The Myth of Neutrality

“What we refuse to name, we quietly sustain. But silence is not the calling of an ambassador.”

The Allure of "Not Taking Sides"

We are living in an age of relentless polarization, where every issue feels like a battleground and every headline a moral litmus test, the idea of being "neutral" can feel like a profound virtue. Neutrality presents itself as wisdom, a form of balanced and spiritual maturity far removed from the digital mobs and cable news shouting matches. For many Christians, this retreat to neutrality has become a default stance in the face of controversy, conflict, and moral crisis. The motivation is not always indifference, but often profound exhaustion. When the world demands a verdict on every complex issue, silence can feel like a necessary refuge, a way to honour the biblical call to be “peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9).

This desire to retreat into the perceived comfort of nonalignment is understandable, especially for believers shaped by a culture that prizes kindness and peacemaking above all else. It is often justified with spiritual-sounding refrains: "Jesus didn't get political," "God is in control," or "Our job is to just love everyone". But while these statements contain elements of truth, they become dangerous when used to avoid the biblical mandate to confront injustice or name evil. To love our neighbour as ourselves (Mark 12:31) is not a passive sentiment; it is an active command that often demands we enter into messy situations.

What we label "neutrality" is rarely a blank, objective space; it is a choice. It is a decision to prioritize personal comfort over necessary confrontation. It is the posture of the priest and the Levite in the Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), who chose to pass by on the other side, preserving their own cleanliness and agenda while a man lay beaten on the road. Their inaction was not neutral; it was a decision that actively abandoned the suffering. As the author James Baldwin noted, "Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced". Choosing neutrality is to refuse to face the realities that our faith demands we confront.

The cost of this refusal is measured not just in policies or power, but in our witness. Jesus called his followers to be "the salt of the earth" and "the light of the world," warning that salt which loses its taste is worthless and a lamp hidden under a basket illuminates nothing (Matthew 5:13-16). Salt preserves and irritates. Light exposes and guides. Neither function is accomplished through passivity. A silent, invisible faith is a contradiction to its very purpose. What we remain silent about becomes part of what the world perceives us to stand for.

This is a call not to belligerence, but to faithful presence. We are called to live as representatives of a kingdom that transcends earthly political categories but utterly refuses moral apathy. We are, as the Apostle Paul writes, "ambassadors for Christ" (2 Corinthians 5:20), sent with a message from the One who sent us. An ambassador who refuses to speak when their king’s honour or their nation’s people are at stake ceases to be a representative. They have mistaken passivity for peace and silence for grace.

Having explored the cost of our applause in What We Cheer For and reckoned with our reflection in What Have We Become?, we must now examine the space we thought was safe and neutral. We must ask: what, and whom, does our silence truly serve?

The Illusion of the Middle Ground

There is a well-worn myth in modern Christian culture that the "middle ground" is the natural habitat of spiritual maturity. This view suggests that wisdom is found in detachment, truth in a constant tension between two poles, and virtue in a careful vagueness. While Scripture indeed warns against reckless partisanship and calls for gentleness (2 Timothy 2:24), the idea that we are called to a place of moral neutrality—hovering above the fray, unbothered by the suffering below—is not a biblical concept, but a cultural one.

Jesus did not come to earth to be neutral. He did not survey the moral landscape and conclude, "Well, both sides have a point". His ministry was one of divine clarity in a world desperate for light. He did not seek a middle path between holiness and corruption when He overturned the tables of the money-changers, declaring the temple a "den of robbers" (Matthew 21:12-13). He did not soften His language to appease the powerful when He confronted religious hypocrisy, calling the Pharisees "whitewashed tombs" and a "brood of vipers" (Matthew 23:27, 33). Jesus initiated confrontation not to win arguments, but to set captives free. He wasn't a moderate; He was the embodiment of truth.

The prophets before Him followed the same non-neutral path. They were not sent to deliver nuanced takes or seek diplomatic solutions between righteousness and sin. They were called to speak truth to power, often at significant personal cost. Nathan did not seek a compromise with King David; he confronted him directly over his adultery and murder, saying, "You are the man!" (2 Samuel 12:7). Jeremiah was thrown into a cistern not for being vague, but for declaring God's coming judgment (Jeremiah 38). Amos was not run out of town for finding a middle ground, but for condemning the exploitation of the poor (Amos 7:10-17). These were not neutral men; they were faithful ones, whose witness came not from standing in the middle, but from standing in the gap on behalf of God's justice.

