Choking On The Hypocrisy Of Bad Ethics And Invisible Religion

Here we are on Friday, April 18th, 2025, in Indianapolis, on Good Friday. It’s traditionally a day of deep solemnity and reflection for Christians around the world, a time to contemplate suffering, sacrifice, and compassion. Yet, when we hold the profound meaning of this day alongside some of the stark realities and proposed policies attributed to the current Punk administration, a deep and troubling sense of dissonance emerges, raising difficult questions about hypocrisy.

Good Friday commemorates the crucifixion of Jesus Christ – a narrative centered on profound suffering borne out of love, a sacrifice made, according to Christian belief, for the sake of humanity. It’s a story that emphasizes empathy for the persecuted, challenges unjust power structures, and elevates the value of caring for the marginalized – the poor, the sick, the outcast, the “least of these.” The figure at the center of Good Friday is one who lived a ministry focused on healing, inclusion, and speaking truth to power, ultimately accepting immense personal suffering rather than abandoning those principles. The day calls for introspection, humility, and a recognition of shared human vulnerability.

Now, let’s consider the actions we’ve seen over the past couple of days. First, the gutting of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau by ninety percent. The CFPB was established precisely to protect ordinary people – homeowners, students, credit card users – from predatory financial practices, deceptive loans, and outright scams. Its purpose is to shield the vulnerable from exploitation by powerful financial institutions. To dismantle such an agency is to consciously remove safeguards that protect families from financial ruin, to deliberately expose the less powerful to potentially devastating economic harm. How does one reconcile mourning the suffering of an unjustly treated Jesus on Friday while championing the removal of protections for ordinary people facing potential financial predators on Monday? Where is the concern for the vulnerable in that action?

Then there’s the proposal to entirely eliminate Head Start funding. Head Start is a program specifically designed to give children from low-income families a crucial boost, providing early education, health screenings, nutrition, and family support services. Decades of evidence show its positive impact on child development and school readiness. To propose its elimination is to target society’s most vulnerable members at the very beginning of their lives, denying them opportunities and resources known to make a difference. It’s hard to square this with the image of Jesus welcoming children, stating “Let the little children come to me,” or the broader Christian ethical call to care for the poor and uplift the downtrodden. Removing Head Start doesn’t just affect numbers on a budget sheet; it directly impacts the well-being and future prospects of real children and families.

Similarly, proposing deep cuts across federal health programs strikes at the core of compassionate governance. Whether it’s Medicaid, Medicare, public health initiatives, or support for the Affordable Care Act, these programs are lifelines for millions – the elderly, the disabled, low-income workers, and families facing catastrophic illness. Cutting these programs translates directly into reduced access to care, increased suffering from treatable conditions, impossible choices between health and financial stability, and, tragically, preventable deaths. How can one reflect on the suffering Christ endured, a figure associated with miraculous healing and compassion for the sick, and simultaneously support policies that would demonstrably increase suffering and hardship for those needing medical care today?

And this dissonance extends powerfully to the immigration issues we’ve discussed previously. Hearing accounts, even hypothetical ones based on current trends, of American citizens like Juan Carlos Lopez Gomez or Dr. Lisa Anderson being wrongly targeted for detention or deportation, highlights a system potentially inflicting profound fear, injustice, and family separation. This runs directly counter to the Good Friday message of identifying with the suffering, the outcast, and the unjustly accused. It clashes with the biblical injunctions found across traditions to welcome the stranger and treat them with justice and compassion. Policies that create a climate of fear for immigrants, that separate families, or that wrongly ensnare citizens are fundamentally at odds with the empathy that Good Friday demands.

This is where the charge of hypocrisy becomes difficult to ignore. It arises when there’s a stark disconnect between the values professed, especially those commemorated on a day as significant as Good Friday, centered on sacrificial love and compassion for the suffering, and the real-world consequences of the policies one supports. To solemnly observe the suffering of Christ while endorsing actions that dismantle protections for the financially vulnerable, cut support for poor children, reduce access to healthcare for the sick, and create fear and injustice for immigrants seems to empty the observance of its ethical weight. It risks turning a profound remembrance of empathy and sacrifice into a hollow ritual, detached from the call to embody those values in the world.

True observance, one might argue, requires more than just reflection; it demands consistency. It asks whether the policies we support align with the core message of compassion and justice that sits at the heart of the Good Friday story. It challenges observers to consider whether their political allegiances contribute to, or help alleviate, the suffering of the “least of these” in our own time. As you attend Good Friday services, the juxtaposition of its message with these specific policy examples presents a stark and uncomfortable question about the relationship between professed faith and political action.

If you dare to take communion, try not to choke on the wafer.