When our nation’s Founders took the revolutionary step of creating a republic with no state religion, they likely never envisioned how religiously diverse the nation would become. Drive around my hometown of Fort Worth, or any populous Texas city, and you’ll see Muslim mosques, Hindu and Buddhist temples, Sikh gurdwaras, and Jewish synagogues, as well as Christian churches of all sizes and varieties.

Once-predominant Christians now account for less than two-thirds of Americans, and their faith has fragmented into hundreds of denominations that differ over theology, morality, and politics. One out of 15 Americans now belongs to a religion other than Christianity. Almost a third of Americans don’t identify with any particular religion, yet belief still flourishes. Over half of Americans consider religion very important in daily life; that share struggles to reach 20 percent in other economically advanced nations.

As America grows more religiously diverse, the Founders’ decision to separate church and state looks increasingly wise. Though it’s easy to spot flaws in the Founders themselves and the Constitution they crafted (the Electoral College, for instance, or the three-fifths clause), what Thomas Jefferson called the “wall of separation” was one thing they definitely got right.

Two centuries on, it’s easy to overlook just how novel that wall was in its day. Whereas both America’s adversary (Britain) and main ally (France) in the Revolutionary War officially endorsed one religion (the Church of England and the Catholic Church, respectively), the U.S. Constitution explicitly prohibited the “establishment” of such an official religion, instead guaranteeing individuals’ right to freely practice their own beliefs. The Founders also went against the grain in prohibiting any religious tests for holding public office, a requirement both in Britain and in many of the states at the time (North Carolina and Georgia, for instance, restricted public office to Protestant Christians).

As historian Steven K. Green notes, leading clergy of the day attacked the Constitution’s “irreligious” character—particularly the fact that, unlike most public documents of the time, including the Declaration of Independence and the Articles of Confederation, it neither invokes nor mentions a deity.

Scholars and jurists have long debated how church-state separation should be interpreted and applied, but it remains a cornerstone of our democracy. And it’s one worth keeping, according to most Americans. Fifty-four percent want the federal government to enforce church-state separation; 69 percent believe the United States should never declare an official religion—and with good reason: Just imagine the mess if the government tried to foist one religious group’s beliefs on so varied a people.

Yet that’s effectively what Christian nationalists are attempting to do today. This largely white evangelical movement, which holds sway in GOP politics, especially here in Texas, seeks conservative Christian domination over law and public policy.

Despite contrary evidence offered by mainstream historians, many leading Texas lawmakers and politicos apparently agree with Aledo-based David Barton that church-state separation is a “myth” liberals and secularists concocted to conceal the Founders’ alleged intent to create an explicitly Christian nation. The Texas GOP has pledged to work “toward dispelling” this purported myth. Both Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick and state Senator Mayes Middleton, a Galveston Republican, have declared there is “no such thing” as church-state separation.

At the Capitol, Texas lawmakers have sought to weaken Jefferson’s wall, especially in public education. In 2021, they required “In God We Trust” be posted in public schools. In 2023, lawmakers authorized school districts to hire chaplains as counselors, with no prohibition on proselytizing. In 2024, the State Board of Education gave its blessing to a “Bible-infused” K-5 curriculum featuring instructional materials more appropriate for Sunday school than public schools. And last year, lawmakers mandated that all public schools display one religious tradition’s sacred text—the Ten Commandments—and provide a daily period for prayer and Scripture reading.

These measures arguably promote one religion over others, and religion over non-religion, threatening to turn students, families, and teachers who don’t subscribe to Christian-nationalist religiosity into outsiders in their own public schools and communities.

As a recent book, Randall Balmer’s America’s Best Idea: Separation of Church and State, makes clear, what the author calls our “best idea” was no deus ex machina; it emerged from a particular history and particular coalitional forces. America’s “grand experiment of constructing a government without … an established religion,” Balmer writes, grew from an alliance of “two unlikely camps,” secular rationalists and—ironically—evangelicals. 

The latter group had their own history of persecution under state religion. In colonial Virginia, where the Church of England was the established religion, “a sheriff brutally horsewhipped a Baptist minister,” Balmer recounts as an example. Quaker William Penn, persecuted in Britain by the Church of England, and Baptist Roger Williams, who suffered at the hands of Puritan colonial officials, worked to free people from the yoke of official religion; they established colonies (Pennsylvania and Rhode Island, respectively) that offered religious freedom, setting a precedent for the later First Amendment.

Secular, Enlightenment-minded Founders like James Madison had their own reasons for rejecting state religion. They needed to accommodate the religious diversity already present in the new nation, where religious groups “rang[ed] from Catholics and Moravians to Jews, Quakers, and Dutch Reformed—and perhaps hundreds more.” Moreover, Madison linked religious establishment with political tyranny and violence; he wrote that “torrents of blood” had been spilled in official religion’s “vain attempt” to proscribe religious differences.

