Brian Montgomery 4/18/25 Brian Montgomery 4/18/25

You Can’t Ban God and Call it Freedom

A School, a Question, and a Constitutional Crisis

St. Isidore of Seville Catholic Virtual School does not yet exist, but it may soon decide the future of religious liberty in public education. Approved as a public charter school by Oklahoma’s Statewide Virtual Charter School Board, St. Isidore plans to offer tuition-free education grounded in Catholic teaching—open to all, required of none, and publicly accountable.

Its opponents argue that a religious school should never receive public funding, even if it meets every academic and legal standard. But their objection reveals a deeper question: Does the First Amendment require the government to exclude religious institutions from public life, or does it forbid that exclusion?

That question is not rhetorical. It defines whether neutrality means fairness—or forced secularism. It tests whether religious families are full citizens in a pluralist democracy—or guests, welcome only on secular terms.

And it raises a final, unavoidable contradiction: Can a government that bans God still claim to protect freedom?

Liberty Through Balance, Not Separation

The First Amendment contains two clauses, often cited as if they compete, but in truth they complete each other:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

These words are not in tension. They are in balance. One forbids the state from controlling religion through top-down mandates (such as requiring the Bible to be taught in every public-school classroom). The other forbids it from excluding religion when it is a bottom-up expression of the people. Together, they form a constitutional architecture that neither privileges belief nor penalizes it.

James Madison, author of the First Amendment, insisted that religion was not a right granted by government but a natural liberty. In his Memorial and Remonstrance Against Religious Assessments, he wrote that religion must be left to “the conviction and conscience of every man.” Government could neither compel nor suppress it.

The modern phrase “separation of church and state” appears nowhere in the Constitution. It comes from a private letter by Thomas Jefferson, who—ironically—attended religious services held inside government buildings. Separation, to the Founders, meant institutional noninterference, not spiritual exclusion.

Religious participation in public life was assumed—not feared. To exclude a faith-based school from a neutral public program today is not fidelity to the First Amendment. It is the exact opposite.

Faith Cannot Be a Disqualifier

The U.S. Supreme Court has spoken plainly: a religious institution cannot be excluded from a public benefit program simply because it is religious.

In Trinity Lutheran v. Comer (2017), Missouri denied a church preschool access to a public playground resurfacing grant solely due to its religious status. The Court ruled this exclusion unconstitutional. Chief Justice Roberts called it“odious to our Constitution.”

In Espinoza v. Montana Department of Revenue (2020), the Court held that if a state provides public scholarships to private schools, it cannot deny them to religious schools because of their religious identity. “A State need not subsidize private education,” the Court said. “But once it decides to do so, it cannot disqualify some private schools solely because they are religious.”

Two years later, Carson v. Makin (2022) extended this logic from religious status to religious use. Maine had denied tuition assistance to parents who selected schools that provided religious instruction. The Court ruled this, too, unconstitutional.

Finally, in Zelman v. Simmons-Harris (2002), the Court upheld a school choice program that allowed public funds to follow families—whether they chose secular or religious schools—so long as the program was neutral and driven by individual choice.

The line across these cases is unbroken: when the government opens a public benefit to private participants, it may not disqualify religious institutions merely because they are religious. That principle is not advisory. It is controlling law.

Private Participation in a Public System

Attorney General Drummond argues that charter schools are public in every constitutional sense—that because they are funded and authorized by the state, they must remain strictly secular. But that logic confuses funding with control, and oversight with ownership.

Oklahoma law defines charter schools as nonprofit entities initiated by private actors through a contract with the state (70 O.S. § 3-136(E)). They are publicly accountable but independently operated. The state does not dictate curriculum, hiring, or religious affiliation—nor should it.

This distinction is critical under Rendell-Baker v. Kohn (1982), where the Supreme Court ruled that even a privately-operated school receiving over 90% of its funding from the government was not a state actor. The key issue was who made internal decisions—not who wrote the checks.

In Mitchell v. Helms (2000), the Court upheld public aid to religious schools, so long as the aid was neutral and distributed without favor or control. That principle governs here.

Charter schools are private educational partners within a public system—not government entities. If funding alone made them government entities, the same would apply to hospitals, foster agencies, and food banks. And yet, religious organizations partner in all of those spheres—without controversy, and without violating the Constitution.

The Establishment Clause, Misapplied and Misunderstood

Attorney General Drummond relies on mid-20th-century Establishment Clause cases—Engel v. Vitale (1962), School District of Abington v. Schempp (1963), and McCollum v. Board of Education (1948)—to argue that religious expression in any publicly funded school violates the Constitution.

