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.
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.
I'm a Christian. Don’t force educators to teach the Bible. | Opinion
This article was originally published with the Oklahoman on 3/20/2025. See below for a link to the full article.
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This article was originally published with the Oklahoman on 2/14/2025. See below for a link to the full article.