Faith, Democracy, and the Catholic Duty To Stay Involved

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We asked Angeles Ponpa, a graduate student at Northwestern Medill in the Politics, Policy, and Foreign Affairs specialization, and a Fulcrum summer intern, to share her thoughts on what democracy means to her and her perspective on its current health.

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Here’s her insight on the topic.

"Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God." This verse from Matthew 22:21 has long echoed in Catholic political thought. Once a response to a Pharisaical trap about taxation, it is now often invoked by religious leaders urging the faithful to take civic responsibility seriously, not despite their faith but because of it.

I did not always understand this balance. I grew up the child of undocumented immigrants who came to the United States from Michoacán, Mexico, as teenagers fleeing poverty. Their legal status was never justified in my eyes, but it taught me that politics was not abstract. It was personal. I watched political debates over immigration in the early 2000s shape how families like mine were treated. It made me pay attention.

That early curiosity led me to the high school debate club, then to campus activism in college, and eventually to a career in politics. I worked on campaigns and later served in the Illinois State Senate. I believed I was contributing to something greater, a better public future. But over time, I began to feel I was living a double life.

Catholics, after all, are not strangers to political engagement, although they differ in their leanings. A 2024 Pew Research Center survey found that 52 percent of U.S. Catholics identify or lean Republican, while 44 percent identify or lean Democratic. It is a near-even split that reflects the diversity of the Church’s laity in political thought. Yet political affiliation alone cannot define Catholic civic responsibility, which must first be rooted in faith and moral conscience.

Working in Springfield, Illinois, brought that contradiction into focus. I was excited to begin my role, but quickly realized that being a legislative assistant often meant doing whatever was asked, organizing offices, running errands, or defending decisions that conflicted with my Catholic beliefs. The Eighth Commandment instructs Catholics not to bear false witness against their neighbor. Yet, I felt I was doing exactly that when justifying policies I knew were morally flawed but were labeled as good politics.

When budget season arrived, I found myself facilitating tens of thousands of dollars in taxpayer spending on mailers and office supplies while struggling to afford rent and working a second job. My conscience was unsettled.

At the same time, I began reconnecting deeply with my faith.

During the pandemic, Catholic voices on social media sparked something in me. Though I had grown up a "cultural Catholic," I had never opened the Bible. As I leaned into prayer and study, I sought out a spiritual director, Father Brendan, who helped me process the conflict between my beliefs and my work. He introduced me to A Man for All Seasons, a film about St. Thomas More, an English statesman who was executed for refusing to acknowledge King Henry VIII as the head of the Church of England. He remained loyal to the pope and was later canonized as a saint in the Catholic Church.

If you think you have gone through something difficult, there is likely a saint who has experienced a similar challenge. For me, that saint is Thomas More. His unwavering loyalty to the Church made him the patron saint of statesmen and politicians, and a model of moral integrity and conscience in public life.

As I was discerning the tension, Pope Francis gave this moral clarity: "A good Catholic meddles in politics, offering the best of himself, so that those who govern can govern." He emphasized that politics is "one of the highest forms of charity because it serves the common good," and that prayer and active participation are central.

I also found resonance in the experience of former Congressman Dan Lipinski, a devout Catholic who remained pro-life in a largely pro-choice party. He criticized partisanship as a "sectarian divide" and warned that "people are making their political party their religion," adding that he believed Catholics could help bridge that gap. He lost his seat in a 2020 primary in part because he refused to compromise on conscience, a reminder that moral consistency often comes at a cost.

Sen. Marco Rubio, also a practicing Catholic, has echoed similar struggles from the right. "Faith shapes my values. It influences the dignity of life, the importance of marriage, and the obligation to help those in need," he said during a 2015 presidential debate. Rubio has often spoken about how his faith informs his policy decisions and how that same faith draws skepticism in a political climate that frequently treats conviction as extremism. He continues to reference his faith publicly, including during his Senate confirmation hearing for Secretary of State five months ago.

Like Lipinski, he illustrates how Catholics in public life face pressure from both sides of the aisle when their values challenge the party line.

After months of discernment, I left the Senate and the political career I had worked so hard to build. I chose journalism instead, a field where I could still engage with public life but with truth, not spin, at the center.

This decision was mine alone, but it was informed by Catholic teaching. The Catechism is clear: "Those subject to authority should regard those in authority as representatives of God" (CCC 2238), and "co-responsibility for the common good makes it morally obligatory to pay taxes, exercise the right to vote and to defend one's country" (CCC 2240).

Voting is not optional for Catholics. Civic participation is not just a right. It is a duty. Yet today, many young Catholics opt out. Some refuse to vote because they believe neither party reflects their values. Others, disillusioned by corruption or moral compromise, think political involvement is inherently dirty. But inaction is not a virtue. The Gospel calls us to be salt and light, to engage the world, not retreat from it.

Here is what should be happening: Catholics, especially young ones, need to renew their civic engagement in a way that resists polarization. We must form our conscience, speak out even against our own party, and participate consistently even when options are imperfect. Withdrawal is not moral purity. It is a failure of duty.

To be clear, the Church does not demand blind allegiance to any party or politician. Catholics are called to speak out when policies violate human dignity. But choosing not to vote or to disengage is a failure to contribute to the common good.

Much of this confusion stems from misreading "separation of church and state." That phrase is not in the Constitution. It came from Thomas Jefferson in a letter reassuring Baptists that the government would not interfere with their religious practice. The First Amendment protects the free exercise of religion and prohibits the establishment of religion. It does not ask the faithful to leave their values at the door of public life.

The Church reaffirmed this in the Second Vatican Council's Dignitatis Humanae, which emphasized religious liberty and action under the Gospel Law. Catholics can and must participate in political life while remaining faithful to the Church's teachings.

In 1 Timothy 2:2, St. Paul urges prayers "for kings and all in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness." Every Sunday, we pray for our elected leaders and ask that they govern wisely. But prayer must be paired with action. Catholics are not passive observers. We are citizens.

In a moment of polarization and despair, opting out may feel easier. However, democracy depends on those willing to participate. My choice to leave politics was an act of conscience. But my continued engagement through journalism is my way of staying in the arena and encouraging others to do the same.

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