Losing Our Saltness

How Christians Are Trading Uniqueness for (Political) Power

Before we get to politics, we need to ask a simpler question:

What are Christians called to be?

Not what we're against. Not who we vote for.
But what we are supposed to be.

Scripture is unflinching:

• Humble (Phil. 2:3)
• Loving to our enemies (Matt. 5:44)
• Gentle and respectful in our speech (1 Pet. 3:15)
• Defenders of the weak and vulnerable (James 1:27)
• Unconformed to the world's patterns (Rom. 12:2)
• Peacemakers—not combatants (Matt. 5:9)

That's our assignment. That's our identity.

But today, that calling is being traded—not for money or fame, but for something far more corrosive: the promise of political power.

And that trade always comes at the cost of our saltiness.

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Salt That's Lost Its Flavor

"You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything…"
(Matthew 5:13)

Salt preserves. Salt enhances. Salt holds back decay.

But when the church tries to win the world by becoming like the world, it loses the very thing that gives it power—not political power, but spiritual credibility.

And that's exactly what's happening.

More and more Christians are defining themselves by what they're against—against "the left," against "wokeness," against "elites"—instead of living out who they're called to be.

This shift creates a vacuum of identity. And authoritarian leaders know exactly how to fill it.

And once opposition defines you, everything becomes acceptable—as long as it's aimed at your enemy. Character fades. Truth bends. Christlikeness takes a back seat to the fight.

When the church forgets who it is, it becomes vulnerable to being used—not for the kingdom of God, but for the ambitions of power. Here's how that happens:

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What Authoritarians Do With a Hollowed-Out Church

1. They replace humility with bravado.
We're called to imitate Christ's humility (Phil. 2), but the strongman says: "Don't bow. Dominate."

2. They turn neighbor-love into suspicion of the outsider.
We're commanded to welcome the stranger and care for the weak (Matt. 25), but the authoritarian says: "They're the enemy. Don't let them in."

3. They trade mercy for mockery.
We're told to love our enemies, not humiliate them. But cruelty gets rebranded as courage—proof that we're "serious."

4. They hollow out discernment.
When the church is driven by opposition, anyone who "fights the left" becomes a friend—no matter how untrustworthy, how dishonest, how cruel, how antithetical to Christian character.
And anyone who urges caution or kindness? Suspect. Maybe even a traitor.

5. They weaponize religious language.
They know how to hold up Bibles, quote verses, frame elections as spiritual battles—without submitting to the Lordship of Christ.
Christian symbols become props. Christianity becomes a means, not the end.

6. They turn opposition into righteousness.
The fight itself becomes the virtue. Sin, compromise—even cruelty—get excused if they serve the cause. We stop asking, "Is this Christlike?" and start asking, "Does this hurt our enemies?"

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Even the pagan world once recognized how different Christians were—not by what they shouted, but by how they loved—even when it cost them.

During a deadly plague in the 3rd century, most Roman citizens fled their cities, abandoning even family members in the streets. But Christians did the opposite. They stayed. They cared for the sick—even strangers—and often died doing so.

Dionysius of Alexandria described how believers "took charge of the sick… drawing on themselves the sickness of their neighbors and cheerfully accepting their pains." While the culture preserved itself through avoidance, the church preserved life through sacrificial love.

That was saltiness the world could taste.

That's what the world once saw. But what does it see now?

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What Does the World Actually See?

Christians often lament that the world is becoming more secular. We talk about lost influence, collapsing moral standards, and how we're being pushed out of public life.

But maybe we should be asking a harder question:

When the world looks at us, what does it actually see?

Does it see anything worth turning to?
Anything worth trusting?
Anything unmistakably Christlike?

Because if we've lost our saltiness—our uniqueness—then what should we expect?

What the world often sees today is:

• Christians raging online, not laying down their lives
• Political tribalism dressed up in religious slogans
• Loyalty to strongmen, not to a Savior
• A preoccupation with defeating enemies, not loving them
• Fear driving behavior, not faith—or worse, anger replacing love for Christ
• Christians who will defend any behavior, excuse any sin, as long as it comes from someone fighting "the left"

In some cases, people aren't walking away from Jesus.
They're walking away from what they think is Jesus, based on how we're representing Him.

Maybe the world is noticing that the lamp we were given to carry is flickering now—not because the light has failed, but because we've turned from the path it was meant to illumine.

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The Inevitable Result

When opposition becomes your identity, it hollows everything else out.

You can't walk in humility when your instinct is always to strike back.
You can't love your neighbor—or your enemy—if you've already decided they're someone who needs to be crushed.
You can't speak truth if a lie better wounds your opponent.
You can't be salt if you've dissolved into the very patterns you were meant to resist.

This isn't just a strategic failure.
It's an identity crisis—and identity crises always end the same way:
You become what you once stood against.

You become just another political tribe that happens to quote Scripture.

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What We're Meant to Be

• A people whose allegiance is to Christ, not Caesar
• A people who bless and do not curse (Rom. 12:14)
• A people known for love that confounds, not fear that divides
• A people whose salt doesn't come from volume or slogans, but from a distinct, Christ-shaped life

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The Church Is Supposed to Look Different

The early Christians lived under a hostile empire and a corrupt moral culture. But they didn't spend their energy "owning the Romans." They lived holy, humble, astonishing lives—committed to Christ, to each other, and to their neighbors.

That's still our call.

Let the world rage.
Let the powerful scheme.
Let the age provoke.

But let the people of God look like the people of God—humble, faithful, salty, and unmistakably different from the power games that surround them.

We are not called to define ourselves merely by what we oppose—but to live as those set apart, defined by Christ, conformed to His image, and devoted to His kingdom.

When we forget that, we lose our saltness.
When we remember it, we become salt and light again—not to win a culture war, but to bear witness to the Lord who reigns.