Neutrality often masquerades as humility, but in practice, it can be a mask for fear or a shield for privilege. Those who benefit from the current arrangement of power have the luxury of claiming neutrality; those being crushed beneath it do not. To claim neutrality in the face of injustice is to align with the status quo tacitly. This is why the oft-repeated quote, "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor," remains so potent. It names a difficult truth: silence is not passive, it is participatory. The Apostle James echoes this, writing, "If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them" (James 4:17).

This is not a call to abandon wisdom for ideological crusades. But the way of Jesus is not found in a safe, calculated centre; it is found on the cross. The cross is the most non-neutral act in history. It is where God decisively intervened, taking a stand against sin and death by absorbing their full cost. It is the ultimate intersection of mercy and justice, of grace and truth. Isaiah’s warning remains haunting: "Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness" (Isaiah 5:20). But perhaps there is also a woe for those who, in an effort to offend no one, refuse to call anything anything at all. The Gospel was never meant to be buried in polite detachment; it is good news precisely because it speaks directly into the brokenness of the world, not around it.

Neutrality in the Public Square

If the myth of neutrality has taken root with particular persistence, it is in the public square. Here, faith is often expected to be quiet, polite, and thoroughly private. The prevailing message from the culture is clear: your beliefs are welcome so long as they remain in your heart and off your tongue. In other words, your faith is acceptable, provided it has no discernible effect on how you vote, work, lead, or engage with society.

This demand is often cloaked in the language of fairness and inclusion. We are told that for a pluralistic society to function, people of faith must act as though they believe nothing too deeply, at least not in public. But this is not true neutrality—it is a soft exclusion, a strategy that silences voices of conviction under the guise of maintaining peace. It asks Christians not merely to coexist, but to deny the very convictions that are meant to shape their lives. Tragically, many believers have complied. In a desire to be seen as respectful or relevant, we have learned to edit our witness, trading the power of a faithful presence for the perceived safety of invisibility. A Gospel that is too timid to speak in public, however, is a Gospel that cannot transform.

The Scriptures offer a more robust model than simple retreat. The prophet Jeremiah, writing to the Israelites exiled in a hostile, pagan Babylon, commanded them not to withdraw. Instead, he relayed God’s instruction: “Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper” (Jeremiah 29:7). This is not a call for domination or assimilation, but for active, faithful presence—working for the good of the society while maintaining a distinct identity as God’s people.

We see this modelled in figures like Daniel, who served with integrity at the highest levels of a foreign government, refusing to privatize his faith even under the threat of death (Daniel 6). We see it in the Apostle Paul, who stood in the intellectual marketplace of Athens and engaged the culture’s beliefs directly to bear witness to Christ (Acts 17:16-34). They repudiate the false choice that suggests our only options are cultural conquest or cowardly retreat.

Between those two extremes lies the path of faithful presence. Our engagement in the public square is not about seizing control, but about providing clarity. It is not a threat to pluralism; it is a necessary and promised part of it. Jesus declared that we are to be a "city on a hill" that "cannot be hidden". He commanded us to put our light on a stand, not under a basket, so that it "gives light to all in the house" (Matthew 5:14-15). The stated purpose of this visibility is not to win power, but that others would "see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). Our task is neither to withdraw from the world nor to conquer it, but to illuminate it. Christian neutrality in the public square is, therefore, a sign of retreat. And while the world may applaud our silence, heaven will not.

We Are Not Called to Dominate

For every Christian lulled by the myth of neutrality, there is another seduced by the myth of dominance. If the first temptation is to say nothing, the second is to believe we must say everything—and be obeyed. Responding to a feeling of cultural displacement, many Christians have pursued political supremacy and legislative control, believing the Kingdom of God can be ushered in by reclaiming the reins of Caesar.

But this fundamentally misunderstands our mission. Jesus did not call us to win culture wars; He called us to make disciples (Matthew 28:19-20). Dominance was never the way of Christ. When Satan took Him to a high mountain and offered Him all the kingdoms of the world in exchange for a moment of worship, Jesus flatly refused, choosing fidelity to God over worldly power (Matthew 4:8-10). He rejected the very prize that many now seek in His name.

His kingdom operates by a different logic. When His disciples argued about which of them was the greatest, Jesus corrected them directly: “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them... But you are not to be like that. Instead, the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves” (Luke 22:25-26). He wore a crown of thorns, not gold, and when Peter drew a sword to defend Him, Jesus rebuked him, making it clear that His victory would not be won through coercion. He later told Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight... But now my kingdom is from another place” (John 18:36). The weapons of our kingdom are not ballots and boycotts, but cross-bearing and dying to self.

