SIDEBAR: When Inclusion Isn’t Instruction
The next hard question after Mahmoud v. Taylor
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.
In Mahmoud v. Taylor, the Supreme Court dealt with a relatively clear constitutional wrong. Montgomery County Public Schools introduced LGBTQ+-themed books into its K–5 curriculum, then barred all opt-outs and trained teachers to respond to religiously based student objections with moral correction. The message wasn’t just, “These families exist,” but rather, “This is what’s right—and if you disagree, you’re wrong.” That crossed the line from inclusion to compulsion. The Court held that such a policy placed a substantial burden on the parents’ Free Exercise rights and required strict scrutiny.
But the harder question is: what happens when a school includes a book that simply shows, without commentary, a child with two moms or two dads? There’s no teacher prompt, no corrective script. A student asks about it, and the teacher replies, “Some families are like that. You can talk to your parents if you have questions.” Does that quiet act of inclusion still trigger a need to accommodate religious objections?
The Court addressed this concern by distinguishing “mere exposure” from the more coercive context in Mahmoud. This wasn’t a case about a fleeting reference or a single page in a book. It involved repeated, mandatory exposure, combined with an institutional framework that instructed teachers to affirm specific moral messages and actively discourage dissent.
“The question in cases of this kind is whether the educational requirement or curriculum at issue would ‘substantially interfer[e] with the religious development’ of the child or pose ‘a very real threat of undermining’ the religious beliefs and practices the parent wishes to instill in the child.”
Children as young as five weren’t simply encountering diverse worldviews—they were told to celebrate them, with no option to process, question, or opt out. The curriculum crossed the line from passive representation to prescriptive moral instruction.
That line matters. When the state mandates moral messages, refuses opt-outs, and positions teachers to correct religiously grounded objections, it imposes a burden that must be constitutionally justified. But when a school simply depicts different kinds of families (without moralizing or requiring students to internalize those portrayals), the legal analysis changes. The burden, if any, becomes too attenuated to be constitutional.
Still, even if no legal accommodation is required in these quieter cases, the cultural question remains. LGBTQ+ students deserve to see themselves reflected in classroom materials. So do religious families deserve the dignity of not having their beliefs flattened or vilified. In a pluralist society, inclusion and conscience are not mutually exclusive, but holding them together requires nuance.
Mahmoud sets a floor: when inclusion becomes instruction, and disagreement is penalized, accommodation is constitutionally necessary. But it also leaves space for schools to reflect diversity without triggering litigation—so long as they do so with restraint, neutrality, and respect for parental role.
The real test is not the loud conflict, but the quiet moment: a book with two dads, a student’s question, a teacher’s calm answer: “Some families are like that. Ask your parents what they think.” That’s not indoctrination. That’s pluralism in practice. And it may be our best chance to keep the peace in a divided democracy.