But these cases addressed a very different context: state-mandated religious practice inside traditional public schools. In Engel, the state composed a prayer and required its recitation. In Schempp, Bible readings were compulsory. In McCollum, religious instructors entered public classrooms during school hours under state authority.

None of these apply to a privately initiated, independently operated charter school selected voluntarily by families.

St. Isidore imposes no religious exercise. It is not the state mandating prayer—it is the community requesting a public option that reflects its convictions. It does not conscript students into belief. It invites families into a curriculum they freely choose.

The Establishment Clause prohibits government imposition—not religious presence in public life. A school like St. Isidore does not violate that clause. It fulfills the balance the Founders intended: a state that neither commands faith nor forbids it.

To invoke Engel or Schempp against such a model is not constitutional fidelity. It is historical misapplication.

The Constitutional Breakpoint

Opponents of St. Isidore argue that public education must remain entirely secular because taxpayer dollars are involved. But this objection collapses under the one feature that changes everything: parental choice.

The Supreme Court has consistently held that when parents—not the government—choose where public funds go, the state does not endorse religion by permitting religious options.

In Zelman v. Simmons-Harris (2002), the Court upheld a school voucher program even though many parents selected religious schools. The decisive factor was this: the program was neutral and the funding flowed through individual family decisions.

This echoes Pierce v. Society of Sisters (1925), which affirmed that “the child is not the mere creature of the state.” Parents have a constitutional right to direct their children’s education. And inWisconsin v. Yoder (1972), the Court went further—holding that religious communities could withdraw from state schooling altogether to preserve their faith formation.

St. Isidore is not imposed. It is chosen. It is not the state prescribing theology—it is the state respecting the constitutional primacy of the family.

When the government offers diverse public options, it cannot punish parents who choose a religious one. That’s not neutrality. That’s control.

The Silent Violation

The argument against religious charter schools often hides behind the word “neutral.” But neutrality is not achieved by excluding religion while permitting every other worldview. That is not neutrality—it isviewpoint discrimination.

In Rosenberger v. University of Virginia (1995), the Supreme Court ruled that a state university could not deny funding to a Christian student publication while funding secular ones. Doing so, the Court held, amounted to impermissible discrimination based on viewpoint.

In Good News Club v. Milford Central School (2001), the Court held that a school district could not prohibit a religious group from meeting in school facilities after hours if other community groups were allowed to do so.

The logic is clear: when the government opens a public forum, it may not favor some perspectives and exclude others. Religious speech is not second-class speech. Religious values are not disqualified simply because they are theological.

If Oklahoma allows charter schools focused on environmentalism, critical theory, or STEM specialization, it cannot exclude one focused on faith. That exclusion does not protect pluralism. It enforces a secular orthodoxy.

A government that invites diverse ideas into the public square cannot turn around and reject religion at the gate. That’s not neutrality. It’s a violation.

Coercion and Constitutional Clarity

Attorney General Drummond suggests that a religious charter school—even one chosen voluntarily—might pressure students into religious practice. But the Constitution does not prohibit exposure to belief. It prohibits coercion.

In Kennedy v. Bremerton School District (2022), the Court held that a public high school football coach had the right to kneel in prayer on the field after games. His actions, though visible and religious, were not coercive—because no one was compelled to join.

The same principle applies here. St. Isidore would be chosen by families who know it is religious. It would be one option among many. No one is forced to attend. No one is coerced to believe.

The Constitution draws a bright line between compulsion and conscience. Discomfort is not coercion. Visibility is not endorsement.

To bar a faith-based school from public participation simply because it might make some uncomfortable is not constitutional protection. It is constitutional overreach.

Precedent Integrity

Attorney General Drummond relies heavily on older Establishment Clause rulings—Engel, Schempp, McCollum—but fails to reconcile these with the Court’s recent and controlling Free Exercise precedents: Trinity Lutheran, Espinoza, Carson, Kennedy, and Zelman.

This is not a matter of interpretation—it is a matter of constitutional trajectory.

The Court has moved decisively toward a standard of neutrality, historical consistency, and protection of religious participation in public programs.

Neither Engel or Schempp limited bottom-up expression of religion by the people. Rather, it limited top-down imposition of religion by the government, specifically: coercive, state-directed religious activity in compulsory education environments.

St. Isidore presents none of those elements. It is initiated privately, attended voluntarily, and supported through a neutral public benefit structure.

