When government breaks the law, can you even sue?



On Tuesday, my lawyers from the Goldwater Institute and I will appear before the Arizona Supreme Court to argue a proposition that, until recently, I would have thought too obvious to require lawyers: When the government violates a law enacted to protect you, you ought to be able to ask a court to make it stop.

Apparently this is controversial.

The question before the Arizona Supreme Court is larger than one professor, one university, or even DEI.

My case began with Arizona State University’s mandatory “Inclusive Communities” training. ASU required employees, as a condition of employment, to complete instruction on such fashionable academic doctrines as “whiteness,” “heteronormativity,” and “transformative justice.” An early version included a quiz requiring employees to select approved answers, including that land acknowledgments are important tools of accountability and that DEI should permeate every aspect of the university.

The course included material on “white privilege,” “white supremacy,” and the claim that American institutions normalize racial oppression. One segment even included a Starbucks employee describing an “existential crisis” when Americans could not pronounce her name.

There was, however, an inconvenience. Arizona has a law.

And the law says the state and its agencies “may not require an employee” to participate in training that presents “any form of blame or judgment on the basis of race, ethnicity, or sex.” It separately bars the use of public money for such training.

This is not an especially cryptic statute. One need not summon a seminar on poststructuralist hermeneutics to decipher the words “may not.”

I’ve alleged that ASU violated the statute. The merits of that claim have never been tried. Before ASU can be required to defend the training in court, the Arizona Board of Regents has argued that I cannot bring the case at all.

The trial court said I could. The Arizona Court of Appeals said I could not. The state Supreme Court has now agreed to hear the case and framed the question in the language lawyers love: whether the court of appeals failed to apply Arizona precedent for determining when a statute contains an “implied private right of action.”

That phrase sounds calculated to make normal Americans suddenly remember they have lawns to mow. But the principle behind it is important.

The law does not expressly say, “An employee may sue his employer for violating this section.” The Board of Regents therefore argues that no private cause of action exists. The Court of Appeals accepted that reasoning.

My attorneys argue that Arizona law does not end the inquiry there. Under state precedent, statutory silence “begins, rather than ends” the inquiry. Courts may consider a law’s language, context, purpose, subject matter, and consequences to determine whether a private right is implied.

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And the law is expressly directed at protecting state employees from being forced into prohibited training.

So here is the elementary question: If the employee the legislature meant to protect cannot enforce the protection, what exactly has he been given?

The lawmakers who sponsored the statute filed an amicus brief supporting my case and arguing that employees like me are exactly whom the law was intended to protect. That does not decide the legal question. It does underscore the practical one: If the protected employee cannot sue, who can?

A legal protection that government may violate without anyone able to invoke it in court has been demoted from law to suggestion.

That is why this case is not merely about DEI and certainly not merely about me.

Imagine a future Arizona government dominated by people whose politics are the reverse of mine. Suppose it mandates ideological training that violates a statute protecting progressive state employees. Should those employees be told, “Yes, the legislature prohibited this, but you are not permitted to ask a court to stop it”?

Of course not.

Conservatives, liberals, Christians, atheists, Republicans, Democrats, and the politically exhausted all have the same interest here. A government constrained by law is safer than a government permitted to decide for itself whether the laws restraining it will actually be enforced.

The larger controversy over DEI only sharpens the point. For years, university administrators embraced an ideology that purported to fight racial discrimination while rehabilitating racial judgment under new terminology. The vocabulary changed. The moral error did not.

Now legislatures are acting, parents are objecting, faculty members are speaking, and DEI offices are being renamed or reorganized.

But changing the stationery is not accountability.

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Institutions regain public trust by telling the truth about what they did. Administrators who imposed unlawful training should answer for it if a court finds that the law was violated. Those who objected should be able to get through the courthouse door long enough to have that question decided.

When a government institution is accused of violating the law, its first instinct should not be to discover an ingenious reason the citizen cannot sue.

Let the case be heard.

If ASU’s training complied with Arizona law, let ASU prove it. If it did not, let the courts say so.

That is what courts are for.

The question before the Arizona Supreme Court is larger than one professor, one university, or even DEI. It is whether a law written to restrain government is something the people it protects may actually invoke against government.

Arizona has already told its agencies, “You may not.”

Now we find out whether an employee is allowed to answer, “Then prove it in court.”

Equal treatment makes a comeback



There is something almost touching about the astonishment with which American universities are discovering that racial discrimination is illegal.

The Justice Department announced Monday that it is investigating the College of William & Mary over scholarships and student benefits that allegedly discriminate according to race. The Civil Rights Division says it is examining whether those programs violate Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibits racial discrimination by recipients of federal funding.

Universities spent years teaching America that racial discrimination could cure racial discrimination. They may now receive an expensive lesson in return.

One might have supposed that this was not a particularly difficult statute for universities to understand. These are, after all, institutions populated by people who pride themselves on detecting racism in places where ordinary mortals see friendship and community.

And yet when discrimination appears in their own programs, their racial acuity suddenly fails them. Universities have spent years building programs around concepts such as “whiteness,” “decolonizing,” privilege, and equity. The problem is not that administrators forgot the Civil Rights Act. It is that many convinced themselves they had discovered a morally superior exception to its basic rule.

The old civil-rights principle was admirably simple: Do not discriminate on the basis of race.

The newer DEI principle often works differently: Unequal treatment may be justified if it is meant to correct an earlier inequality.

The distinction is the whole game.

Under the older understanding, the injustice consisted in treating an individual differently because of his race. If a university told an applicant, “You cannot have this opportunity because you are black,” we knew what to call it. If it told another applicant, “You cannot have this opportunity because you are white,” we also knew what to call it.

The genius of DEI was to make the second sentence sound morally different from the first.

This required an impressive amount of academic labor. Entire vocabularies were constructed to explain why unequal treatment could become virtuous when practiced by the right institutions, against the right groups, for the right reasons. We learned about privilege, power, positionality, systemic racism, dominant identities, marginalized identities, intersectionality, and the rest of the lexicon.

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The result was an ethical system of remarkable convenience. It condemned racial discrimination while supplying a vocabulary for practicing it.

The trick was accomplished by shifting the unit of moral judgment from the individual to the group.

