it.

Understanding the difference does not mean abandoning values. It means placing them where they belong. Religion, and moral philosophy more broadly, should guide how individuals live, how communities behave, and how societies define justice. Politics should be understood soberly, even cynically if necessary, as the management of competing interests in an imperfect world.

When we expect politics to behave like religion, we are always disappointed. When we allow politics to replace religion, we lose the very values we claim to be defending. The challenge of our time is not choosing between values and interests, but refusing to confuse them.

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1. “Secret Israeli pact ‘lies behind threat to dissidents and Gulf status quo’.” Middle East Monitor.

2. “UAE was secret buyer of billion dollar Israeli defence deal: Report.” Middle East Eye.