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We condemn extremism abroad while ignoring the holy mandates shaping law, policy, and life right here at home.
I was a political science student in college when 9-11 happened. Almost overnight, the air in our classrooms thickened with talk of the Middle East—of regimes and sects, of the supposed sickness in other people’s faith. At the same time, I sat in lectures on American government, absorbing lessons on freedom, the separation of church and state, and the principles that anchor a democracy. The story was tidy: Extremism existed “over there,” and here was civility, rationality, liberty.
But even then, I felt the story was too neat. We were trained to see extremism as foreign, an affliction of others. No one asked us to look for it in our own pulpits, in our own chambers of power, where faith is wielded not only as belief but as authority.
For decades, we were told that extremism abroad is born of poverty, oppression, and lack of democracy. That dignity and fair governance could inoculate against violence. Yet here at home, the extremists are not poor. They are not desperate. They are wealthy, white, and privileged, carrying Bibles in one hand and power in the other. These are the people shaping foreign policy, writing the rules of engagement, and insisting that God Himself is on their side.
It is easy to sneer at fundamentalism when it wears a beard and prays to a different God. We do this without noticing how our own leaders claim the same divine sanction. Take Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas), who recently said, “Those who bless Israel will be blessed, and those who curse Israel will be cursed,” a statement guiding policy on the basis of religious prophecy. As a result, borders are drawn and redrawn, not by maps or treaties, but by the conviction that scripture demands it. Tanks move forward because some believe the end times will be hastened by the blood spilled today. I have heard lawmakers speak of Israel not as a nation among nations, but as a ticket for their own salvation—a stage for the rapture. Lives are traded away for a promise written in ancient ink. Too often, it is prophecy, not policy, that carries the weight of law.
The divine is always invoked to conquer, to exclude, to strip away the humanity of others.
Charlie Kirk was another voice in this chorus. His platform rested on the claim that his words bore the imprint of Jesus Himself. And that is the mark of fundamentalism: not just to speak, but to declare speech holy. Not just to pass laws, but to claim the laws come from God. When movements convince their followers that every act of war, every border drawn, every vote cast is sanctified, fundamentalism is no longer a fringe—it is the system itself.
This is America’s problem. We imagine fundamentalism as the product of religion alone, but in truth it is about power. It thrives in systems that punish dissent and demand obedience. It flourishes where inequality is already deep, where racism already wounds. Whether it calls itself Christian nationalism or Zionism, the fruit is the same: oppression disguised as divine order.
Christian nationalism, in particular, is theater. Fear of the stranger is the script. The Gospels are props—quoted when convenient, discarded when not. The gun becomes holy; violence is celebrated as sacrament; scripture appears only to bless white entitlement and empire. And somehow, the divine is always invoked to conquer, to exclude, to strip away the humanity of others.
“Love the stranger as yourself” has been rewritten into “expel the immigrant.” “Turn the other cheek” has become “press his cheek into the ground.” The inversion is so stark you can only call it blasphemy.
It is time to see the truth we’ve trained ourselves to ignore: that the politics of faith are not a distant problem but a domestic one. That prophecy and scripture are invoked to shape our laws, and our laws shape our lives. That the moral high ground, so often claimed, is little more than a thin veneer of power and entitlement.
We are not exempt from the damage. We are participants in it. And we cannot keep pretending that America’s fundamentalists are not pulling the strings.
A new U.S. Office of Personnel Management memo allowing workplace proselytizing is not a great recipe for harmonious and productive coworker relations.
Imagine you’re a federal civil service employee, reading today’s paper while having a sandwich during your lunch break in the cafeteria. Another federal employee, maybe a coworker or maybe not, sits down beside you and politely begins to tell you why his faith is correct and why yours, actually, isn’t. Sounds annoying, possibly enraging, and presumably inappropriate if not prohibited? Think again.
According to a July 28, 2025 memorandum to the heads of all federal departments and agencies from Scott Kupor, director of the U.S. Office of Personnel Management (OPM), employees “attempting to persuade others of the correctness of their own religious views,” including “why the non-adherent should re-think his religious beliefs,” is perfectly okay and even protected religious expression, so long as it falls short of harassment.
As a former federal attorney who worked for the U.S. Labor Department for 39 years, including eight years as a senior executive who ran a regional office, I find this policy disconcerting at best. From the standpoint of office mission effectiveness, maintaining positive and respectful peer-to-peer relationships is crucial. It’s one thing for coworkers, during breaks, to have candid and even heated discussions about sitcoms, musical tastes, or even politics. It’s quite another to laud one’s own spiritual belief and disparage, if not outright insult, another’s. Not a great recipe for harmonious and productive coworker relations.