In rejecting official religion, the Founders created what Balmer calls a “free marketplace of religion”: Since no religious group holds a state-sanctioned monopoly over religious life, “religious groups … compete for adherents on an equal footing.”

Pushback to the Founders’ free-market approach, though, does have a long history. In the 19th century, for instance, the elaborately named National Association to Secure the Religious Amendment of the Constitution pushed for explicit acknowledgment of Christ’s will as the law of the land. Though this group’s efforts failed, it foreshadowed today’s Christian nationalism.

Then and now, Christian nationalists threaten a system that has actually benefited both government and religion. Though Americans haven’t always lived up to the promise of religious tolerance, we have been spared widespread sectarian bloodshed. Meanwhile, “religion has flourished in America,” Balmer writes, “precisely because the government (for the most part, at least) has stayed out of the religion business.” 

Separation has perhaps benefited no group more than evangelicals themselves. They have proved far more adept than other groups at adjusting to social and technological changes (think of their adroit use of digital media or their move to megachurches featuring multisensory worship experiences). And, of course, there’s the unprecedented political power evangelicals wield, especially here in Texas.

So why the eagerness of many evangelicals to kill the golden goose of separation? Balmer blames evangelical leaders’ (and President Donald Trump’s) “rhetoric of victimization.” However, he leaves unanswered the question of why they find such rhetoric so compelling. Other scholars offer possible answers. For instance, Glenn Bracey and my Baker Institute colleague Michael Emerson contend that Christian nationalists are defending a “religion of whiteness” against religious and racial diversity. Alternatively, Andrew Whitehead and Samuel Perry argue that Christian nationalism is less about religion than the pursuit of power.

Like other bedrock principles of our democracy—say, the separation of powers or freedom of the press, both also under threat today—church-state separation was born of mixed motives, has not always lived up to its own promise, and remains subject to shifting interpretations. At times, it has functioned more as a hedge than an impermeable wall (as when a Cold War Congress made “In God We Trust” the national motto). Yet, it’s no myth. It has prevented any one religion from gaining a state-sanctioned monopoly in the religious marketplace, and that has served us well, fostering a pluralism that makes us stronger and freer. As Jefferson’s wall faces perhaps its most severe tests to date, it is up to all of us, religious and nonreligious alike, to speak out in its defense.

The post A Wall That’s Worth Defending appeared first on The Texas Observer.

The Democratic U.S. Senate primary between state Representative James Talarico and Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett was marked by subtle, if unremarkable, policy differences and questions around whose fighting style better reflected the desires of Texans. 

Then, on February 2, former U.S. Senate candidate Colin Allred posted a video amplifying the claims of Morgan Thompson, a popular political content creator on TikTok, who alleged in a viral video that in a private conversation with Talarico on January 12, the state legislator referred to Allred as a “mediocre Black man.” 

As a Black man in Texas, I am required to know how white men, particularly white men like Talarico, talk about Black men. That particular combination of words seemed off, particularly for a politician who is as circumspect as Talarico. Arguably, Talarico’s greatest strength is that he is an effective communicator, in particular when he flips the arguments of the religious right on its head by reminding them that the Christian dogma they desire to use as a weight is actually a liberating force. So, for someone who is so effective as a communicator to label Allred, himself, as mediocre, did not pass the smell test. 

Soon after, Talarico’s campaign issued a statement denying the claim, saying that he was referring to Allred’s 2024 Senate campaign as mediocre—not the man himself. The allegation, however, had by that point turned the somewhat quiet primary into a firestorm—with influencers, from within Texas and outside, on both sides and on neither side, fanning the flames. 

By the end, the race became almost entirely consumed by the political influencer wars. But in the early days of the primary, Talarico and Crockett had mostly elected to keep their focus squarely on the issues facing Texans, largely because in many material aspects of their platforms they were nearly identical. Even their public polling numbers against potential GOP opponents were nearly identical. 

In this new age of online politics, it’s become undeniable that political influencers and content creators have a significant place in the ecosystem. But it becomes a problem when their arguing, infighting, and, yes, mudslinging, obscures a compelling, close race between two quality candidates. 

Take, for instance, Keith Edwards, a self-described “Democratic strategist, digital creator, and political commentator” with more than 1 million subscribers on YouTube, who was among the countless political influencers commenting on the race. Appearing on a January 23 episode of The Ringer’s popular Higher Learning podcast, Edwards earned himself an education in the racial dynamics of American politics from the podcast’s hosts, Van Lathan and Rachel Lindsay.  In the episode, Lathan took umbrage at Edwards’ repeated use of the term “polarizing” during the course of their conversation for how Crockett could come across to some voters. Lathan chided Edwards, a white man, for his air of nonchalance as it relates to critiques of the way he discusses politics—in particular, political discussions he partakes in that involve and are about Black women. “Do you get why we want you to be nice and civil and partly protective of Black women? Do you understand where that comes from?” Lathan asked Edwards. 