A faith that seeks to dominate cannot bear the fruit of the Spirit, which is “love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22-23). A political strategy that relies on fear, anger, and division may generate policy, but not peace; it may win elections, but lose its soul. When we attempt to enforce Christian morality through sheer political clout, we do violence to our witness, turning the Gospel from a divine invitation into a human imposition. We create converts to an ideology, not disciples of Jesus.

This does not mean we disengage. Faithful presence is still essential. But we must constantly examine our motives. Are we entering the public square to serve, or to subdue? Are we speaking truth out of love for our neighbour, or out of fear of losing our status?

While neutrality is a myth, so is supremacy. We are ambassadors of a King who stooped to wash feet, not seize thrones. Our power is found in sacrificial love, not cultural control. If we truly believe the Gospel is good news, we will never need to force it on anyone. We will live it, proclaim it, and trust the Spirit to do the work that only God can do: change hearts.

What We Cheer For in Our Silence

There is a quiet applause in our silence. We may not intend to offer it, but our absence in critical moments speaks its own profound language. What we refuse to name, we quietly normalize. What we refuse to confront, we tacitly permit. In this way, our silence becomes a form of endorsement, a quiet nod to the status quo.

The Bible gives no room for the idea that inaction is neutral. In the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats (Matthew 25:31-46), those condemned are not judged for acts of malice, but for their failure to act. Their indictment is a list of omissions: “I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink… I was sick and in prison, and you did not look after me.” Their silence and inaction in the face of human suffering were a direct rejection of Christ Himself. Similarly, God warns the prophet Ezekiel that a "watchman" who sees danger but fails to sound the alarm will be held accountable for the deaths that result (Ezekiel 33:6). Silence in the face of evil is not innocence; it is complicity.

Many Christians remain silent because they feel caught, not wanting to align with the vitriol of one extreme or the heavy-handedness of another. They retreat into what feels like the safety of personal prayer and conviction. But when human dignity is being shredded, we are given a clear command. "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves," Proverbs 31:8-9 instructs. "Defend the rights of the poor and needy." This is not a suggestion for activists, but a baseline for believers.

Therefore, when a child’s innocence is commodified for profit, our silence disregards Jesus’ fierce warning to those who cause a "little one" to stumble (Matthew 18:6). When a refugee is dehumanized and turned away, our silence ignores the command to "love the foreigner as yourself" (Leviticus 19:34). When a leader claims a divine mandate while mocking the fruits of the Spirit, our silence helps bless their hypocrisy.

In these moments, our silence is interpreted as consent, especially by those most in need of an advocate. We become known not for what we believe, but for what we are willing to overlook. The Gospel, however, is not silent. It speaks. It names sin. It defends the voiceless and calls us to participate in redemption. While we are not called to have an opinion on every headline, where truth and human dignity are at stake, we cannot remain quiet without betraying the One we follow. We must ask: Whose peace is our silence preserving? And at what cost?

What Have We Become By Staying Neutral?

The question is no longer whether neutrality is a myth, but what embracing it has cost us. When we look at the political polarization, the moral confusion, and the growing cynicism toward the Church, we must ask: What have we become by attempting to stay neutral?

Firstly, we have become passive in the face of pain. When abuse scandals have rocked our denominations, our first instinct has too often been to protect the institution rather than the vulnerable. We have remained silent in the name of unity, only to preserve rot instead of peace. In doing so, we have mirrored the failed shepherds of Israel, whom the prophet Ezekiel condemned for feeding themselves while ignoring the weak, sick, and injured sheep (Ezekiel 34:2-4).

Secondly, we have become inconsistent witnesses. We have been loud on certain personal sins while whispering about systemic injustice, greed, or racism. This mirrors the exact hypocrisy Jesus condemned in the Pharisees: "You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel," He chided, for focusing on minor points of piety while neglecting "the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness" (Matthew 23:24). This inconsistency has confused the world and ourselves.

Thirdly, we have become fearful stewards. Out of a fear of offending, we have often buried our prophetic witness like the worthless servant in the Parable of the Talents, who hid his master’s money in the ground (Matthew 25:24-25). We have mistaken cultural respectability for righteousness, forgetting that influence built on ambiguity cannot withstand a crisis.