This right to attempt to convince others that their religious convictions are misguided extends not only to peer coworkers, but to supervisors too. In other words, as you’re enjoying your sandwich in the cafeteria, your supervisor could sit down next to you and explain why your deeply held beliefs happen to be wrong. Not quite so easy to tell them it’s none of their damn business.
The prospect of federal supervisors advising their subordinates that their religious convictions aren’t the “correct” ones becomes dramatically more troubling if supervisors’ tenure is subject to the president’s whims.
But there’s another aspect of this policy that casts an even darker shadow. All this arises in an administration fueled by U.S. President Donald Trump’s vow to “bring back Christianity,” and populated or supported by self-described Christian nationalists like House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) and Russell Vought, once again head of the powerful Office of Management and Budget.
Christian nationalism means different things to different people, but has a number of core beliefs. A major 2024 survey by the Public Religion Research Institute included five statements designed to measure support for Christian nationalism. The list included:
The study found that 30% of Americans can be classified as Christian nationalism “adherents” or “sympathizers” (those who fully or mostly agree with the five statements), compared to two-thirds of Americans found to be “skeptics” or “rejecters” (that is, they mostly or fully disagree with the statements). Nevertheless, according to preelection reporting by Politico, “Vought and his ideological brethren would not shy from using their administration positions to promote Christian doctrine and imbue public policy with it.”
According to Christian nationalism expert and history professor Kristin Du Mez, “This is not a pluralist vision for all of America coming together or a vision for compromise… It is a vision for seizing power and using that power to usher in a ‘Christian America.’” She believes that if the Christian nationalist movement gets what it wants, “There will be no meaningful religious liberty. There will be essentially a two-tier society between the quote unquote, real Americans—those who buy into this, or pretend to—and then the rest of Americans.”
Is this latest OPM memo part of a veiled effort to advance a Christian nationalist vision for our country? Consider that the prospect of federal supervisors advising their subordinates that their religious convictions aren’t the “correct” ones becomes dramatically more troubling if supervisors’ tenure is subject to the president’s whims—including, potentially, loyalty to a Vought-endorsed Christian-nationalist-inspired belief system. During Trump’s first term, Vought tried to reclassify tens of thousands of federal workers as political appointees, which would have enabled mass dismissals of those deemed unsuitable. A similar effort is underway this time around. Will espousing Christian nationalism be one of the unstated litmus tests to get, or keep, a supervisory job?
Whether there’s a Christian nationalist agenda lurking behind the OPM memo or not, a better policy for government workers would suggest, if not require, that unless asked, they—and particularly supervisors—keep their judgments of others’ personal belief systems to themselves.
But since the July 28 memo says otherwise, federal employees, please note: As you’re minding your own business munching a tuna salad sandwich at lunch, you might find your supervisor offering a spiritual lesson that wasn’t on the menu. If it works for you, fine. But if it doesn’t go down well, do send it back, with a polite but firm “no thank you.” Assert your freedom of religion, or your freedom not to be religious, while you still have it.
A landmark case could force taxpayers to fund religious charter schools.
On April 30, the U.S. Supreme Court will hear a case that could fundamentally reshape public education: Oklahoma’s controversial approval of the nation’s first religious charter school, St. Isidore of Seville Catholic Virtual Charter School. The case forces a critical question to the forefront—should taxpayers be compelled to finance religious schools while having no authority to regulate them?
The court’s decision could continue a pattern of rulings that have chipped away at the traditional separation between church and state, transforming the landscape of public education and public funding. If the justices side with St. Isidore, the ruling could mark a turning point in American schooling—one that may erode public accountability, alter funding priorities, and blur the constitutional boundaries that have long defined the relationship between religion and government.
This case builds on a series of decisions from the Roberts Court that have steadily eroded the wall between church and state. In Trinity Lutheran v. Comer, the court allowed public funds to be used for secular purposes by religious institutions. Espinoza v. Montana Department of Revenue expanded this principle, ruling that states cannot exclude religious schools from publicly funded programs. And in Carson v. Makin, the court went further, mandating that state voucher programs include religious schools, arguing that exclusion constitutes discrimination against religion.
As the justices deliberate, they would do well to consider not just the legal arguments, but also the practical and moral consequences of their decision.
Chief Justice John Roberts, writing for the majority in Carson, stated, “[i]n particular, we have repeatedly held that a State violates the Free Exercise Clause when it excludes religious observers from otherwise available public benefits.” On its face, this reasoning frames the issue as one of fairness—ensuring religious entities are not treated unequally. But the deeper implications of this logic are far more radical.