The Court has not reversed itself with recent decision on Free Exercise—but it has clarified its boundaries. And under those boundaries, St. Isidore is not unconstitutional. It is protected.

What Tips the Scale

The constitutional question is not whether religion is present. It is whether the state is in control.

If the Supreme Court determines that charter schools like St. Isidore are private participants in a neutral public-benefit system, then the outcome is clear: religious exclusion violates the Free Exercise Clause.

Several inflection points tip the scale:

St. Isidore is not a state actor; it is a private nonprofit.
The school is one option among many—not mandated, not monopolizing.
Public funding is distributed through neutral, indirect channels.
Excluding religious participation while allowing secular worldviews constitutes viewpoint discrimination.
The parents choose. The state does not.

This is not legal ambiguity. It is doctrinal alignment. Every recent decision—from Trinity to Carson—confirms that religious status and use may not disqualify public benefit access.

If the Court remains faithful to its own logic, St. Isidore must be allowed to open.

No More Secular Monopoly

Neutrality is often misunderstood as the absence of religion. But in constitutional terms, neutrality means equal access, not ideological erasure.

A government cannot claim neutrality while excluding only religious voices. That is not balance. It is bias wrapped in bureaucratic language.

In Rosenberger v. University of Virginia, the Court warned against any attempt by the state to regulate messages based on their content or worldview. “The government may not regulate speech based on its substantive content or the message it conveys.”

To bar faith-based charter schools while welcoming all others is not neutral. It is a secular monopoly.

Public Education and Religious Pluralism

Drummond warns that permitting religious charter schools would unravel public education. But the opposite is true: pluralism strengthens public trust by offering meaningful choice within shared civic structure.

Charter schools already reflect ideological diversity—classical academies, STEM models, bilingual immersion, environmental emphasis. Faith-based options simply reflect another deep current in American life.

As the Court wrote in Espinoza, “A state’s interest in greater separation of church and state than the federal Constitution requires cannot justify excluding religious schools from otherwise available public benefits.”

The real threat to public education is not diversity of belief—it is the fear of belief itself.

The Logic of Liberty

St. Isidore is not a loophole. It is a test: of fairness, of freedom, and of fidelity to the Constitution.

It is lawful. It is voluntary. It is accountable. And it is protected.

To ban it is to privilege secularism above all other worldviews—to collapse neutrality into uniformity, and liberty into control.

The First Amendment was not written to keep religion out of public life. It was written to keep government from deciding whose voice belongs.

Let the school open.

Let the parents choose.

Let the Constitution hold.

Because you can’t ban God and call it freedom.

Brian Montgomery 3/31/25 Brian Montgomery 3/31/25

The Right Concern, the Wrong Solution: A Word on the Bible, Government, and Children

I felt very unsure about submitting my last article—the one about the Bible and public education. The Oklahoman had kindly published a previous piece of mine and welcomed more. But this one felt heavier. Soft in tone, but sharp at the edges. I wasn’t writing to win an argument. I was writing to keep something alive: a quiet hope, a shared concern, a flicker of wisdom in a noisy age.

I wrote it as a parent and a Christian. I wrote it as someone who’s been thankful for public education. I also wrote it with care, because some things are too sacred to throw into the machinery of the government. The Bible is one of them.

What I tried to offer wasn’t a battle cry, but a conversation starter. I wove my faith into every line—not obnoxiously, but deeply. The whole piece was shaped by the gospel, even if I never fully spelled it out. C.S. Lewis once said that sometimes truth must “steal past the watchful dragons.” That was my aim—to speak to the soul without scaring it off.

I did receive a lot of praise from the article – teachers I had never met, messaging me and thanking me for voicing what they felt but didn’t know how to say. Others messaging me to thank me for honoring their dignity and sacrificial pouring out of themselves in the mission field of public education. Although, I did receive some critique as well.

A friend gave me the honest feedback that my experience with public education might not apply everywhere. I think he’s right. Oklahoma is not every place. But here, many teachers I’ve met are either believers or quietly shaped by Christian virtue. They may not use church words, but they still carry something holy in how they care for children. Even those who don’t have faith themselves, they still seem to share in the residue of a faith-influenced culture. Of course, there are exceptions. But I don’t think they’re the norm - at least not yet.

Even so, my wife and I have talked about whether public school will be the best place for our daughter in the years ahead—especially as she moves into those fragile, forming middle years. Not because we’re alarmed. Not because we’ve lost faith in teachers. But because children change. And culture changes. And we want to be ready to change with them, if wisdom calls for it.

