Public schools are one of the most important democratic institutions in American life — they’re where children from every background learn to participate in a shared civic society. But a series of new Texas laws mandating religious content in public school classrooms is raising a pointed question: when the government uses those shared institutions to favor one faith tradition, what does that mean for the millions of students — and future voters — who don’t share it?
The concern isn’t coming just from secular critics or civil liberties organizations. It’s coming from Carrie McKean, a West Texas evangelical Presbyterian who works at her church, takes Scripture seriously, subscribes to orthodox Christian doctrines, and has children so immersed in church life that the building, she says, feels like an extension of their living room. She votes Republican, lives in a bedrock conservative community, and believes the Bible is infallible. And she is deeply troubled by what Texas lawmakers are doing in the name of her faith.
McKean still remembers the moment she first walked her 6-year-old daughter into public school, clutching her little hand tightly. At the end of the hallway hung a poster — hand-drawn bubble letters in a joyful riot of color and pattern — that read: “Treat Others How You Want to Be Treated.” No Bible verse citation, just the Golden Rule rendered in plain English for first graders. McKean instantly recognized it as Scripture, and it settled her. It felt like it came from a teacher’s heart, shared freely and without coercion.
What Texas is doing now feels nothing like that to her.
What Texas Has Done
In 2025, the Texas Legislature passed two bills reshaping religion’s role in public schools. One law required every public school classroom to display a copy of the Ten Commandments, a requirement that took effect in September 2025. A federal appeals court upheld the law in April 2026, but a group of Texas parents is now asking the Supreme Court to overturn it. A separate law required every Texas school district to vote on whether to set aside class time for prayer and worship. Even in a state where 67% of adults identify as Christians, fewer than 25 of Texas’ 1,200-plus school districts voted to dedicate that time.
Then in June 2026, the Texas State Board of Education approved revamped history and reading curricula that infuse more Bible stories at every grade level, beginning with the 2030–31 school year. The state has also been pursuing curriculum changes that critics say target other religious traditions — even while the same lawmakers expand Christian content. Reports indicate that the same political leaders pushing Christian instruction in schools have also taken actions that make Muslims feel less welcome in Texas public life.
That selective application matters in a democracy. When government institutions treat some citizens’ beliefs as worthy of promotion while signaling that others don’t belong, it doesn’t just wound feelings — it chips away at the trust that makes democratic participation possible. Citizens who feel excluded from public institutions are less likely to engage with them, including at the ballot box.
Why a Faithful Christian Objects
McKean acknowledges real merit in parts of the new curricula. She supports a return to classic texts and rigorous reading. She recognizes that a well-rounded, well-educated person who wants to understand figures like Frederick Douglass or Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad needs to understand the Exodus story. Biblical literacy, she concedes, has genuine educational value.
But she draws a sharp distinction between education and government-mandated religious display. Her core objection is that public school teachers — government employees — are being forced to reduce sacred texts to what she calls “pseudo-religious screeds that serve political ends.” That’s not faith. That’s politics wearing faith as a costume.
She points to a podcast conversation in which David French, The New York Times columnist, interviewed Paul D. Miller, a Georgetown University political theorist and professor, about the dangers of conflating Christianity with state power. Miller’s argument has stayed with her for years: “The church has the unique and exclusive prerogative to teach in Jesus’ name.” When the government takes over that role, Miller said, it flattens real theological differences between denominations, turning Christianity into little more than bland civic religion.
“Can you not understand why Americans are so biblically illiterate? It’s because we allowed the government to teach us a watered down, moralistic, therapeutic deism and slapped a Christian name on it for so long,” Miller said.
The teachers McKean has spoken with share her unease. Many are Christians themselves, yet feel pressured — not inspired — by the mandate to hang the Ten Commandments in a prominently visible classroom location. The law is being enforced by Attorney General Ken Paxton — a man whose wife filed for divorce “on Biblical grounds” because of his alleged violation of the Seventh Commandment.
One local Christian teacher told McKean plainly:
“I hate this stuff with a passion, actually, because it cheapens the gospel — it cheapens the goodness. It makes it easy for those who want to check a box, but I’m not looking to just check a box, because that’s not true faith; that’s not true love.” — Alison Brown, local teacher
Another teacher, who no longer practices Christianity, told McKean that being asked to lead religious instruction crosses a fundamental line:
“I’m a math teacher. I can teach anyone how to love and understand mathematics! But I am not and should not be a preacher.”
What This Means for Democratic Trust
McKean’s 15-year-old daughter puts the democratic stakes plainly. Most students don’t pay much attention to the Ten Commandments poster on the wall, the teenager says — but the students most likely to notice it are probably the ones most likely to feel a pang of exclusion when they do. Those are the future voters who may grow up with a government institution on record telling them, implicitly, that they don’t quite belong.
Public schools aren’t just educational institutions — they’re where young Americans first learn to see themselves as participants in a shared democratic society. When those institutions send a message of exclusion to some students based on religion, it shapes how those students relate to government and civic life for years to come. Research on civic participation consistently shows that feeling represented and welcomed by public institutions increases the likelihood that people will engage with democracy — and that feeling excluded has the opposite effect.
McKean frames her objection in terms that any American voter, regardless of faith, can recognize: the separation of church and state exists not to suppress religion, but to protect the liberty of every religious minority — which could be any of us, in any political climate. That protection is foundational to a democracy where every eligible citizen can participate equally in public life.
She closes with a verse from 1 Corinthians 13:1, which she sees as a warning for this moment: words spoken without love — or sincerity — become nothing more than
“a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.”
For McKean, that’s exactly what government-mandated religion in public schools sounds like. And it’s a noise, she worries, that is driving people away from both faith and civic life rather than drawing them in.
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