What is wrong with man? Every political philosophy begins with an answer to that question. Scripture’s answer changes everything.

As New York celebrated the victories of Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s endorsed candidates this week, I recalled something he said after his own victory last fall: “Praise be to Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful.” Predictably, much of the conversation has centered on his politics and, as we approach the 25th anniversary of 9/11, his public invocation of Allah.

Government can restrain the effects of evil. It cannot regenerate the human heart.

Those discussions are important, of course. But I found myself thinking about something else.

Gratitude reveals theology because we instinctively thank the one we believe governs reality. Some thank fortune. Some thank the market. Some thank government. Some thank the universe. Some thank themselves.

Our gratitude reveals what we ultimately believe about reality.

New York’s mayor publicly thanking Allah does more than express personal devotion. He is acknowledging a theological authority. Theology never stays inside the sanctuary. Eventually, it walks into the courtroom, the classroom, the legislature — and the voting booth.

Theology inevitably shapes our understanding of human nature. That understanding eventually produces a political philosophy.

Most Americans assume we are arguing about taxes, health care, immigration, education, or economics. We are not. Beneath every political argument lies another question.

What is wrong with man?

Every political philosophy answers it.

If man is basically good, then his deepest problem lies outside himself. The system is broken. The economy is broken. The institutions are broken. Change the system, and people should improve with it.

That assumption helps explain socialism’s enduring appeal. If people are basically good but trapped inside unjust structures, then changing those structures becomes the highest moral priority. Build a better system, and society should improve.

Scripture begins somewhere else.

Jeremiah addresses the heart: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick.” Jesus locates murder, theft, adultery, greed, envy, and slander in the heart as well. Paul affirms the same conclusion when he writes in Romans that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

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If Scripture is right, no political system can solve mankind’s deepest problem.

The reformers understood that sin had not merely damaged humanity but corrupted every faculty of our being. We still bear God’s image and remain capable of astonishing courage, creativity, generosity, and sacrifice. But we are also fallen.

Those convictions profoundly influenced the political imagination of the men who framed the Constitution. The framers did not write the Constitution for basically good people. They wrote one for sinners.

They divided power through checks and balances because they knew power does not sanctify fallen people. It magnifies them.

Their greatest political achievement was not trusting themselves. As a result, the framers collectively produced a document better than they were.

Checks and balances are not expressions of political optimism. They reflect theological realism. They acknowledge that no office, no election, and no majority vote can cure what Jeremiah identified in the human heart.

The same view of human nature should shape how we think about wealth. Whenever someone accumulates great wealth, someone inevitably says, “Think what we could do with all that money.”

Elon Musk’s extraordinary wealth has simply made that argument impossible to ignore.

“Think what we could do with all that money.”

Notice what is quietly assumed. We imagine our compassion is purer, our judgment sounder, and our motives less corrupted.

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When Mary poured perfume worth nearly a year’s wages on Jesus’ feet, Judas objected.

“Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?”

On the surface, it sounds compassionate, practical, even responsible. Then the apostle John adds one sentence that changes everything.

“He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief.”

John does not debate Judas’ proposal. He exposes Judas’ motive.

There is a kind of generosity that costs us nothing because it spends someone else’s resources. Judas voiced it. John exposed it. Every generation repeats it.

Before we recognize Judas in someone else’s politics, we ought to recognize him in ourselves.

When I stand before God, he will not ask me what others did with their resources. He will ask what I did with mine.

That question reaches far beyond money. It reaches into our families, churches, communities, opportunities, and even our suffering. How we steward each of them reveals our theology.

Politics asks, “Who should control this?” Stewardship asks, “Lord, what would you have me do with what you have entrusted to me today?”

Good government, the rule of law, checks and balances — all of those things matter. But they can only restrain the effects of what Scripture says is already there. They cannot create what Scripture says is missing.

Government bears the sword. Christ bore the cross.

Government can restrain the effects of evil. It cannot regenerate the human heart.

Only the gospel can make sinners new.

We do not merely need a better system. We need a new heart.