Once people are sorted into historical categories of oppressor and oppressed, equal treatment begins to look suspicious. If Group A has enjoyed advantages and Group B has suffered disadvantages, treating individual members of A and B according to the same rules can be recast as perpetuating injustice. “Equity” then becomes a justification for unequal treatment today in the name of unequal treatment yesterday.

There is only one troublesome detail: The person standing before you today is an individual human being, not an installment payment on a historical debt.

A white 18-year-old applying for a scholarship did not write the Jim Crow laws. An Asian student applying to medical school did not build the transcontinental railroad with exploited labor. A black student is not the personal embodiment of several centuries of American suffering.

The civil rights tradition understood this. That is why the law speaks in the language of persons rather than assigning inherited moral credits and debits to racial castes.

The DEI worldview has spent years trying to reverse that achievement.

And now comes the awkward part.

The law is still there.

The Civil Rights Act does not contain an asterisk reading, “Discrimination permitted when performed in the service of social justice.” Title VI does not say recipients of federal money may discriminate according to race provided that a diversity consultant has explained why it is virtuous.

Last year, the Justice Department expressly warned recipients of federal funding that antidiscrimination laws apply regardless of whether discriminatory practices are packaged under the label of DEI. Now William & Mary is discovering what that warning means.

Nor is William & Mary alone. The Justice Department has been examining race-conscious practices across higher education. My own university, Arizona State, is under investigation. The Supreme Court’s 2023 decision in Students for Fair Admissions should already have alerted universities that the legal ground beneath racial preferences had shifted dramatically.

But something deeper than law is involved here. Universities are supposed to teach students how to reason. So let us try an elementary syllogism.

Racial discrimination is wrong. Denying someone a benefit because of his race is racial discrimination. Therefore, denying someone a benefit because of his race is wrong.

You don’t need a doctorate in critical theory to follow the argument. Indeed, a doctorate in critical theory may be an impediment.

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The great moral achievement of the civil rights movement was not to rearrange the racial hierarchy so different people could enjoy their turn at discrimination. It was to attack the hierarchy itself. The principle was equality before the law — not equality before the law except when our preferred theory of historical oppression recommends otherwise.

There is a useful lesson here for universities accustomed to believing that noble intentions confer immunity from ordinary moral rules.

They do not.

You may call discrimination “equity.” You may put it in a strategic plan. You may hire a vice president to administer it. You may surround it with the soothing language of “belonging” and “inclusion.” You may even persuade yourself that treating students differently according to ancestry is the latest advance in American civil rights.

But eventually somebody will ask the embarrassingly primitive question: Did you treat this person differently because of his race?

If the answer is yes, all the fashionable vocabulary in the world cannot make the question go away.

Universities spent years teaching America that racial discrimination could cure racial discrimination. They may now receive an expensive lesson in return.

The Civil Rights Act never learned DEI.

And the next shoe may be even more expensive: lawsuits from students who say they were denied scholarships, admissions advantages, or other benefits because of race. Once universities concede that race determined access to an opportunity, the legal question becomes much harder to explain away with the language of equity.

Welcome to Witchcraft State University — bring plenty of sunblock



As a modest contribution to the general welfare, I have once again taken on a task that state universities, despite their ever-expanding bureaucracies, seem unable to perform: helping parents and students decipher the course catalog before they accidentally enroll in an ideological boot camp.

This year’s expedition into Arizona State University’s listings produced a familiar discovery.

The challenge is recognizing ideological conformity when it hides beneath academic jargon and historical subject matter.

For fall 2026, ASU offers eight courses with witchcraft, magic, or the occult in the title — and exactly one with Christianity.

Think about that for a moment.

At one of the largest public universities in the country, students can choose from a small festival of courses on witchcraft, while Christianity receives a single titled course.

The predictable defense is already forming: These are history classes. They merely study witchcraft as history; they do not promote it.

If only the syllabus cooperated.

One ASU syllabus from this summer says the course will examine how the identity of the heretic and the witch was constructed against its binary opposite, the “orthodox” Christian. It then turns to “religious Othering,” especially “the female as Other,” and asks students to explain how centuries-old witch persecutions continue to shape their own lives.

A student scrolling through the catalog may think, “Witchcraft? That sounds like an interesting history class.” What the description does not announce plainly is that the course has already selected its moral and political framework before the first reading begins.

Allow me to translate the academic dialect into ordinary English.

The syllabus contains three ingredients that appear with remarkable regularity across what I call the oppression-studies curriculum.

First, orthodox Christianity is cast as the principal villain. The word "orthodox" is not merely descriptive. It identifies the force against which everyone else must be understood. Those troublesome Christians, always insisting that the Word of God is true.

Second, history is organized around a fixed binary of oppressors and oppressed. The key term is “Othering.” Outside the university, the word means little. Inside it, “Othering” functions as a philosophical skeleton key.

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Whatever the subject — witchcraft, colonialism, literature, economics, architecture, or even mathematics — the conclusion is expected to fit the same template: One group possesses power, another is marginalized, and scholarship consists of exposing the machinery of oppression.

Questions about whether Christianity is true, whether Christ is who Christians say He is, or whether salvation is real disappear from view. The course’s operating question is not “What is true?” but “Who has power?”

Third, the historical narrative must be applied directly to the present. Medieval Europe is not studied merely to understand medieval Europe. Students must show how the old oppression continues now.

History becomes raw material for a contemporary moral narrative in which Christians are still preventing women from having a little fun — even if that fun occasionally involves necromancy. Dead people need friends too.

Once you learn the pattern, whole sections of the catalog become easier to read.

The subject often matters less than the interpretive framework. Whether a course concerns witchcraft, fairy tales, Shakespeare, climate, coffeehouses, or design, the destination frequently remains the same. Society is assumed to be organized by systems of oppression, and every topic marches toward that conclusion.

That’s precisely why parents and students need help reading college catalogs.

Course descriptions are often written in a dialect that obscures more than it reveals. The average 18-year-old has no reason to know that terms such as “Othering,” “lived experience,” “deconstructing,” “intersectionality,” “hegemonic,” or “dialectic of oppression” may signal not simply a topic but an entire philosophical system.

Learning to recognize those signals is an exercise in intellectual discernment.

