When educated Christians think about “Christian social thought,” they probably have in mind the Catholic or Reformed traditions, as well as key figures such as Pope Leo XIII or theologian-turned-statesman Abraham Kuyper. The Orthodox Church, in contrast, is widely believed not to have a unified set of teachings on politics, economics, and the good society. But this belief is wrong. In The Kingdom of God and the Common Good: Orthodox Christian Social Thought, Dylan Pahman, an Orthodox Christian and researcher at the Acton Institute, has shown that Orthodoxy has something meaningful to say about markets, politics, and civil society. It is an impressive work full of insights for Christians of all confessions.

Pahman’s book tackles a weighty question: How should Orthodox Christians think about economic affairs and our shared public life? His answer weaves together Scripture, Church history, economic theory, and contemporary policy debates. The result is a much-needed bridge between theology and economics. Theologians often know the good but not how to achieve it; economists can speak intelligently about tradeoffs but not what our goals should be. We need both to build a free and virtuous society.

What about non-Christians? I believe men and women of goodwill with other (or no) religious convictions can profit from Pahman’s book. The text grapples with fundamental questions about human cooperation, the relationship between virtue and prosperity, and how we might temper our political disputes—questions that transcend any single faith tradition. Moreover, Orthodox social thought offers a perspective largely absent from American public discourse, which has been dominated by Catholic and Protestant voices. Anyone interested in how religious communities can contribute to pluralistic democracy without either withdrawing from public life or imposing their views on others will find much to value here. The book models a form of faithful engagement that respects both deep conviction and genuine pluralism.

In this review, I highlight three points of contact between Orthodox social thought and political economy that Pahman’s book illuminates—connections that are ancient in provenance yet perennially relevant.

Participation in God’s holiness is a foundational Orthodox tenet. We do not believe in a distant or aloof God. In Jesus Christ, God Himself came to dwell among us. We are called to be “God’s fellow workers,” as St. Paul puts it in his first letter to the Corinthians. This is the beating heart of Orthodox theology.

Centuries later, St. Maximos the Confessor taught that humanity’s purpose is to unite all creation to God through our cooperation with divine grace. We participate in God’s creative and redeeming work. Everything we do, provided we do it prayerfully, can bring us closer to God.

This doctrine has important economic implications. If we are called to be fellow-workers with God, then our economic life—our production, trade, and daily work—can be sanctified. When a person cultivates a field, builds a chair, writes code, or even publishes scholarly economics papers, he potentially participates in God’s ongoing creative activity. The question is not whether these activities can be holy. Rather, it is whether we do them to honor God and serve our neighbors.

Commerce and wealth creation are an arena for us to struggle in holiness. This is the first crucial insight: Orthodox Christianity does not require us to flee the marketplace to find God. We can meet Him there, if we have eyes to see.

Yet there is a tension here, one Pahman confronts in his book. The Church Fathers are correct to warn us about the enervating effects of wealth. Riches bring temptation. They can make us self-satisfied, indifferent to others’ suffering, and forgetful of God. The wound of sin often causes us to mistake the means for the end.

However, careful reading of the Fathers reveals several instances of cautious optimism about commerce itself. For example, while St. John Chrysostom preached against luxury and indulgence, he also praised production and trade. How can this be? The answer is that commerce is fundamentally about cooperation and service. It meets real human needs of both body and soul.

The division of labor reflects man’s universal brotherhood. When commuters purchase their morning coffee, they are participating in a vast web of cooperation with farmers in Colombia, truckers crisscrossing the United States, the folks who roasted the beans, and so on, all the way to the server in front of them. The vast majority of these people are strangers. Yet through commerce, we can extend our goodwill beyond the limits of our conscious intentions. We serve each other. Production and trade help us think about what others want. Economic life can be a meaningful realm of fellowship.

The Fathers understood that trade, at its best, requires honesty, fair dealing, and concern for the other person’s welfare. These are Christian virtues. Thus, commerce can be a school for virtue.

But—and here is the paradox—commerce creates wealth. The very activity that teaches us cooperation and service to strangers also produces abundance, which can corrupt us. So how do we reconcile this?

As always, we must remember the Church. There is no substitute for grafting ourselves onto Christ’s Body. The Church’s worshipping and ascetical practices orient our lives. They can help us achieve the benefits of commerce without being corrupted by the resulting wealth. Our liturgical and sacramental life trains us to hold wealth lightly, to see it as a trust rather than a possession, and to practice generosity rather than accumulation.

Note well: This only works if our commercial activities are within and through the Church. We cannot do this alone. It is not enough to read some old texts and apply them as our individual consciences see fit. Fasting, almsgiving, confession, prayer—these are corporate practices. Doing them together as a community of faith helps us lessen our attachment to material things. The Christian businessman cannot remain Christian for long without the Church.

