Rachel Lu has written a thoughtful reflection on the personal obligations of voting and the potential moral difficulties that come with it. I find most of her observations to be valuable, though I don’t think that they lead to the conclusion she draws, namely, that there is a strong moral presumption to vote—and to vote for a major party candidate who has a reasonable chance of winning and governing.

Two of Lu’s points are particularly worthy of further consideration. The first is her emphasis on the centrality of voting to citizenship. Voting, she says, is “the most defining civic contribution of a democratic citizen.” This may be correct, but as I note below, it hinges on—and perhaps helps us better contextualize—the word “civic.”

The second is her important observation that voting for a particular candidate, even reluctantly and strategically, tends to draw a person in deeper and forge a commitment that may not have been there initially: “Once they’ve picked a team, most voters find it extremely difficult to avoid the temptations of groupthink, confirmation bias, and specious rationalization. … Unless reservations have been very carefully and conscientiously developed beforehand, they tend to be shunted into a footnote once the election is over.”

Both of these points, I believe, lead in a slightly different direction than Lu takes them, if we distinguish between political engagement “as a democratic citizen” and the wider scope of public engagement that a person may have. Any moral obligation to vote, I believe, must spring from a general obligation to contribute to the common life of our community. And when we converse about voting, or even political engagement more broadly, we are, to use the story of the blind men and the elephant that Lu relates, still only describing one part of that elephant—and probably a part near the rear.

Lu may be correct in saying that voting is the “most defining civic contribution of a democratic citizen,” but that fact should serve to remind us just how small our “civic contributions” as “democratic citizen[s]” are in the overall scheme of our shared life. Voting is, after all, something done every few months at most, and for many, if not most citizens, it is something done every few years. If it is indeed the most important civic act, we should conclude that our other, non-civic activity constitutes a much more important contribution to our society.

In making this observation, I have in mind a short essay by Michael Oakeshott, “The Claims of Politics,” which was published in Religion, Politics and the Moral Life. Taking on the idea that there is a general moral obligation to participate in politics, Oakeshott reminds us that everything we do has some sort of social element to it—it affects those around us in some way, shape, or form. “Our choice, then, lies not between a life exclusively devoted to merely private interests and one connected with the communal life of our society, but between a life which has its place either here or there in the common life.”

The place of politics, he argues, is a limited, defensive one, which serves to maintain and preserve a social and cultural life that is before it and which draws its vitality from other sources:

A political system presupposes a civilization; it has a function to perform in regard to that civilization, but it is a function mainly of protection and to a minor degree of merely mechanical interpretation and expression. The things political activity can achieve are often valuable, but I do not believe that they are ever the most valuable things in the communal life of a society.

Politics is a limited undertaking, but as much as any human activity, those engaged in it often claim much more for it, seeing themselves as the managers of society. And as Socrates observed, politicians often think themselves the wisest of men when in fact they know very little. For those who give themselves over to it, then, political activism in a modern democracy can have an incredibly distorting and degrading effect. Oakeshott was rather brutal in describing its tendencies: It brings down a “mental fog,” stymies “emotional and intellectual integrity,” and develops “a mind fixed and callous to all subtle distinctions, emotional and intellectual habits become bogus from repetition and lack of examination, unreal loyalties, delusive aims [and] false significances.” This was written in 1939, but a better description of politics in the era of social media could hardly be imagined.

I wouldn’t say that everyone who engages in politics or activism necessarily falls victim to the worst of these tendencies. It is possible to thoughtfully and moderately engage, especially if one keeps the limits of politics firmly in view. I can even identify a politician or two in recent memory who seemed able to maintain an independent mind, even if they had to engage in simplifications and talking points along the way. But after surveying the membership of the House of Representatives, watching a party convention or presidential debate on television, or reading the dreaded “comments section,” it would be difficult to argue that description is very far off base.

Of course, the arguments Oakeshott made were not about voting (which he actually dismisses as relatively insignificant) but about a more extensive and regularized political activism. I still think they are relevant to the present discussion.

First, the arguments often heard for a moral imperative to vote—and to vote strategically for one major party or the other, even if you don’t like either—generally rely on an unstated premise that your minuscule individual influence on elections is the most important way, or even the only way, you can meaningfully contribute to a society that needs revitalization. This—“the most important election of our lifetime”—is the “only way to save the country!” By putting politics in its proper place, we are in a better position to dismiss these demands.

Second, Lu’s point about the emotional and psychological pull of voting is important here. The act of casting a ballot is not as important as the effect the vote has on the voter. Perhaps it can instill a salutary sense of civic obligation. But as she notes, once a man declares himself to be “on the team,” it is all too easy to accede to the asinine talking points, the reductive arguments, the crass attacks on others, the blind loyalties, and the “calloused” mind.

The main point of Oakeshott’s essay was that there are certain contributions to a civilization—he had in mind high artistic and philosophic endeavors—that will be distorted or abandoned if those performing them give themselves over to politics. A similar point, I think, can be applied much more widely to more mundane parts of society. Sadly, we have ample evidence around us that even those who are not running for office or volunteering for the local party often have a hard time preventing their partisan zeal from affecting their regular contributions to society. They start to see everything—their religion, their vocation, their relationships with neighbors, even their family life—through a pair of partisan glasses. A society in need of rejuvenation needs good schoolteachers, pastors, families, scholars, artists, and neighbors more than it needs voters.

That definitely doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t vote—a healthy society needs good voters, too. But it does at least suggest there is a significant portion of the population today that would do well to dial back their political engagement significantly. And if that means “checking out” completely, it may well be a healthy thing. Moreover, since partisan politics does so much of its work by lying about, distorting, and simplifying our understanding of the world around us, being sucked into its vortex actually threatens one of the most important attributes of a citizen qua citizen: our ability to comprehend ourselves and the civilization we inhabit.

To borrow from constitutional law, Lu argues that the decision not to vote for a major party candidate must survive something like strict scrutiny review: one must have a compelling moral reason not to vote for a viable candidate, and abstention must be the only reasonable way to satisfy that moral obligation. I would argue that, once we recognize the limits of politics and its increasingly common tendency to distort other, more important commitments, something more like a “rational basis review” is appropriate. Politics does have an important, and limited function in our social life. If, in a voter’s judgment, one of the candidates or parties on offer seems likely to perform that function well, he should vote for him. If neither candidate seems likely to do so, he shouldn’t vote. Of course, that judgment can get complicated, but the scale is not necessarily tilted in favor of voting for a viable candidate. There are many other, more important ways to contribute to one’s community, country, and civilization.

Any opinions expressed are the author’s and do not necessarily reflect those of Liberty Fund.