At the most elementary level, discernment means making distinctions. Ideas have presuppositions. Professors never merely present facts; every course is organized around assumptions about reality, morality, human nature, and truth.

For Christians, some distinctions remain basic. The Word of God? Yes. Communion with Satan? No. That binary is not about power. It is about truth and goodness, and it should not require four credit hours to sort out.

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Once students grasp that first level of discernment, they are prepared for the next: watching how quickly the narrative shifts when necessary.

One day, witchcraft is presented as a genuine spiritual tradition unjustly maligned by Christianity. The next, it is described as a social category invented by Christians to oppress women.

Those claims are difficult to reconcile, but reconciliation is beside the point. Both preserve the same moral architecture: Christians remain the oppressors, and everyone else becomes the oppressed.

The hardest courses to identify are not those that openly advertise ideology. Those are easy enough to avoid. The greater challenge is recognizing ideological conformity when it hides beneath academic jargon and historical subject matter.

The sooner students learn to decode that language, the sooner they can decide where to spend their tuition dollars and intellectual energy.

College is expensive enough without paying thousands of dollars to hear that orthodox Christianity is the principal menace of Western civilization — and discovering only after the drop deadline that you accidentally enrolled in Witchcraft 101.

Universities won’t give back the land — but they will bury history



Anyone who has spent time on a university campus recently has likely been forced to sit through a Native American land acknowledgment.

At Arizona State University, one plays on repeat as guests wait for graduation ceremonies to begin. Faculty in my college must sit through the ritual before we can even start business meetings.

The proper response to historical injustice is not to destroy historical evidence. It is to preserve it, study it honestly, and allow future generations to learn from it.

As you might expect, no university is handing back its land. Neither are the professors who recite these acknowledgments with the solemnity of a Marxist prayer while continuing to live comfortably on the same “tribal lands” they claim were unjustly taken.

Instead, they join celebrities such as Billie Eilish in proclaiming that “no one is illegal on stolen land” while living, working, and drawing salaries on the very land they call stolen.

Universities have perfected the art of virtue signaling. These modern sophists repeat fashionable slogans without changing their own behavior.

Until now, land acknowledgments have mostly been harmless theater, something for the larger community to mock or ignore. But the ideology behind them is no longer satisfied with symbolic gestures. It is beginning to reshape museums, archaeology, and our understanding of American history.

A new report from the Goldwater Institute by anthropologist Elizabeth Weiss argues that a movement originally intended to promote respect for Native American remains has evolved into something very different.

Instead of balancing scientific inquiry with legitimate tribal concerns, museums and universities increasingly adopt interpretations of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act that close off research, empty museum collections, and place archaeological evidence beyond the reach of scholars.

Congress enacted NAGPRA in 1990 to address genuine abuses. Archaeologists had sometimes removed human remains and funerary objects without sufficient respect for tribal beliefs. The law sought to correct those wrongs while preserving legitimate scientific research.

Sacred objects, identifiable ancestral remains, and funerary items could be returned to affiliated tribes, while materials outside those categories would remain available for study and public education.

According to Weiss, that compromise is disappearing.

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Today, institutions increasingly treat materials Congress never intended to repatriate as sacred tribal property. Weiss documents examples involving ordinary research samples, animal bones, pollen samples, carbon-dating materials, and other archaeological evidence being transferred out of scientific collections under expansive interpretations of federal regulations.

Once these materials are repatriated and reburied, many become effectively unavailable for future scientific study.

That should concern anyone who values historical inquiry.

Every generation develops better methods of studying the past. DNA sequencing, isotope analysis, and improved dating techniques have revolutionized archaeology over the past 30 years. Materials that seemed scientifically unremarkable in 1990 can yield new discoveries today.

Once those materials are permanently reburied or removed from research collections, future discoveries become impossible.

Imagine applying the same principle elsewhere.

Suppose medieval manuscripts could no longer be studied because descendants of their authors objected. Suppose Civil War artifacts disappeared into private collections because modern groups claimed a spiritual interest in them.

Historians would rightly protest that the past belongs to all humanity, not merely to those who claim the strongest emotional attachment to it.

Weiss also argues that some archaeological materials predate any historically identifiable modern tribe, making cultural affiliation itself a matter of dispute. In such cases, the objection is not merely to disrespectful handling. The objection is to the possession of artifacts at all.

Yet something very similar is happening in parts of American archaeology.

The irony is obvious. Universities constantly tell the public to “follow the science.” But here, scientific investigation increasingly yields to political pressure and ideological fashion.

Museums were once expected to preserve evidence, not remove it from public view. Archaeologists were trained to ask what the evidence reveals, not what contemporary activism permits them to say.

Weiss argues that Arizona provides an especially important case study because of its extraordinary archaeological heritage. For generations, Arizona museums and universities helped reconstruct thousands of years of Southwestern history through careful excavation, preservation, and analysis.

As more collections become inaccessible and more materials are removed from research, that work becomes increasingly difficult — and in some cases impossible.

The problem extends beyond archaeology.

Universities have increasingly adopted a philosophy that treats history primarily through oppression and colonization. Land acknowledgments are one visible expression of this worldview. They present contemporary Americans as perpetual beneficiaries of historical injustice while implying that present-day institutions possess diminished moral authority because of the past.

The White House has criticized Smithsonian leadership for teaching a politicized version of American history. It often feels as if America’s enemies hired professors and museum curators to spread anti-American propaganda at taxpayer expense.

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More likely, they did not have to do a thing. They can simply sit back and watch as the radical left undermines what is beautiful in America and replaces it with the intersectionality grid.

This outlook changes how universities approach nearly everything they teach.

Rather than ask, “What happened?” they increasingly ask, “Whose narrative should prevail?” Rather than preserve evidence so future generations can investigate it, they prioritize symbolic acts of moral repair over continued inquiry.

That’s backward.

The proper response to historical injustice is not to destroy historical evidence. It is to preserve it, study it honestly, and allow future generations to learn from it.

Science and history are not enemies of respect. They are among the greatest tools we possess for understanding those who came before us.

Ironically, the universities that require faculty and students to affirm the importance of “decolonizing knowledge” often become less interested in knowledge itself.

Once political symbolism becomes more important than evidence, museums cease to function as museums. They become instruments of ideological education.

