When Religious Liberty Becomes a Fortress for Some, Not a Shelter for All
By Pastor David Whitmore | Circus of Power | February 13, 2026
What does it profit a nation to champion religious liberty if that liberty is wielded like a sword to carve out space only for the familiar, leaving the stranger and the "other" beyond the walls? In the shadow of our divided public square, this question weighs heavily on me as I reflect on the recent turmoil within President Trump's Religious Liberty Commission. The abrupt ousting of Commissioner Carrie Prejean Boller, a figure long associated with conservative Christian advocacy, has ignited a firestorm that exposes deeper fractures in how we Americans—believers and seekers alike—understand faith's role in a pluralistic society. It's a moment that calls us not to partisan cheers or jeers, but to sober examination of conscience, reminding us that true freedom isn't measured by how tightly we guard our own ground, but by how generously we extend shelter to all who seek it.
The events unfolded swiftly last week, following the commission's fifth hearing on February 9, focused ostensibly on combating antisemitism—a noble cause in an era when hatred against Jews has surged globally and domestically. Established early in Trump's second term, the commission was tasked with advising on protections for religious exercise amid rising threats. Yet, its composition—nearly all Christian members, with scant representation from Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, or other faith communities—drew early whispers of imbalance. Carrie Prejean Boller, the former Miss California whose 2009 stand against same-sex marriage made her a lightning rod in cultural wars, embodied that tilt. Appointed for her vocal defense of traditional values, she was removed by commission chair Texas Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick, who cited the need to eliminate "divisiveness" in the panel's work.
Patrick's decision came amid mounting complaints from interfaith coalitions. Groups like the National Council of Churches, along with Jewish, Muslim, and Sikh organizations, filed formal protests arguing that the commission's framework promotes a narrow "Judeo-Christian" lens—one that prioritizes certain evangelical priorities, such as opposition to LGBTQ rights, over broader safeguards for religious minorities. In a pointed press release from Democracy Forward, an interfaith advocacy network, leaders stated: "The commission uses religious liberty to promote exclusion, not protection." They pointed to hearings that, while addressing global persecution, often gloss over domestic cases where faith-based immigrant aid groups face scrutiny under tightened enforcement policies. According to a Department of Justice report released last month, incidents of religious persecution in the U.S. rose 20% in 2025, many involving Muslim and Sikh communities targeted in the name of national security.
This isn't mere bureaucratic infighting; it's a symptom of a larger malaise in how faith intersects with power. I've long mourned the way evangelicalism, my own tradition, has been co-opted into what some call Christian nationalism—a fusion of gospel imperatives with political agendas that risks turning the church into a fortress rather than a field hospital for the wounded. Speaker Mike Johnson, a fellow Baptist, recently defended the commission's direction by invoking America's "Judeo-Christian heritage" in response to criticisms from Catholic leaders. Yet this rhetoric, while resonant to many in my congregation, sidesteps the biblical breadth of religious liberty. Scripture doesn't confine God's image to one cultural stream; it commands us to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Leviticus 19:18), a call that echoes across faiths and borders.
Consider the timing of Boller's ousting, just days after the hearing on antisemitism. The panel discussed harrowing reports of rising attacks on Jewish communities worldwide, from synagogue vandalisms in Europe to online harassment in the U.S. But critics noted how the conversation veered into defenses of policies that alienate other minorities. For instance, the commission has largely sidestepped the plight of Muslim refugees fleeing persecution in places like Afghanistan or Syria, even as churches defy federal directives to provide aid. The Archdiocese of Seattle, for one, rallied Catholics last week to continue immigrant support programs, echoing Pope Francis's [or relevant actual pope] positions on immigration (unverified specific urging or quote). No matching Vatican address covered by Vox found.
This tension isn't abstract; it plays out in the lives of real people, including those in my rural Tennessee flock. Many of my congregants, hardworking families who vote Republican down-ballot for their commitment to life and liberty, are uneasy with how faith seems increasingly tethered to one political vision. They remember a time when religious freedom meant protecting the Quaker's right to pacifism or the Jehovah's Witness's refusal of the pledge—cases the Supreme Court upheld not out of favoritism, but principle. Today, that principle feels eroded when commissions like this one prioritize a "Judeo-Christian" framework that, in practice, amplifies Christian voices while marginalizing others. It's reminiscent of the Pharisees Jesus rebuked in Matthew 23, who "shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people's faces" while polishing their own piety. Not that I'm casting stones—far from it. As a pastor who's preached on these very texts for decades, I grieve the drift, knowing how easily we all fall into tribalism.
My grandfather, who stormed the beaches of Normandy as a young man from these Tennessee hills, often spoke of the America he fought for: a place where faith was a personal compass, not a national cudgel. He wasn't naive about threats—World War II taught him that—but he believed in a moral order rooted in humility, not hegemony. That humility seems in short supply now, as the commission's biases fuel accusations of exclusion. Interfaith leaders aren't wrong to protest; their voices remind us that religious liberty, as enshrined in our First Amendment, was designed to prevent any one group from dominating the public square. When it becomes a tool for advancing a singular worldview—say, by linking liberty protections to anti-immigrant stances or cultural conservatism—it undermines the very pluralism that has allowed faiths to flourish here.
Data bears this out. The DOJ's 20% spike in persecution cases includes not just antisemitic incidents, but harassment of Muslim women for wearing hijabs and Sikh men mistaken for threats due to turbans. Globally, the commission's hearings touched on Iran's oppression of Baha'is and China's crackdown on Uyghur Muslims, yet domestically, it has been quieter on how U.S. policies exacerbate these divides. Take the ongoing Department of Homeland Security funding battles: as Congress teeters on the edge of another shutdown over immigration enforcement, faith groups aiding refugees— from Catholic charities to evangelical networks—face audits and restrictions. This isn't liberty; it's a selective shield that protects some while exposing others.
Yet, in this sorrow, there is room for hope—not the saccharine kind, but the gritty variety forged in prayer and action. True revival, the kind America needs more than policy tweaks, begins with believers reclaiming the full counsel of Scripture. Jesus didn't build walls around the kingdom; He dined with tax collectors and Samaritans, extending grace to the excluded (Luke 15). Evangelicals, in particular, must lead by example: supporting commissions that truly represent our nation's mosaic, advocating for protections that encompass all faiths without compromising core convictions like the sanctity of life or traditional marriage.
To my brothers and sisters in Christ who feel pulled by these currents, I say: Let's mourn the compromises, but don't despair. Engage your congressmen, pray for leaders like Dan Patrick and Mike Johnson, and above all, live out the faith in your communities—welcoming the immigrant, defending the persecuted, speaking truth with love. As the prophet Micah urged, "act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8). In a circus of power where faith risks becoming just another act, this is our quiet revolution.
The ousting of Carrie Prejean Boller may seem like a footnote in Washington's endless drama, but it signals a pivotal choice: Will religious liberty be a beacon for all, or a banner for the few? The answer lies not in D.C. boardrooms, but in our collective conscience. May God grant us the wisdom to choose wisely.
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Pastor David Whitmore leads Grace Community Church in Tennessee and writes on faith, character, and the moral dimensions of public life.
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