...so, Prime Minister Tru...I mean, Dutton

Peter Dutton is gunning to be Prime Minister, and Astrayans might fall for it. 

And I’m worried.

A lot of people I know vote conservative, not necessarily because of a deep dive into policy or political philosophy, but because it feels more in step with their faith than anything offered by the left.

Truth is, the right-wing movement has never really been about faith. Not really. Not in the U.S., and certainly not in Australia. It’s about power—who holds it, who gets left out, and how the rules are shaped to make sure it never really slips away. The difference is that in America, Christianity has been the tool of choice. It’s overt, loud, wrapped in flags and Bibles, sold as the backbone of national identity—sometimes quite literally. Think Trump’s latest for-profit Bible, as if salvation can be sold at a campaign rally (but made in China).

In Australia, it’s more shaded, more institutional, more about fear and culture than faith and scripture. The right-wing movement here is still barreling down the same highway—same engine, same destination—just without a branded Bible on the dash (but usually with an Aussie flag or a Southern Cross, flapping on the window housing).

I’ve lived at the intersection of both worlds. I spent years working in a church, immersed in the very structures that in the U.S. have become deeply entangled with right-wing politics. I’ve also spent years working in public schools as a youth worker, watching firsthand how the so-called "culture wars" are playing out in education—how ideological battles over gender, inclusion, and social justice filter down to the students who just need a safe place to learn. And now, as a psychosocial recovery coach working with neurodiverse and trauma-affected clients, I see how policy, ideology, and power struggles don’t just exist in theory—they have real consequences for the people who are already struggling the most.

Dutton’s bid for Prime Minister is a perfect example. He doesn’t need Christian nationalism. He doesn’t need fire-and-brimstone speeches about morality. He has law and order. He has fear. He has the same promises that every right-wing movement in history has thrived on—things are out of control, and only we can fix it.

And yet, there’s something else at play. Dutton has spent years trying to carve out his identity as a leader, and in doing so, he’s leaned heavily into a Trumpesque playbook—just without the hair. The same appeals to nationalism, the same obsession with crime and borders, the same overcooked outrage about "wokeness" that seems less like a genuine conviction and more like a calculated attempt to ride the culture war wave. All wrapped up in a charisma-free package—the kind that mistakes rigidity for strength, bluntness for leadership, and a total absence of charm for some kind of tough-guy authenticity.

If Trump is all bluster and bravado, Dutton is the bureaucratic void, a hollow-man-strongman, whose lack of personality is spun as a virtue—cold, calculated and efficient. Both he and Trump are amorphous versions of a long-deceased Austrian, stripped of ideology and distilled down to pure political opportunism. The image is different, but the methods are the same: stoke division, create panic, promise order.

They say crime is up. They say youth violence is out of control. They say the economy is unstable. They say they’ll also "fix" bulk billing—but only by slashing 36,000 public service jobs. It’s me-tooism with strings attached. Dutton is borrowing popular policies while gutting the very systems that make them work. It’s not just a health policy; it’s a Trojan horse for shrinking the public sector. Just like his ‘law and order’ playbook, it’s fear and crisis, repackaged as a solution. They say the left is making the country unrecognizable. The solutions? Crackdowns, policing, restrictions, protections for "traditional values"—whatever those are. But what’s missing from the conversation is how much of it is manufactured, how much of it is about keeping power exactly where it is.

Unlike America, Australia doesn’t have a long history of wrapping politics in religious fervor. We never had the same deep fusion of faith and government, other than the Lord's prayer when starting the day in parliament. We don't have the same constant battle over whether we are a "Christian nation." But we do have something just as powerful—a national identity that can be twisted, repackaged, and sold back to us as something under threat.

Clive Palmer is already capitalizing on this with his new "Trumpet of Patriots" party. Inspired by Trumpism, but stripped of its religious veneer, it’s pushing the same reactionary policies—anti-immigration, anti-trans, economic protectionism—but under the banner of nationalism, not faith. It’s proof that in Australia, you don’t need Christian nationalism to push a right-wing agenda. You just need the right kind of fear.

It’s in the schools, where progressive policies are painted as dangerous and destructive. It’s in the media, where “woke culture” is blamed for everything from economic instability to declining birth rates. It’s in the laws being proposed, the way “religious freedom” is being redefined to allow institutions to discriminate, the way any move toward inclusion or social progress is reframed as an attack on "our way of life."

In the US, the right hides behind God. In Australia, they hide behind something else—national identity, economic security, law and order. The goal is the same. Keep control. Hold power. Decide who belongs and who doesn’t.

So Yeah, I’m Worried

I see it every day. In public schools, where students from marginalized backgrounds are being told, in ways big and small, that they don’t belong. In the mental health and disability space, where funding battles and policy shifts put neurodiverse and trauma-affected clients at the mercy of decisions made by people who will never experience the consequences of their policies. In faith communities, where genuine spirituality is being co-opted by political actors who want to use it as a wedge to divide, rather than a force to heal.

There’s something about all of this that feels eerily familiar, something that echoes from ancient warnings.

"Their mouths speak great swelling words, flattering people to gain advantage. But you, beloved, remember the words which were spoken before by the apostles of our Lord Jesus Christ: that they told you there would be mockers in the last time who would walk according to their own ungodly lusts." (Jude 1:16-18).

Power speaks in many tongues. Sometimes it cloaks itself in scripture. Sometimes it drapes itself in a flag. Sometimes it prints its own Bible and sells it for profit. But its true allegiance is always to itself.

And so the real question isn’t whether Australia will follow America into a full-scale embrace of Christian nationalism. It’s whether we’ll even notice as our own version of right-wing power consolidation continues to shape the future of Astraya.

Because history has a way of repeating itself—just ask anyone who’s lived under a government that stopped answering to its people. Power without accountability doesn’t just drift toward control; it grabs the wheel with both hands and plants the foot.