In 2020, faculty in my college were encouraged to begin “decolonizing” our curriculum. Yet this same college remains ever vigilant against any apparent Christian bias in my classes.

The solution is not to repeal NAGPRA or ignore legitimate tribal concerns. Congress intended a balance between respect for Native American communities and the preservation of scientific inquiry.

That balance should be restored.

As Weiss argues, current regulatory interpretations have moved well beyond the statute’s original purpose and placed important areas of archaeological research at risk.

Universities should be places where evidence is preserved, competing interpretations are debated, and history is pursued wherever the facts lead.

Instead, many have embraced a politics of symbolism that values moral performance over intellectual discovery.

Land acknowledgments are easy. Preserving the archaeological record for future generations is much harder.

One is an empty ritual to appease intersectional ideology.

The other is the actual work of a university.

Trump’s Justice Department is shining a light on woke universities — finally



The Department of Justice has now launched an investigation into Arizona State University over its “diversity, equity, and inclusion” practices. The probe will examine whether ASU has subjected students to illegal discrimination on the basis of race, color, or national origin through its DEI policies in admissions, recruitment, scholarships, tutoring, and educational support.

That news did not surprise me.

Universities constantly speak the language of ‘inclusion,’ but they do not want disagreement. They want compliance.

For years, many of us who work inside higher education have watched American universities become captive to a worldview that divides human beings into permanent categories of oppressor and oppressed. These ideologies present themselves as enlightened and compassionate, but underneath the slogans is something much uglier.

They claim to fight racism, in effect, by being racist.

That is not rhetorical excess. It is the actual logic of these programs. If you are told that your moral standing is shaped by your race, if students are sorted into categories of guilt and grievance based on ancestry, if “equity” means treating people differently because of their race, then the old evil has simply been repackaged in new academic language.

I know this from experience.

The Arizona Supreme Court has now agreed to hear my case against Arizona State University and the Arizona Board of Regents over ASU’s required DEI training. My challenge began because ASU forced employees to take its “inclusive communities” training.

The training, in some cases produced by Starbucks (I kid you not), told employees how to think about race, guilt, power, and identity, and it required assent to predetermined “correct” answers. I could not in good conscience affirm teachings that judged people by skin color, ethnic identity, gender, religion, and geography.

The Arizona Supreme Court’s decision to hear my case goes to the heart of whether state universities can force employees into ideological training that violates state law and basic principles of equal treatment. Arizona law prohibits public schools, including universities, from using curriculum that engages in race blame.

The issue is technical in legal form, but simple in moral substance: When a public university imposes unlawful race-based ideology, does anyone have the right to challenge it?

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That question should never have had to be asked. But that is where our universities are.

The takeover has been so comprehensive that many campuses no longer even recognize dissent as legitimate. Faculty culture is overwhelmingly leftist (97% at ASU identify as left-wing). The ideological imbalance among professors is staggering. Conservatives, Christians, and others who reject the reigning orthodoxy are rarely hired, and when they are hired, they are often isolated or pressured into silence.

Universities constantly speak the language of “inclusion,” but they do not want disagreement. They want compliance.

When someone objects, the mask slips. The same faculty and administrators who preach compassion suddenly become contemptuous when the dissenter is someone outside the progressive fold. The slogans about empathy disappear and the sneering begins.

That is because DEI is not really about inclusion. It is about power.

Its basic framework is the old Marxist oppressor-oppressed dialectic, merely translated into race, gender, and sexuality categories. Students are taught to see the world through this lens from their first days on campus. The university no longer helps students pursue truth. It trains them to become activists for a ready-made ideology.

The ugly irony at the center of it all is that students are charged tens of thousands of dollars in tuition to sit in classrooms where they are instructed by self-appointed champions of the oppressed, many of whom enjoy comfortable salaries and taxpayer support while lecturing others about systems of injustice.

The university administrator or professor who denounces oppression does so while cashing a government-backed paycheck and enforcing ideological conformity inside a vast institutional bureaucracy.

That is not liberation. It is a racket.

The federal investigation into ASU is important not only for Arizona but for the whole country. The era of automatic deference to DEI bureaucracies may be ending.

If government investigators are asking whether ASU’s programs have crossed the line into unlawful discrimination, then other universities should be asking themselves the same question. How many scholarships, support programs, admissions initiatives, and training sessions around the country are doing precisely what civil-rights law was supposed to forbid?

The answer, I suspect, is many.

American universities have largely abandoned the idea that education is the pursuit of truth, beauty, and goodness. In its place they have installed a therapeutic political religion in which redemption comes through identity confession, public denunciation, and endless activism.

The categories of the system are fixed: Someone must be blamed, someone must be oppressed, and the institution itself must always pose as the righteous mediator.

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The ideology has spread far beyond the office door. It lives in the curriculum, in hiring, in faculty trainings, and in the language administrators use to describe their mission. It is the very institutionalized bigotry that it claims to oppose.

What is needed now is moral reform and clarity.

Public universities should not be in the business of teaching students or employees to judge one another by race. They should not use tax dollars to promote theories that blame individuals for the sins of categories. And they certainly should not punish or marginalize those who object.

The Justice Department’s investigation into ASU and the Arizona Supreme Court’s decision to hear my case are both signs that resistance is possible. But much more is needed.

Americans must recover the courage to say plainly what too many in higher education have forgotten: Racism does not become justice when wrapped in the language of equity, and discrimination does not become virtue when blessed by a university bureaucracy.

Indiana Jones found the lost ark of campus clichés



They say never meet your heroes. It turns out Indiana Jones is no exception.

Arizona State University’s commencement this year featured exactly the kind of speaker Americans have come to expect from modern universities: a wealthy Hollywood celebrity lecturing graduates about climate change, “indigenous spirituality,” social justice, and the moral failures of Western civilization.

The sign over the modern left-wing academy reads: Let none who seek intellectual consistency enter here.

Harrison Ford told ASU graduates, “Humanity is a part of nature, not above it,” before calling for sweeping environmental action, “cultural change,” and the elevation of indigenous perspectives about the natural world. Had he remained silent, some might have mistaken him for wise. Instead, he opened his mouth and proved himself a fool.