Perhaps most tragically, we have become unreliable ambassadors. By trying so hard not to offend, we have become forgettable. We have become like the church in Laodicea, which was neither hot nor cold, but sickeningly "lukewarm" (Revelation 3:15-16). The world no longer knows what we stand for, only what we seem to be trying to avoid. We speak of love but are absent in suffering; we talk of truth but hesitate to name lies. Neutrality has made us more palatable, but less prophetic.

Our intention is not to shame, but to awaken. This is a call to return to the kind of faithful, courageous witness that doesn't cling to neutrality as a defence, but embraces faithfulness as a calling.

The Grace of Engagement

We just examined the myths of neutrality and dominance, this one shines a light on the path forward: graceful engagement. This path is not characterized by combativeness or an obsession with control, but by a faithful presence marked by the character of Christ. Too often, we assume that bold engagement must be abrasive, as though conviction and compassion cannot coexist. But in Scripture, grace is not weakness or passivity; it is divine power—restrained, redemptive, and rooted in love.

As John 1:14 declares, Jesus came “full of grace and truth”. He did not balance these virtues; He embodied both completely. This synthesis is our model, correcting the twin errors that this essay has explored: truth without grace becomes brutality (the mistake of dominance). In contrast, grace without truth becomes mere sentimentality (the error of neutrality).

Jesus modelled this fusion perfectly. With the woman caught in adultery, He offered dignity and protection through grace (“Neither do I condemn you”) before calling her to a new life in truth (“Go and leave your life of sin”). When the rich young ruler came to him, Jesus "looked at him and loved him" (grace), yet immediately spoke the hard truth that he must sell all he had to inherit eternal life. He extended grace to the corrupt tax collector Zacchaeus by entering his home. That very act of grace is what prompted Zacchaeus to embrace the truth of repentance and restitution.

As believers, our engagement must follow this pattern. The Apostle Paul instructs, "Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone" (Colossians 4:6). Our words must be gracious, but also seasoned with the distinctive and preserving salt of the truth. We are to give a reason for the hope we have, but to do so with “gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15).

If we truly see ourselves as “ambassadors for Christ” (2 Corinthians 5:20), we must remember that our message is "the message of reconciliation" (2 Corinthians 5:19), and our tone is one of pleading, not demanding. We are accountable not to the culture we speak into, but to the kingdom we come from.

Grace-filled engagement means:

• Speaking up for the voiceless, but doing so with humility.

• Defending truth, but never dehumanizing those who disagree.

• Entering the public square with discernment and a heart to serve, not with demands to dominate.

This engagement is not just a proclamation; it is a presence. It means earning the right to be heard through lives of integrity and honouring the command to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15).

Ultimately, graceful engagement requires a profound dependence on the Holy Spirit. We are not the saviours or the judges. It is the Spirit who convicts the world of sin (John 16:8), not our arguments or political pressure. Our call is to be faithful, trusting that transformation happens “‘Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,’ says the Lord Almighty” (Zechariah 4:6). In a culture of shouting, grace is a subversive act—louder than hate, more disarming than any argument, and more enduring than any political platform.

Choose This Day

There comes a point in every generation where the Church must decide what kind of presence it will be—not just what it believes in theory, but how it lives in practice. The choice before us is clear: will we be faithful, or will we be neutral?

Neutrality, for all its appearances of wisdom, is a myth. In a world wounded by injustice and manipulated by power, it is not a sanctuary but a surrender. It is the apathy that abandons the weak and the silence that blesses the strong, rendering the Church forgettable even when its buildings are full. We can no longer afford to waver between two opinions. The prophet Elijah’s challenge to a compromising nation echoes today: “How long will you waver between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal is God, follow him” (1 Kings 18:21).

To claim the title of "ambassador" is to renounce the option of hiding. We represent a kingdom that has no neutral ground when it comes to mercy, justice, and truth. But that kingdom has no room for triumphalism. We do not engage to dominate or defeat; we bear witness to another way—the way of grace, sacrifice, and hope. Our aim is not to win the culture, but to be faithful citizens of heaven who live with love and courage on earth.

Therefore, we must choose. Joshua’s ancient charge to Israel still rings with relevance: “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Joshua 24:15). This is a call to renew our allegiance, not to a political party or a cultural agenda, but to Christ himself. We cannot serve both Christ and our comfort. We cannot be ambassadors of grace if we are unwilling to stand and speak as if the Gospel is still good news for the public square.

Neutrality may feel safe, but faithfulness requires more. So let us leave the myth behind.

Let us choose the Cross over convenience.

Let us choose truth over silence.

Let us choose grace over dominance.

Let us choose faithfulness over fear.

Let us choose Christ fully, publicly, and without apology.