To his credit, Edwards admitted that he hadn’t fully thought out why Black people would be reflexively defensive of Crockett, but he still noted that “I do think it’s just the partisan quality of her brand that is challenging in Texas.” 

This particular dynamic-—one wherein white leftists do not adequately reckon with the effects of their so-called colorblindness—is not one unique to Edwards. It is reflective of the current ideological row capturing the political left about how class and race intersect to render Black folks as invisible members of the working-class voting bloc. The specific concerns and problems affecting Black voters are simply lumped in with the economic anxieties of white voters and are never seriously addressed by candidates running on economic populism.

On this point, Talarico too—whose central message is that it’s about not left versus right, but top versus bottom—is going to have to meaningfully engage with and accept the critiques of Black voters and politicos and give those voters substantive policy that renders them as seen, full humans with separate, unique concerns that white voters do not have.

Black voters in Texas have, for decades, been asking for the political system to deliver a candidate that speaks with them in mind and showcases that the Black communities of Texas are not afterthoughts. As one 19-year-old college student, Natalie Greene, told American Community Media, it is important to her that Talarico speak to the concerns of her daily life. “As a young Black woman, I want to hear how he plans to advocate for us,” Greene told the outlet. “That means education, reproductive rights and the issues college students are facing right now. I want to see him looking young women in the eye and explaining what he’s willing to fight for on our behalf.” 

Similarly, other older Black women voters whom the outlet interviewed wanted Talarico to address the economic concerns of Black women, who have been adversely affected by a depressed job market; to show up in the communities where they live and work; and to craft specific policies that benefit those Black communities. It is these concerns, the so-called kitchen table platform, that will ultimately resonate with most rank-and-file Texans, those who are not so chronically online as to assign proof to allegations made by content creators and influencers because they are fans of the person making the allegations. 

Perhaps even more than a fighter, what Texans need in a United States senator representing the Lone Star State is the ability to articulate a vision and make it a political reality in the face of fierce opposition. This is a hostile and captive political environment, and the battle that’s now staring Talarico in the face is against that of a state apparatus that is entirely too willing to do the bidding of President Donald Trump and his cabal of white nationalist sympathizers in exchange for continued political power. 

For Democrats, these are grave concerns that a viral video or a podcast appearance from a political content creator or influencer will not solve, will not address, and will not fix. What has to happen more broadly, is that, like the new Texas Democratic Party Chair, Kendall Scudder, puts it, the state party recommit itself to being the party of the working class. It needs to become—arguably for the first time—the party of the Black working class, the Latinx working class, and the immigrant working class, and build out real solidarity and a unified message regarding not only the tyranny of the Trump administration, but the tyranny of Governor Greg Abbott and the tyranny of the billionaire class.

With the Democratic primary now behind us, questions of who’s more electable, who can create party unity, and who will be able to marshal both voters and other leaders in the Democratic Party to gather around them, will now be answered in the leadup to the general election. During the primary, questions of electability turned into referendums on race—because let’s be honest, folks know a dogwhistle when they hear it. 

That is not to say that there were not things that emerged from Crockett’s campaign that were concerning, like the lack of a campaign manager or the report from Semafor, later corroborated by The Atlantic‘s Elaine Godfrey in her own report, that someone in Crockett’s campaign ejected her from a rally because the campaign was frustrated by Godfrey’s reporting.

While Talarico’s margin of victory over Crockett didn’t exactly deliver a mandate, it did provide a semblance of closure—something that has not been afforded in the much more chaotic, dramatic, and vindictive Republican Senate primary. 

Despite this closure, there remain very real rifts that the Democratic Party and Talarico himself must repair. As Vox noted, Talarico did not fare well with Black voters, only gathering a scant 10 percent of the voters in that bloc, according to crosstab polling. He was, however, able to offset those losses by winning white and Hispanic voters, including in the major border counties that saw a shift toward Trump in 2024. 

For her part, Crockett vowed to support Talarico in much the same way he vowed to support her if she had won. Given the racial dynamics of the votes during the primary contest, Crockett’s support will be vital to ensuring that a significant number of Black Texans will vote for Talarico. 

Now that Texans have chosen their fighter in Talarico, the question naturally turns to whether or not he can galvanize the support that may have been eroded by the behavior of some of his loudest online supporters, who, like Edwards, have knowingly or unknowingly trafficked in misogynoir and anti-Blackness to make their case for why Talarico is the right fighter for the moment. 

The wounds of Black Texans are many, amplified by the nature of our internet lives and the tendency of white leftists to dismiss our concerns and our chosen candidates in the interest of unity. If we are to move forward and leave the messy, sometimes divisive conversations of the Texas Democratic Party primary behind us, it is going to require Talarico to do the work of meaningfully, substantially, and materially engaging Black voters; otherwise the fever dream of turning Texas blue will have to be deferred at least one more cycle. 

The post In Texas Senate Primary, the Influencer Class Was (and Is) the Problem  appeared first on The Texas Observer.