The speech mattered not because it was unusual, but because it perfectly captured the ideology that now dominates many American universities. Had you asked ChatGPT to generate a commencement address based on ASU’s official political commitments, it would have sounded very much like this one.

The solutions offered by Hollywood activists and university administrators are the very ideas that helped produce much of the confusion in the first place.

Ford’s speech rested on a rejection of the biblical view of man. Scripture teaches that human beings are distinct from the rest of creation because they are made in the image of God. In Genesis, man is commanded to exercise dominion over the earth, not as a tyrant, but as a steward. Human beings are created to behold the glory of God in the world He made, not merely to dissolve into nature as one creature among many.

Ford rejects that distinction. But the moment he does, he collapses into contradiction. If human beings are merely another species within nature, no different in principle from wolves, termites, or algae, then why should they presume to reorganize economies, restrict energy production, and manage the global ecosystem?

The rest of nature does not hold climate summits. Ants do not draft sustainability goals. Coyotes do not issue carbon mandates.

Nature simply acts according to its nature. That is the emptiness of leftism. Ford made millions pretending to be heroes who could save the day. Now, sliding into old age, he has no answer for anyone. The left thrives on captive audiences. Put its spokesmen outside the lecture hall, and the whole performance looks ridiculous.

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Ironically, Ford’s own activism depends on the very biblical framework he rejects. The claim that mankind has a moral duty to care for the world makes sense only if man occupies a unique place above the rest of creation. Stewardship presupposes authority.

The modern environmental movement tries to erase the biblical doctrine of dominion while quietly smuggling morality back in whenever moral action becomes necessary. Yet it cannot explain where such morality comes from. Nature is red in tooth and claw. Why, then, should man not follow suit?

Ford also praised indigenous communities for understanding that “the trees, the mountain, water, soil are not commodities. They are relatives.”

This romanticized view of indigenous life now comes standard in university rhetoric. It also bears little resemblance to history. Human beings across cultures, ancient and modern, have altered landscapes, hunted animals to extinction, waged wars, enslaved rivals, and struggled ruthlessly for survival. Indigenous tribes were not mystical ecological saints floating above ordinary human nature.

One cannot help noticing the contradiction built into these speeches. ASU routinely acknowledges that it sits on indigenous land. Fine. If that confession is sincere, when exactly does the university plan to return the property? ASU confesses the theft, keeps the land, and then congratulates itself for moral awareness. That is not repentance. That is performance.

And what about Ford himself?

He owns multiple luxury properties and has spent decades enjoying private aviation, industrial modernity, and immense personal wealth. Has he offered to return any of his land? Has he proposed downsizing his estates for the sake of climate justice? The modern progressive elite increasingly resembles a secular priesthood that demands sacrifice from everyone except itself.

Ford also repeated the now-obligatory oppressor-oppressed framework that dominates university discourse. Every social question gets filtered through the same categories: oppressor versus oppressed, colonizer versus marginalized, privileged versus victimized.

That framework has become so totalizing that universities no longer even pretend to offer intellectual diversity on first questions about human nature, morality, or society. In their world, you are either oppressed or an oppressor, and those are the only categories available for interpreting history.

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That raises an obvious question: Will ASU ever invite a commencement speaker who openly defends the American founding, free markets, Christianity, or the biblical doctrine of man?

Or will commencement remain an ideological pep rally, one last progressive sermon after four years of DEI, decolonization, and critical-theory mush?

To Ford’s credit, he did say one thing that was undeniably true. Speaking to the graduates, he admitted, "The world you're stepping into, the world my generation left you, is a real mess."

On that point, he was right. But then he instructed the students to clean it up and presumably climbed into a private jet back to one of his luxury homes.

The ideas pushed by Hollywood activists and university administrators are the very ideas that helped produce the confusion in the first place: hostility to the biblical view of man, contempt for America’s inheritance, and utopian promises of social transformation through centralized moral activism.

ASU’s graduates deserved better than another lecture in fashionable conformity. A university worthy of the name would expose students to competing visions of humanity and the good life. Instead, they got Harrison Ford declaring that mankind is not above nature, moments before assigning mankind the duty to save the planet and clean up after him.

The sign over the modern left-wing academy reads: Let none who seek intellectual consistency enter here.

The pipeline from university radical to would-be assassin



Last weekend delivered yet another grim headline: political violence, an attempted presidential assassination, once again treated as a mystery by the left.

The alleged perpetrator, we are told, was not some fringe drifter living off the grid, but an award-winning teacher. This is a detail that would have seemed ironic a generation ago, but now seems almost predictable.

Reports indicate that the individual had a record of professional accolades and community involvement, the sort of résumé typically invoked to prove the impact of leftist ideologies.

If one wishes to understand what is happening to our country, there is no need to search for obscure explanations.

Alongside that résumé, there are early indications of ideological commitments and public expressions that fit comfortably within the increasingly militant strain of contemporary progressive activism and most university classrooms.

After such events, the public conversation follows a well-worn script. We are told this is an isolated incident. We are urged not to “politicize.” And yet, the same voices that warn against generalization in this context have no hesitation attributing sweeping moral guilt to entire categories when it suits the prevailing orthodoxy.

One is tempted to ask: How often must this pattern repeat before we permit ourselves the unfashionable act of noticing it?

It’s as if there are some mysterious places we send young adults to be indoctrinated to hate their country, hate their bodies, and hate God. The only thing worse is if we are footing the bill for tuition.

So let us ask, with due sobriety: Are there institutions in our country where young minds are being shaped, not merely to critique, but to despise?

Now that you mention it, yes, there are.

The university as moral re-education center

As a Christian and conservative professor, I have spent years calling attention to what occurs inside our universities.

Earlier this month, my college at Arizona State University formally adopted a Native American land acknowledgment as official policy.

These statements are often presented as benign gestures of historical awareness, but their actual function is quite different: They are meant to problematize the legitimacy of American land ownership and to “expose” what are called “structures of oppression.”

In practice, this language is not descriptive but rather accusatory. It does not invite inquiry; it prescribes judgment.

At the same time, faculty are encouraged to “decolonize” their curricula. That term, which sounds like a meaningless academic exercise, carries a very specific ideological payload. It teaches that Western civilization, particularly the United States, is not merely flawed but fundamentally illegitimate, built upon “white supremacy” and sustained by “structural violence.”

