By RAY WADDLE

Raise the subject of poor people – the contradiction of poverty in a world of riches and religion – and expect well-rehearsed resistance and denial.

An impressive list of responses is handy to offer us protection from painful reality:

"America is already the worlds most generous nation, so shut up."

"Capitalism is the best friend of the poor."

"Helping poor people is code for socialism."

"The poor do not want to succeed."

"Rich politicians who say they want to end poverty live in big houses. They are hypocrites."

"Stop manipulating me into feeling guilty."

I heard such remarks after writing last week about The Fever, a new HBO movie (based on the Wallace Shawn play) about a prosperous narrator who confronts her own raw emotions about the politics of poverty. The Fever is unusual for imagining the bitter reality of entrenched, filthy poverty and our dependence on dirt-cheap wages to keep our costs low (clothes, housekeeping) and our lifestyles high.

Discussion of poverty today is no exercise in guilt. It is a fixture of national debate. One reason: The injection of religion into political life has raised expectations that politicians will talk about their faith and show they mean it. A 2007 survey of Americans (conducted by Sacred Heart University) said 61 percent believe a presidential candidate should be religious. A Gallup poll found Americans are more likely to vote for a gay presidential candidate than an atheist.

Do Americans really want religious values in public life? If so, should religion shape the personal morality of candidates, or their political vision, or both? In a nation where 75 percent affiliate with Christianity, is Jesus relevant to public policy? In the Gospel of Luke, the first public words of Jesus proclaim good news to the poor.

The most remarkable recent experiment on this public question occurred four years ago, when Alabama Gov. Bob Riley tried to reduce deficits and reform the tax code by shifting the burden off the poor and increasing other taxes. Riley, a conservative Republican, proposed his fiscal revolution for voter approval in the light of scripture.

"When I read the New Testament, basically we get three mandates: to love God, to love each other, and to take care of the least among us," he told PBS before the 2003 vote.

With help from Christian anti-tax voters, it was roundly rejected. Maybe his tax plan was flawed, but it raised a question: What do religious people want from their politicians?

The injection of religion into politics runs risks of zeal and incompetence. But it pushes people to clarify what they mean by public religion, a force used either to reinforce status-quo power, or give hope to millions who have none.