As Justice Sonia Sotomayor warned in her dissent, this interpretation fundamentally redefines the Free Exercise Clause, equating a government’s refusal to fund religious institutions with unconstitutional religious discrimination. Justice Stephen Breyer took this concern a step further, pointing to the court’s own precedent to highlight the dangerous trajectory of its rulings:
We have previously found, as the majority points out, that “a neutral benefit program in which public funds flow to religious organizations through the independent choices of private benefit recipients does not offend the Establishment Clause.” We have thus concluded that a State may, consistent with the Establishment Clause, provide funding to religious schools through a general public funding program if the “government aid… reach[es] religious institutions only by way of the deliberate choices of… individual [aid] recipients.”
Breyer then underscored the significance of this distinction:
But the key word is “may.” We have never previously held what the court holds today, namely, that a State must (not may) use state funds to pay for religious education as part of a tuition program designed to ensure the provision of free statewide public school education.
Finally, he distilled the implications into a warning: “What happens once ‘may’ becomes ‘must’?”
That shift—from allowance to obligation—could force states not only to permit religious education in publicly funded programs, but to actively finance it, eroding any semblance of neutrality between public and religious schooling. This transformation threatens to unravel the Establishment Clause’s core protection: that government does not privilege or compel religious exercise.
Now, the Oklahoma case brings Breyer’s warning into sharp focus. The petitioners are asking the court to declare that charter schools are not state actors—meaning they would be free from public accountability and regulations, including those related to discrimination or special education. At the same time, they argue that public funds must be made available to religious charters. The implications of such a ruling could reverberate across the country, reshaping education in profound and troubling ways.
If the Court sides with St. Isidore, the ripple effects could be seismic, triggering a wave of religious charter school applications and fundamentally altering the landscape of public education. Here’s how:
Religious institutions, particularly those struggling to sustain traditional parochial schools, would have a financial lifeline. Charter subsidies, which often surpass voucher amounts, would incentivize religious organizations to enter the charter school market. For years, leaders in some religious communities have sought public funding to buoy their schools, and a decision in favor of St. Isidore could provide the legal green light. The result? A proliferation of religious charters, funded by taxpayers but largely free from public oversight.
The implications for students with disabilities are especially concerning. Under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act’s implementing regulations, a student with disabilities who is “placed in or referred to a private school or facility by a public agency…[h]as all of the rights of a child with a disability who is served by a public agency.” Yet, a ruling in favor of St. Isidore risks undermining these guarantees by creating a loophole for private religious charters to skirt IDEA’s requirements.
This concern is not just theoretical. As I’ve argued elsewhere, the hybrid nature of charter schools already complicates questions of accountability and state action, particularly when it comes to safeguarding student rights. Allowing religious charters to operate free from IDEA’s obligations would further erode the fragile legal protections students with disabilities rely on—protections that are already too often disregarded in practice.
The pandemic underscored the challenges of balancing public health mandates with constitutional protections for religious freedom. In 2020, a federal judge in Kentucky struck down the state’s attempt to close religious schools during a Covid-19 spike, even as public and secular private schools complied. Extending public funding to religious charters could further erode the state’s ability to enforce neutral regulations, from health measures to curriculum standards. Such decisions privilege religious institutions over secular ones, creating a patchwork of inconsistent rules that could undermine public safety and equity.
Can these challenges be mitigated? Some experts argue for stricter regulations to preserve the public nature of charter schools. Bruce Baker, a professor of education finance, suggests limiting charter authorization to government agencies and requiring boards and employees to be public officials. Such reforms could ensure that charters remain accountable to taxpayers and subject to the same constitutional constraints as public schools.
Other scholars, like Preston Green and Suzanne Eckes, propose requiring religious charters to forgo certain exemptions if they wish to receive public funding. Specifically, they recommend restructuring charter school boards as government-created and controlled entities to ensure they are unequivocally recognized as state actors subject to constitutional obligations. For example, this would require religious charters to comply fully with anti-discrimination laws and other public mandates, maintaining the balance between religious freedom and public accountability.
Even with these potential safeguards, the broader implications are sobering. If the court rules in favor of religious charters, states will face difficult choices: increase taxes to fund an expanding universe of religious and secular schools, divert money away from public schools, or create new bureaucracies to regulate religious institutions. Taxpayers could find themselves funding schools tied to a bewildering array of faiths, from mainstream denominations to fringe sects.
As the justices deliberate, they would do well to consider not just the legal arguments, but also the practical and moral consequences of their decision. What happens to a society when its public institutions are splintered along religious lines? And what happens to the students and families who depend on those institutions for equity, opportunity, and inclusion?
The answers to these questions will shape the future of American education—and the values we choose to uphold.