And if a system is fundamentally illegitimate, what follows?

Historically speaking, one does not reform such systems. One dismantles them. And so you find ASU professors calling for armed resistance to the United States.

From theory to rhetoric to action

This is not some abstract speculation. It is a demonstrable reality.

Across the country, we have seen:

  • Professors at American institutions openly defending or rationalizing political violence as a form of “resistance.” If intersectionality calls you “oppressed,” it’s fine to be violent.
  • University departments issuing statements framing America as inherently oppressive while praising movements aimed at its transformation.
  • K-12 educators using classroom time to advance ideological positions that portray students’ own nation, heritage, and even biological identity as sources of moral guilt.

Consider the broader pattern:

  • At Harvard and Columbia, student groups and faculty responses to recent global conflicts have included rhetoric that many Americans would recognize as moral inversion, where acts of violence are reframed as justified expressions of resistance.
  • Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs across major universities and corporations routinely instruct participants to view American history through a lens of oppression, often discouraging dissent as a form of harm.
  • “Decolonization” and the anti-settler, anti-whiteness initiatives increasingly reject the very idea of objective truth, reason, and even science, casting them as instruments of power and white supremacy.

One begins to see the progression:

Step 1: Teach the youth that America and Christianity are evil.
Step 2: Teach that dismantling them is justice.
Step 3: Act surprised when someone takes the final step.
Step 4: Cash your state employee checks.

What of oversight?

All of this brings us to a question that is at once practical and unavoidable: Where are the Arizona Board of Regents and similar institutions in other states?

Is it merely a ceremonial body, an occasion for polite applause and catered wine and cheese receptions, or does it exist to provide actual oversight of the institutions entrusted to it?

Public universities are not private salons for ideological experimentation. They are taxpayer-supported institutions with a mandate to educate, not indoctrinate; to pursue truth, not enforce orthodoxy.

In Arizona, professors sign an employee contract agreeing not to undermine the Constitution. And yet, when faculty openly promote ideas that undermine the constitutional order they are employed under, the response is silence or, worse, complicity.

Meanwhile, those who raise concerns find themselves subject to scrutiny, marginalization, and, in some cases, professional penalty.

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What are we paying for?

American families send their children to universities like ASU at considerable cost. It is easily tens of thousands of dollars per year and sometimes far more when all expenses are counted and taxes are factored in.

What do they expect in return? An education in truth. Training in reason. Preparation for responsible citizenship. Maybe even a little wisdom and fear of God.

But that is not what they get. Instead, their kids receive instruction in grievance. Classes about envy and training to hate your neighbor. Formation in ideological hostility. Encouragement to view their own country, their own traditions, even their own families as objects of suspicion or contempt.

And occasionally, as we are now forced to confront, something worse: calls for violent resistance by professors on the state tax dime.

A modest proposal

If one wishes to understand what is happening to our country, there is no need to search for obscure explanations.

It is happening, in large measure, in our universities. And it is paid for by taxes in the very country these professors hate so much. Parents don’t know how bad it is and continue to send their children, paying tuition, into these ideological training camps.

And — this is the uncomfortable part — we don’t stop paying for it. It’s much worse than you think, and it is time to say enough is enough. No more state checks for those who hate America. They are free to start their own private university and teach their hatred there.

I have documented these trends extensively. I will continue to do so. If you would like to keep updated on what goes on within our universities, you can subscribe to my Substack as I report from within the belly of what some call the Devil’s University.

If you find yourself in conversation with someone who asks, in genuine bewilderment, “What is happening to America?” you might offer a simple reply: “Look at the institutions shaping the next generation.”

Shelby and Eli Steele’s new film goes straight at the white-guilt grifters



Are you guilty? That depends. Are you white? Then yes, you are guilty. But whiteness is no longer the only offense. Believe in God? Believe Christ saves sinners? Believe in objective morality, the rule of law, or marriage between one man and one woman? Then skin color hardly matters. You are guilty anyway.

Guilty of what? Guilty of the sins of history, the inequities of the present, and whatever new offense the racial racketeers invent tomorrow. At least that is what grifters like Ibram X. Kendi and Robin DiAngelo have spent years selling to America, often for staggering sums underwritten by universities eager to flatter the ideology. Arizona State University, where I teach, has offered classes on the problem of whiteness. ASU’s Barrett Honors College teaches the evils of settler colonialism.

You, Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer, are footing the bill for Struggle Session 101.

That is the backdrop for “White Guilt,” the new documentary from Shelby Steele and his son, Eli Steele, which premieres this week at ASU. Shelby Steele, a senior fellow at Stanford’s Hoover Institution and recipient of the National Medal of the Humanities, has spent decades writing about race, multiculturalism, and affirmative action. In his 2006 book “White Guilt,” he argued that racial moralism had become a tool for gaining power over others rather than a path toward justice.

The film appears at a moment when Americans have begun to see more clearly how much of the modern racial industry depends on intimidation, guilt, and fraud.

Steele understands the temptation from the inside. As a young man, he felt drawn to the black power movement. His parents had been active in the civil rights movement, and he wanted to help his community. But he came to see that race blame solves nothing. It degrades everyone it touches. Blame wielded by race remains racism, no matter who aims it or who absorbs it.

The better question, Steele argues, asks what it means to live as a free and responsible person. What happens when an individual takes responsibility for his own choices? What kind of life becomes possible when dignity comes from agency rather than grievance? That moral vision sits much closer to the American ideal than the racial spoils system now preached across much of higher education.

Steele rejects the fashionable claim that slavery was America’s original sin. The deeper sin, he argues, is the use of race to gain power over others. That temptation did not die with Jim Crow. It adapted. It migrated into institutions, party politics, nonprofits, and university bureaucracies. Today it thrives in classrooms where professors insist they do not teach racism while teaching students to judge one another by skin color, ancestry, and inherited guilt.

That fraud has paid well.

Black Lives Matter offered perhaps the clearest recent example. In the wake of Michael Brown’s death in Ferguson, BLM became a moral brand for affluent liberals, activist professionals, and corporate America. Shelby and Eli Steele explored the lie at the movement’s foundation in their earlier film, “What Killed Michael Brown?” Their new film picks up a related question: How did the language of anti-racism become such a lucrative racket?