Some of the cultural shifts we’re watching have been named—though not always plainly—by certain education leaders. There’s been a call to place the Bible and the Ten Commandments in every classroom, framed as a return to the moral foundations that shaped our country’s beginnings. And that’s not untrue. But if you listen beyond the surface, the concern seems deeper than a history lesson. The language often points toward a rising fear of what’s sometimes called “woke ideology”—which I take to mean the growing presence of critical race theory and progressive views on gender and sexuality in our schools. Beneath the proposal, I hear a deeper moral unease, a worry about what’s filling the vacuum where shared convictions used to be. And that worry, I share.

Still, I gently part ways with this recommended solution. The symptoms are accurate, but the solution does not treat the root cause.

And here’s the part that still startles me. I know families who homeschool out of deep conviction—parents who love their children, love God, and shape their homes around both. Yet even there, some of their kids have begun to express interest in transitioning. I’ve also spoken with students from Christian private schools who’ve said their classmates are just as affirming of LGBTQ+ identities as those in public schools. These are places filled with faithful parents, devoted teachers, and intentional formation. And yet, something else is reaching their children. Why?

Journalist Abigail Shrier, in her book Irreversible Damage, describes a new and startling pattern—one that many parents, counselors, and teachers had quietly begun to notice, but didn’t know how to name. Across the country, teenage girls—often from thoughtful, supportive families—began identifying as transgender seemingly out of nowhere. These weren’t children who had shown signs of gender distress from an early age. In most cases, they had lived their childhoods comfortably identifying with their biological sex.

And yet, something shifted. Not one by one, but in clusters. Entire friend groups came out together—sometimes five or six girls from the same school, the same class, even the same lunch table. It wasn’t the result of careful, years-long questioning. It was fast. Sudden. Emotional. And it wasn’t isolated.

What changed?

To find out, Shrier didn’t interview critics or policymakers. Instead, she spoke with the people at the heart of the story: transgender-identifying individuals and their families—many of whom were supportive of LGBTQ+ rights. Her goal was not to condemn, but to understand. And what she uncovered wasn’t a conspiracy or a government plot. It was something far more ordinary—and far more powerful.

Shrier found that many of these girls were already carrying quiet burdens: anxiety, depression, body image issues, or a longing to belong. And in that fragile space, the internet stepped in. Platforms like TikTok, YouTube, Reddit, and Discord didn’t just share information. They offered identity. Language. Community. A sense of purpose. A place to be known.

For a lonely teenager adrift in questions of self-worth, the idea of transition didn’t arrive as a threat—it arrived as a lifeline.

This is the pattern Shrier describes, and it matches what others have come to call rapid-onset gender dysphoria (ROGD)—a term first used by researcher Dr. Lisa Littman in 2018. Littman’s study focused on teens who had no childhood history of gender dysphoria but began identifying as transgender during or after adolescence, often after significant time online or exposure to peer groups where others had come out.

Her data came from parent surveys—not because she distrusted teens, but because many were still in the middle of transition or unable to speak freely. What she found suggested that social influence might be playing a larger role than previously assumed. Littman never claimed that all gender dysphoria was socially driven. She simply asked, “Could some of it be?”

The backlash was swift. Her study, though peer-reviewed, was met with outrage. Activist groups demanded corrections. Her institution issued public disclaimers. And soon, a quiet message began to settle over the academic landscape: some questions, even when asked gently, are no longer allowed.

That concern has only grown. Researchers who’ve studied detransition or regret have found their work rejected or buried—not for poor quality, but for political discomfort. There are stories that simply don’t fit the script. And when medicine becomes more loyal to ideology than to inquiry, it is no longer medicine. It’s marketing.

At the same time, other countries have begun to take a slower, more careful path. The United Kingdom shut down its Tavistock gender clinic after a multi-year review found that too many children were being fast-tracked through medical intervention without enough psychological evaluation. Sweden and Finland—nations known for their LGBTQ+ support—have also slowed or paused youth transitions, placing renewed emphasis on therapy and long-term care. These are not acts of fear. They are signs of humility.

In the United States, however, the momentum is largely in the other direction. Some states have lowered age restrictions. Medical pathways are expanding. And transitioning is often framed not as a serious decision, but as a right—something to be affirmed, not examined.

But what if the question isn’t whether people should be free to choose—but whether they’re ready to?

The human brain offers its own counsel. The prefrontal cortex—the part responsible for long-term thinking, impulse control, and weighing risks—doesn’t fully develop until the mid-twenties. That’s not a flaw in teenagers. That’s simply how we’re made. What feels certain at fifteen may look different at twenty-five. And that doesn’t make the earlier conviction dishonest—it makes it tender.