Asceticism may seem like an odd topic for a book about political economy. As Pahman shows, it is anything but. In perhaps the book’s most original section, he identifies important parallels between Adam Smith’s tripartite social structure (state, commercial society, and beneficent society) and the three stages of perfection (slave, steward, and son) in Orthodox ascetical theology.

Ascetism is a spiritual discipline. It teaches us to empty ourselves of good things so God can fill us with even better things. We do not refrain from meat because meat is bad. Instead, are training our wills to serve higher ends than immediate gratification.

But “spiritual” does not mean “private.” In the Orthodox tradition, everyone is called to asceticism. It is not just for monks. A busy father fasting during Lent, a businesswoman limiting her work hours to spend time in prayer, and a politician restraining his rhetoric are all forms of self-denial. And each has important social implications.

Asceticism is a form of love. By refusing to take our full advantage, we show mercy to our fellow men, created in God’s image no less than we are. When we fast, we stand in solidarity with the hungry. When we limit our production and exchanges, we leave more time for the family and friends with which God has blessed us. When we restrain our speech, refusing to participate in a rhetorical arms race, we preserve space for genuine dialogue and social peace.

Pahman is surely correct that Christians should think about political economy ascetically. This can help restore temperance and prudence in our public affairs. As everyone knows, our politics has become acrimonious and vengeful. We are at each other’s throats. We spare nobody. Every procedural tool becomes a weapon. Every disagreement becomes existential. This cannot go on. We need more of the ascetical attitude on both sides.

Ascetical politics means curbing our rhetoric even when we could score points. It means declining to engage in lawfare even if we could get away with it. It means listening carefully to those with whom we disagree, even when it is easier to caricature them. It means admitting our own side’s faults instead of doubling down. And it means loving our enemies, even if they wish to destroy us

This is incredibly hard. It requires not only prudence, but a great deal of courage. Putting social harmony and the common good above short-term victory involves a heroic devotion of will. We must not treat our political opponents as unpersuadable or irredeemable. By God’s grace, repentance and mercy are always possible.

Christians need both good economics and the Church’s moral teachings. These are complements, not substitutes. Sound economics helps us understand how the world works—how incentives shape behavior, how markets coordinate activity, how policies produce unintended consequences. The Church’s teachings tell us what we should value and how we should treat each other.

We cannot have one without the other. Economics without Christian morality becomes amoral pragmatism at best, rampant egotism at worst. Christian morality without economic literacy yields policies that, however well-intentioned, hurt the very people they are meant to help.

I believe, thanks in part to thoughtful works such as Pahman’s, we can be hopeful about the prospects for Christian political economy. More specifically, we can embrace America’s traditional constitutional principles—ordered liberty, free enterprise, federalism, limited government, the rule of law—while giving God and our neighbors their due.

But not if we keep our faith private. It is true that Christians are forbidden from forcing our religion on others. Yet Jesus is Lord of all, including the public square. How we act through the political process must be informed by our belief in Christ and His Church. Our faith shapes our politics. To paraphrase Abraham Kuyper, ‘There is no square inch of creation over which Christ does not declare, “Mine!”’ Bracketing our deepest convictions when we deliberate policy is not civility, but cowardice.

As personal examples, when I advocate for sound money, I do so as an Orthodox Christian who believes inflationviolates the biblical principle of just weights and measures. When I defend limited government, I do so because Orthodox anthropology teaches me to be skeptical of concentrated power and to value the local and particular. When I support free enterprise, I do so because I believe in human creativity as a participation in God’s own creative activity.

This may raise some alarms for non-Christians. Are those unconvinced by the Gospel welcome in the freedom-and-virtue coalition? Certainly, they are. Pahman has shown that there is both a unique Orthodox perspective on social issues and a shared moral vocabulary for reflection on markets, politics, and civil society. Christians and non-Christians can argue for policies on grounds that are publicly accessible while being honest about the source of our particular moral commitments. After all, pluralism is a basic fact of American political life. A healthy pluralism requires citizens who know what they believe and why, yet remain open to persuasion and committed to the common good. Orthodox social thought, as Pahman presents it, models precisely this kind of engagement. It is rooted in tradition, yet capable of genuine dialogue with those who do disagree in good faith.

In conclusion, American freedom and Orthodox Christian social thought are reconcilable. They can be partners in the pursuit of ordered liberty and the common good. But only if we reject the false choice between faithful conviction and thoughtful engagement. Instead, we must do the hard work of harmonization that Pahman models in this book.