The answer is not hard to find. Much of the left’s social justice industry runs on a simple formula: Manufacture guilt, divide people by race, promise absolution, then collect money, influence, and institutional power. Sell moral panic to well-intentioned Americans, then invoice them for redemption.

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Want to end racism? Write a check. Sign the DEI pledge. Sit through the seminar. Keep your head down while the consultants explain that your skin makes you complicit and your silence proves your guilt.

The strategy stays simple. Divide humanity into categories. Teach each group to resent the others. Tell people that the brokenness of the world is not a permanent feature of fallen life but the fault of their neighbors. Then arrive as the enlightened manager who can fix it all, for a fee. That formula has wrecked poorer countries for generations. Now left-wing elites have imported it into American life, dressed it up in therapeutic language, and sold it as virtue.

Anyone who has spent time around a university classroom knows the script. A professor begins with a banal truth: The world is filled with injustice. The class nods. Then comes the poisonous turn: Would you like to know who is to blame? Look around the room. Identify the oppressor. Assign the guilt. Require ritual silence from some students and ritual confession from others. Repackage humiliation as education.

And you, Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer, are footing the bill for Struggle Session 101.

Instead of surrendering to this politics of racial hatred, envy, and managed guilt, Americans should recover a better ideal. Freedom means more than license. It means responsibility. It means building a life through choice, discipline, and moral agency rather than through grievance and tribal score-settling. Whether the world crowns that life a success or a failure, it still belongs to you. No race hustler can take that from you.

“White Guilt” premieres March 25 at 6 p.m. at ASU Tempe in Bateman Physical Sciences F Wing, Room 166.

My school’s AI challenge raised a scary question: What do students need me for?



I might have talked myself out of a job this week. I teach philosophy at Arizona State University, and the university wants to position itself as a leader in the AI revolution. I remain skeptical about AI’s ability to replace a humanities professor. Because of that skepticism, I signed up for what ASU called its AI Challenge.

My project involved what I called the “AI Dialogues.” I used ASU’s version of ChatGPT to hold Socratic-style dialogues, prompting Chat to reply as a given philosopher. I conducted dialogues with Chat as Aristotle, Hume, Marx, and even Lucifer. My students evaluated these exchanges to see how well Chat performed.

We can avoid the toil of learning to be wise — but we cannot avoid the need for it.

Chat could draw on public information and represent each thinker with reasonable accuracy. It also showed another trait: It wanted to please. It often leaned toward whatever it believed I wanted from the debate.

How does that work me out of a job? ASU now provides an AI that professors can customize for individual courses by uploading syllabi and course materials. Students can ask basic questions and receive answers that save me from writing emails that begin with, “Did you read the syllabus?” They can also ask what we covered in class and get quick explanations of key concepts and questions.

When I told my students about this feature, I asked them what they need me for at this point. I was joking — a little.

My classes depend on Socratic discussion. It is conceivable that ASU could project a realistic AI image of me at the front of the classroom and have it ask and answer questions with students. Maybe the only remaining edge is the “personal touch” of a real professor in the room. Even that could vanish if tuition becomes tiered: Students might pay less for “AI Anderson Socrates” than for the in-person version. Add one of Elon Musk’s Optimus robots made to look like Anderson, and I’m in trouble.

A new myth dies

Musk has been talking for months about how the AI revolution is upending the myth we have told for six decades about university education. The myth, he says, promised an escape from toil. Students were told a degree was the path to an air-conditioned job that avoids heavy lifting and involves spreadsheets.

But spreadsheets are exactly what AI does better than humans. The new John Henry isn’t competing to pound railroad spikes; he’s competing to calculate data. No human can keep up with a microprocessor.

In Musk’s view, jobs that involve toil become the “safe” jobs, while many degree-based jobs disappear — replaced by technicians who keep AI running while it calculates taxes, diagnoses medical problems, and writes legal paperwork. The university-educated track no longer looks like the safe route. Universities now compete not just with fewer students due to demographic decline, but with an increasingly outdated product that students may stop buying.

Toil may not stay safe

The problem is worse than Musk lets on. The first jobs on the chopping block might be “numbers jobs,” but Elon has also said he plans to produce 100 million Optimus robots in 10 years. If so, even many physical jobs may not remain protected from automation.

One version of this future says we enter a utopia: Food is plentiful, toil disappears, and we cash our basic income checks — though an AI could do even that for us. We end up living in “Wall-E.”

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The more dystopian version looks like sci-fi depictions of AI overlords controlling humans as property — “The Matrix.” Or worse: Like Ultron, super-AI robots decide we must be exterminated to save us from ourselves and protect the planet. We build our own worst enemy.

Whichever future arrives, Musk may have highlighted something about human nature. We avoid suffering like toil. We build machines to avoid toil. And yet we uniquely need toil.

God introduced toil in the Garden of Eden after Adam sinned. Because of sin, we could no longer live in a paradise without toil. We must suffer and strive for our daily bread. History has been divided ever since between those who try to avoid suffering altogether and those who see suffering as a call to repent before God. AI is only the newest version of the philosopher’s stone.

AI as ‘philosopher’

Can I really be replaced by an AI philosophy instructor? I’m not worried.

What AI cannot do, in its counterfeit attempt to replace humans, is serve as an example of how to suffer well to attain wisdom. The Hebrew definition of wisdom is “skillful living.” Being told, “Here is an AI that can simulate skillful living,” is not the same as learning from a human who is actually skillful.

Students will still need to learn how to be wise themselves. A human professor who has actually done this will remain the gold standard that AI can only imitate. We can avoid the toil of learning to be wise — but we cannot avoid the need for it.

Jeffrey Epstein’s ‘philosophy’ wasn’t deep — it was dirty



Anyone can search the currently available Epstein files and see what turns up. As a professor at Arizona State University, I searched for my own school. I did not expect to find so much ASU-related material.

One reason: ASU employed Lawrence Krauss, paying him a substantial salary to write books arguing that the universe created itself from nothing.

Epstein’s philosophy collapses under its own weight because it begins with a lie about God.