Even among those who complete transition, the long-term outcomes are more complex than we’re often told. A 2021 review in Current Opinion in Endocrinology, Diabetes, and Obesity found that while some individuals report relief, many continue to struggle with depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts—before and after medical transition. These struggles don’t mean transition is always the wrong path. But they do suggest that transition alone may not address the deeper pain beneath the surface.

None of this is said to accuse or belittle. These are tender matters, carried in fragile hands. I know there are young people searching, hurting, hoping. I know there are parents doing their best to love through the fog. I don’t speak from above—I speak alongside.

But if our love is real, it must also be willing to ask hard questions. Not with cruelty. Not with fear. But with the kind of wisdom that waits, listens, and dares to wonder: What’s really happening here?

And so I return to the Bible. I love it. I live by it. But I don’t want it turned into a banner waved by the state. I also don’t think mandating it as a historical text for behavior modification will help with the root issue affecting adolescent aged children.

A few closing clarifications…

To be clear, I’m not against the Bible in public schools. I’m thankful for teachers who live their faith with grace. I celebrate students who carry their convictions with kindness. I support Bible clubs, prayer groups, and bold hearts.

But I’m wary of what happens when we give the state the keys to the sanctuary. I wholeheartedly support a government significantly influenced by Christianity—but I am just as strongly opposed to a version of Christianity influenced by the hand of the government.

Some told me my article felt out of place in The Oklahoman. I understand that. But maybe it’s good for faith to feel out of place sometimes. That’s often where it shines.

If you sensed a thread of longing in my article—that was on purpose. I wrote for the parent who's tired. For the teacher who wonders. For the student who’s lost in the swirl. For the person who left church long ago but still misses the echo of something holy.

I wrote it because I still believe. I still believe God works slowly and patiently. I still believe Scripture can light the way—but only if we stop treating it like a flashlight and let it be a sunrise.

In the end, laws may shape the land. But only love reshapes the soul. And the Word of God, when held with reverence, doesn’t demand from above—it draws from within.

Brian Montgomery 3/30/25 Brian Montgomery 3/30/25

When Shadows Surface: A Gentle Guide to Shaken Trust

There is a silence that descends when the truth breaks open.

Not a peaceful silence, but the kind that follows shattering glass—the kind that rings in the soul when someone you trusted is exposed as someone they never claimed to be.

These moments arrive without warning. The trusted leader, the familiar voice, the kind presence—their mask falls. And beneath it, something you never expected: a secret life, a buried lie, a web of compromise woven behind closed doors.

The mind reels. The heart contracts. And the soul, so slow to speak, quietly aches:
How could they?
How did I not see?
Was any of it real?

This isn’t a question for headlines. It’s a question for the living rooms of the betrayed. For the pews emptied by scandal. For the communities left disoriented. It is a question I’ve carried in my own body. And it’s one I carry with you now.

A Student of Pain, Still Learning to Trust

You could say I’m a student in being harmed—and still learning to trust again.

My earliest memories are shaped by pain. A father who drank too much. A home where fear was constant and rage came without warning. I remember the bruises. But more than that, I still carry the scars.

Not all wounds stay on the surface. Some take root in the body’s memory, in the heart’s posture, in the way you brace yourself before certain conversations. I’ve learned that the absence of fresh bruises doesn’t mean the pain is gone. It just means it’s quieter now—more patient, more hidden, but still real.

What do you do when the one who should love you becomes the one you fear?

I have lived inside that question.

And because of that, every time another trusted figure is exposed—every time a mask falls—my heart aches anew. It pulls something old to the surface. The ache is familiar, but never dull. It reminds me of the gap between what should be and what is. It reminds me that trust is still sacred, still fragile, still worth grieving when broken.

There are moments when I’ve been tempted to retreat—to shield my heart from further disappointment, to never risk that kind of trust again. But C.S. Lewis once wrote that “to love at all is to be vulnerable.” If you lock your heart away—safe, guarded, untouched—it will not be broken. But, as he warned, it will become unbreakable in all the wrong ways: “impenetrable, irredeemable.” Better, he said, to risk the ache of love than to turn your heart into stone.

I believe that.

So I keep returning to hope—not because it’s easy, but because it’s human. And because I still believe, even now, that not all trust is misplaced. Not all leaders lie. Some carry their authority like a basin and towel. Some still choose truth, even when it costs them everything.

