In the hallowed halls of Treasury buildings, behind the pulpits of CNBC, and within the sacred texts of Economics 101, a powerful religion holds sway over our modern world. Its priests don’t wear robes but Brooks Brothers suits. Its temples are trading floors. And its deity, the Invisible Hand, moves in mysterious ways, blessing some with abundance while demanding sacrifice from others.

Welcome, dear reader, to the Church of the Invisible Hand.

Like all successful religions, mainstream economics presents itself as natural, inevitable, and beyond questioning. Its commandments, thou shalt balance budgets, thou shalt not interfere with markets, thou shalt worship at the altar of efficiency, are delivered not as political choices but as immutable laws of nature, as undeniable as gravity.

Consider the curious transformation that occurred after World War II. For six years, Western governments had demonstrated an extraordinary capacity to mobilize resources, direct industry, and achieve full employment through centralized planning. The impossible suddenly seemed possible. Ordinary people began asking dangerous questions: If we can afford to build thousands of tanks and planes, why not houses and hospitals? If the state can guarantee jobs during wartime, why not during peace?

The faithful grew nervous. The veil between economic reality and economic mythology had slipped.

Enter the new theologians. Men like Luigi Einaudi in Rome, meticulously composing budgets like papal encyclicals, and Ralph Hawtrey in London, arguing for balanced books as if they were divine commandments. These weren’t just economists, they were secular monks, working diligently to reestablish economics as a “neutral science” rather than a moral philosophy or political project. Their timing was impeccable, as socialist movements gained momentum and populations demanded stronger welfare states, economics needed to shed its philosophical roots and don the vestments of scientific authority.

The sermon changed. “We simply cannot afford it” became the refrain whenever citizens demanded healthcare, housing, or higher wages. Austerity was repackaged as virtue. Balance became beautiful. And deficits (“oh, the deficits!”) were cast as mortal sins requiring penance and purification.

The parallels with traditional religion are almost too perfect. Consider:

When popes issue encyclicals, the faithful listen. When central bankers adjust interest rates, markets tremble.

When medieval peasants faced hardship, priests explained it was God’s will. When modern workers face stagnant wages, economists explain it’s market efficiency.

When ancient worshippers sinned, they were promised divine punishment. When modern governments overspend, they are threatened with the wrath of bond markets.

And what of heretics? Just as medieval churches excommunicated those who questioned dogma, today’s economic orthodoxy banishes dissenters to the wilderness. Mention Modern Monetary Theory at a Federal Reserve conference and watch faces contort as if you’ve invoked demons. Suggest that infinite growth on a finite planet might be problematic, and witness the economic priesthood close ranks against you. Try walking into a Treasury meeting and suggesting the government can spend without borrowing first; it’s like showing up to Easter Mass dressed as Karl Marx and calling the Resurrection a tax dodge.

The genius of this system is its circularity. Economic models make assumptions about human behavior that create the very outcomes they predict. Homo economicus, that mythical, perfectly rational, utterly self-interested creature, doesn’t exist in nature but is conjured into being through education, incentives, and cultural indoctrination.

Most revealing is the morality embedded in economic language. Countries must demonstrate “fiscal discipline.” Governments must make “tough choices.” Citizens must accept “necessary sacrifices.” The economic priesthood speaks of “moral hazard” when helping homeowners but rarely when bailing out banks.

And then there’s the magnificent sleight of hand: manufactured scarcity. Somehow, there’s always money for aircraft carriers and corporate subsidies but never quite enough for school lunches or affordable housing. During the 2008 financial crisis and the COVID-19 pandemic, trillions materialized overnight to save financial institutions and corporations, proving that scarcity is less an economic reality than a political choice.

The secret hiding in plain sight is that economics isn’t a science describing immutable laws. It’s a belief system designed to distribute power, resources, and legitimacy. Like all effective religions, it works best when its adherents don’t recognize it as religion at all, when its tenets are absorbed as common sense rather than contested ideology.

So the next time you hear “the market has decided” or “we can’t afford it,” remember you’re listening not to objective truth but to scripture. The Invisible Hand doesn’t move in mysterious ways after all, it moves in predictable ways, usually toward those who already have the most.

The good news? Gods only exist when we believe in them. Different economic stories, more democratic, sustainable, and humane, are yours for the telling.

Can I get an amen?