That claim is its own story. You will object, rightly: “But we can’t get something from nothing.” Krauss replies, “By ‘nothing’ I mean quantum foam.” And you respond, “Then the title misleads. You don’t mean nothing. You mean quantum foam.”

Krauss also became close with Jeffrey Epstein. In one exchange, Krauss wrote: “I really do love you deeply as a friend Jeffrey. I don’t think I know anyone else who so honestly cares about me, and I don’t think I can ever truly express how wonderful that feels. Thank you. The cruise was a great reset.” In other messages, they discuss science and religion.

That is what caught my attention. As I read Epstein’s comments about religion — and listened to his interview with Steve Bannon on similar themes — a picture began to form of how Epstein made sense of the world and, more chillingly, of himself.

How a monster sleeps

A question hangs over every moral horror: How does a moral monster live with himself? Even if we limit ourselves to the explicit immorality in the files — without speculating about coded language or hidden networks — how did he sleep at night? What silenced his conscience?

Several pieces fit together.

In the ASU-related material and in interviews, Epstein does what I have often seen among intellectuals: He retreats into abstraction. He speaks about the history of ideas, mathematics, and cutting-edge research in a way that floats above concrete people and particular moral obligations.

That retreat protects a self-image. He can pose as the enlightened patron of science, funding humanity’s progress. That image sits in grotesque contrast with the cruelty he inflicted on actual human beings.

Abstraction as a moral anesthetic

This pattern tracks with Paul Johnson’s thesis in “Intellectuals”: Intellectuals who talk about serving “humanity” often treat individuals in their orbit badly. Grand claims become a shield. The rhetoric of progress becomes moral insulation.

Think of the professor who preaches liberation while using DEI programs to impose racial essentialism and ideological coercion. He can tell himself he is helping “the marginalized” even as he harms colleagues and students in the real world.

Or consider the pop star who repeats slogans like “no one is illegal on stolen land.” The moral performance happens at the level of abstraction. The carelessness happens at the level of reality.

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Epstein’s ‘unknowable’ God

Epstein goes further by trying to dissolve moral accountability at the metaphysical level.

He argues that physicists once believed reality could be fully captured by mathematics. Now, he claims, we understand reality is irrational. Mathematics can only approximate what he calls “the limit,” but the limit itself remains unknowable. Some call that limit “God.”

But if God is unknowable, then God becomes irrelevant to our calculations about life and moral choice.

At one point, Epstein frames this as a male-female divide. The male mind, he says, runs on logic and mathematics. Reality, however, does not fit that paradigm. Reality is fundamentally irrational and accessed through feminine intuition. Ultimate reality, in his telling, is best understood as the divine female.

Humans, in Epstein’s view, are beasts with frontal lobes sophisticated enough to rationalize their impulses.

He may have believed he was elevating the feminine. The framework reads more like a metaphysical excuse: reason fails, therefore the standard fails.

The tension between reason and intuition is ancient. Epstein narrows “reason” to a single project: reducing the world to material causes through mathematics. When that project does not deliver what he wants, he does not abandon reductionism. He abandons reason.

Francis Schaeffer described this move in godless intellectual life: When autonomous reason cannot sustain itself, the thinker does not repent. He escapes into irrationality. Intuition becomes the alibi. Mystery becomes permission.

Religion as therapy, not truth

In conversation with Krauss, Epstein defends a kind of religion, but not biblical religion.

Krauss, echoing the New Atheists, treats religion as an evolutionary leftover — maybe useful in an earlier age, unnecessary for modern man. After all, modern man allegedly knows universes can create themselves out of nonexistence.

Epstein pushes back, but only to reduce religion to psychological management. Religion concerns the “inner world,” he suggests, while science and mathematics concern the outer world. We cannot ignore the inner world. Its purpose is peace. Anxiety and depression signal inner disorder; religion restores equilibrium. That, for Epstein, becomes religion’s function.

Not worship. Not truth. Not repentance. Peace.

That is New Age self-help with a faux religious vocabulary.

A Nietzschean pattern

Put the pieces together and a Nietzschean outline emerges.

Nietzsche described the dialectic between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The Apollonian seeks order, reason, structure. Yet it can become sterile and suffocating. The Dionysian seeks raw experience — ecstasy, pleasure, intoxication, release. Dionysian revelry becomes not only indulgence but purgation: a controlled environment where darker impulses can be acted out so a man can return to ordinary life and call himself functional again.

God’s moral law is written on the heart. We are not left with "unknowable limits" as our excuse. We are without excuse.

Humans, on this view, are beasts with frontal lobes sophisticated enough to rationalize their impulses.

That is the worldview of the modern pagan: order and chaos, calculation and intoxication, “science” by day and ritualized transgression by night. Add Epstein’s skepticism about knowable truth and his reduction of religion to inner peace, and the method of self-justification comes into focus.

His reported fascination with longevity technologies and strange diets fits too. Death becomes the great enemy. It must be cheated — through science, mythic elixirs, or Silicon Valley innovation.

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Temptation is not his alone

The unsettling part: These temptations are not unique to Epstein.

Many people oscillate between cold rationalism and irrational indulgence. Many treat morality as a social construct and religion as therapy. Many use abstractions to excuse what they would never defend in plain language.

That should drive self-examination, not mere disgust. Are we living inside the Apollonian-Dionysian loop, shifting between self-justifying “reason” and self-excusing “release”?

The lie at the center

Epstein’s philosophy collapses under its own weight because it begins with a lie about God.

God has not hidden Himself. Scripture teaches that His eternal power and divine nature are clearly revealed through creation. His moral law is written on the heart. We are not left with “unknowable limits” as our excuse. We are without excuse.

The claim that reality is fundamentally irrational is not a profound insight. It is an evasion. It is a way to suppress what is plain.

That is why Lawrence Krauss’ self-creating universe and Epstein’s divine female belong in the same category: idols. They exchange the truth for something else — something that grants permission.

Romans 1 describes the pattern of Epstein’s life: the darkened mind, the suppression of truth, the exchange of glory for self-justification, and the descent into sexual corruption. The cure is not oscillation between sterile rationalism and ecstatic purgation. The cure is redemption. The cure is communion with God restored.

We need Christ, who alone frees us from the pagan dialectic — ancient and modern — and grants eternal life, “that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent” (John 17:3).