So when another mask falls, I feel it differently. Not as a distant observer, but as someone still learning to exhale. Still learning to hope.

When It Hurts, It Means You Haven’t Gone Numb

If you’re grieving, it means your soul is still awake.

That hollow in your chest? That tightness behind the eyes? That ache that pulses through your jaw as you try to hold it together? It’s not failure. It’s faith—faith that something better was possible. That goodness should have prevailed. That truth deserved to be protected.

Disillusionment is only possible for those who have dared to hope. The pain of betrayal is not a sign of weakness—it is proof that you still believe integrity matters.

When the shock numbs others, let your grief remind you: you are still alive to what is right.

What Was Good Was Not Necessarily a Lie

After the fall comes the spiral: Was any of it true? Was I blind the whole time?

But not everything beautiful comes from unbroken places. The comfort you received? The wisdom you heard? The good you witnessed? It may have been partial. It may have been imperfect. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.

Hypocrisy isn’t always pure fiction. Often, it’s fractured truth—half-lived, selectively applied. A mouth that speaks rightly while the hands deceive. That doesn’t justify the betrayal. But it helps you hold both sorrow and gratitude without contradiction.

You weren’t wrong to receive the good. You were wronged by the concealment of the evil.

Do Not Let Their Collapse Take Your Conscience With It

Here is the quiet danger: not just that someone fell, but that in their fall, you begin to question whether goodness itself was ever real.

If they could fake it—maybe everyone is faking. If they were corrupt—maybe everything is corrupt. If they betrayed truth—maybe truth was a lie all along.

But do not confuse the mask with the mirror.

What they pretended to be is not what truth actually is. Their deception does not unmake righteousness. Their manipulation does not undo beauty. Their fall is not the collapse of the good—it is proof of how desperately we need it.

Don’t throw away the light just because someone used it as a spotlight.

Let Anger Visit—But Don’t Let It Stay

Anger is natural. It’s the soul’s alarm. It tells you something sacred has been violated.

Honor it. Listen to it. Let it rise.

But don’t build your home in it.

Anger can clear a path, but it cannot build a future. It can expose rot, but it cannot replant trees. Let it visit—but then let it pass. Keep your strength for the long work of telling the truth, rebuilding trust, and walking the slow road to wholeness.

Grieve Loudly. Tell the Truth Gently.

There is no healing without naming what was broken.

Do not let others rush you into silence. Do not let nostalgia protect the unrepentant. Truth does not need your silence to survive. It needs your courage to speak—not with rage, but with reverence.

Grief and truth are not enemies. They are companions. Let your lament become light. Let your honesty become healing. Speak—because only what is named can be redeemed.

You Were Not a Fool to Trust

This is the lie that lingers: I should have known. I was too trusting. It’s my fault for believing.

No.

Trust is not a flaw. It is a form of beauty. It is what makes relationships possible, communities meaningful, and love worth offering. You were not naive. You were human. And someone exploited that.

But their betrayal does not rewrite your worth. You are not foolish. You are faithful. And your trust, once given, still speaks to the goodness of your heart.

There Is One Whose Life Has No Hidden Side

There is only one leader whose integrity has never cracked.

One whose words have never been performative. One whose authority has never been self-protective. One whose love is not a mask but a wound—open, redemptive, eternal.

Jesus Christ is not a brand. He is not a platform. He does not perform. He embodies the truth that others only claim.

His throne is not propped up by public relations. It stands on blood, humility, and resurrection. When others fall, He remains. When others lie, He does not flinch. When all masks are stripped away, He is still clothed in light.

In the Year the King Fell, the Throne Still Stood

Scripture gives us the image we need.

“In the year King Uzziah died…”—the year of fracture, of leadership failure, of national disillusionment—“…I saw the Lord, high and lifted up” (Isaiah 6:1).

When the earthly throne was vacant, the heavenly one was not.
When the earthly mask fell, the heavenly glory remained.
When the people fractured, God revealed His wholeness.

Isaiah saw the truth not in spite of the collapse—but through it.

So may we.

The Way Forward

You are not alone.

Not in your grief. Not in your questions. Not in your ache for something truer than what has been revealed.

So grieve—deeply, honestly.
Tell the truth—gently, clearly.
Let anger speak—but not steer.
Let the pain shape you—but not harden you.
Hold fast to beauty—because it is still worth believing in.

And lift your eyes—not to the broken stage, but to the throne that still stands.

Because the mask has fallen.
But the truth has not.
And the throne is not empty.