SIDEBAR: From Muhammad to Mahmoud
What a religious image can teach us about constitutional boundaries
SIDEBAR is my occasional op-ed series on unfolding constitutional controversies. These pieces step outside the usual analysis to weigh in on the news of the moment.
One of the more striking moments in Mahmoud v. Taylor came not in the Court’s holding, but in a comparison: Montgomery County Public Schools (MCPS), which refused to allow opt-outs for families objecting to LGBTQ+-inclusive storybooks, simultaneously granted opt-outs to students whose families objected to viewing an image of the Prophet Muhammad.
That wasn’t a hypothetical. It was the school district’s own policy, cited in oral arguments and acknowledged in the briefs. The image of Muhammad appeared in school materials (likely part of a broader lesson on religion or culture) and for Muslim students, seeing a visual depiction of the Prophet is religiously prohibited. The school understood that. It didn’t treat the exemption as dangerous or destabilizing. It honored it quietly, as a matter of conscience.
So why draw the line there? Why allow an exemption for one sincerely held belief, but deny it for another?
This question reveals the real fault line in Mahmoud. It’s not between inclusion and exclusion. It’s between pluralism that accommodates difference, and pluralism that demands uniformity.
The Slippery Slope Objection
Critics of the Court’s ruling worry that if parents can opt their kids out of affirming LGBTQ+ identities, what's to stop them from opting out of lessons on interracial marriage? Or exposure to Muslim characters, immigrant families, or women in leadership? Doesn’t this open the door to selective ignorance—carving out every difference someone finds uncomfortable?
It’s a serious concern. And the Court took it seriously. But it answered not by denying the risk, but by clarifying the principle: this case isn’t about exposure. It’s about compulsion.
In oral arguments, petitioners made clear they weren’t demanding schools strip classrooms of books featuring same-sex couples or transgender characters. They were objecting to a curriculum that required affirmation, not just awareness. One that instructed five-year-olds that disagreement was “hurtful,” and teachers to correct students who echoed their family’s religious teachings.
The analogy to the Muhammad image matters here. Exposure to diverse views or people is not the issue. Exposure that crosses the line into coercive participation—that’s where the burden lies. In many Islamic traditions, especially among Sunni Muslims, visual depictions of the Prophet Muhammad are not just discouraged, they are prohibited as a form of idolatry. For students raised in these traditions, sitting through a lesson that features such an image isn’t passive observation; it’s perceived as active complicity in a religious violation. Even silent presence becomes a form of participation in what their faith forbids.
That’s why the Muhammad exemption and the Mahmoud challenge are of a piece: both involve content that, for some families, requires more than quiet disagreement. It demands participation in something their faith prohibits. And it’s precisely in that shift—from awareness to engagement, from acknowledgment to affirmation—that the constitutional burden arises.
This is not about protecting fragility. It’s about limiting the state’s moral authority over children when that authority overrides the formative role of parents.
We Can Draw Lines
Yes, some families might try to claim opt-outs for a wide array of reasons, including discriminatory ones. But our constitutional system is not allergic to line-drawing. Courts regularly assess whether a claimed burden is religious, sincere, and substantial. Not every request gets a green light. And as the petitioners noted, in jurisdictions that already allow broad opt-outs, the floodgates haven’t opened. Parents, it turns out, mostly seek accommodations when the moral stakes are high and the age is young.
Pluralism does not mean every belief gets equal agreement. It means every person gets equal dignity in navigating moral disagreement. When schools allow a Muslim student to sit out a lesson involving the Prophet’s image, they don’t validate the belief. They validate the person who holds it.
Likewise, when families object to moral instruction that contradicts their religious convictions, the state is not required to affirm those beliefs—but neither can it deny their legitimacy wholesale.
That is the danger in how MCPS handled this case. It didn’t just teach a view. It demanded compliance. And in doing so, it crossed the constitutional line.
Opt-out policies aren’t loopholes for bigotry. They’re pressure valves for pluralism. And like any good civic design, they work best when guided by principle, transparency, and respect—not panic about where they might lead.
Mahmoud doesn’t erase inclusion. It reminds us that inclusion worth having is inclusion we don’t force.
Reflecting on our discussions surrounding the First Amendment, I wanted to return to this post from the summer. I think there is something subtly profound about this way of thinking through "slippery slopes" that grip our minds as a fear. Thinking through the real world consequences of this approach, I feel comforted in the idea that this doesn't use the law as a crutch for social change. Honoring one another as we live out our differences, as you note in a comment, requires a greater degree of community organizing wholly outside of the legal system to address the kind of social change that the court would hypothetically refuse to partake in under a doctrine of authentic pluralism. Where the First Amendment in early education is concerned, I really value this approach.
“Pluralism does not mean every belief gets equal agreement. It means every person gets equal dignity in navigating moral disagreement.” This is an excellent way of depicting authentic pluralism. Thank you for this piece, Asma.