On Wednesday of Holy Week, while most Christians were preparing to proclaim the Resurrection of Christ, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. made a proclamation of a different kind: “Autism destroys families.” He went on to say that autistic children “will never pay taxes, they’ll never hold a job, they’ll never play baseball, they’ll never write a poem, they’ll never go out on a date, many of them will never use a toilet unassisted … ”
These remarks framing autism as an epidemic or tragedy were not simply a one-off. They are both part of and an escalation in the broader Trump administration position that accessibility — the “A” in DEIA — is a problem to be eliminated, a mindset that results in policies that are at least unfriendly, if not actively hostile, to disabled people like me.
There’s been plenty of coverage of what Trump and his administration have done in their first 100 days. In the conservative media ecosystem, this coverage appears as disinformation-riddled praise for how Trump has restored America’s greatness and created renewed prosperity. In mainstream media outlets, this coverage is often focused on cataloguing the harms of policies that often felt chaotic or cruel. And while I’m grateful for those who ensure the public has an accurate understanding of the impact of Trump’s decisions, there’s another set of stories beneath those headlines that rarely get as much attention: how people have consistently been taking courageous action to counter these harms.
n the Gospel of John, Mary Magdalene is the first person to see the risen Jesus. That means, in the brief, beautiful space between meeting the Lord and telling the disciples what she’d seen, Mary Magdalene was the whole entire church, giving rise to her identification as “the apostle to the apostles.”
“What an important and special thing for the first person to witness Jesus resurrected being a woman,” Elizabeth Tabish said. “Being one of his best friends, and for her to not turn away from the crucifixion, not run from it, but to stay there in witness of it. And then this beautiful reward of remaining with him to the point of seeing him resurrected. It’s just beautiful.”
Tabish plays Mary Magdalene in The Chosen, the historical drama series that turned the life of Jesus into prestige TV and against all odds became a commercial and critical smash.
Recently, I got to visit Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, a historic site where the National Park Service presents a lecture on the church’s history and impact in the city. A key figure in the presentation is Martin Luther King Sr., a Civil Rights leader even before his son became the better known MLK.
I loved the presentation, but something kept gnawing at me as I left. The park ranger who gave the presentation would often pause to interject on the greatness of Rev. King — praise he deserves — but at times he would slip into a sort of deification. King lost his namesake son and his wife to assassinations, and he managed to publicly proclaim love and forgiveness for their killers. The ranger seemed under the impression this came out of a superhuman reserve of grace that he and the rest of us could never achieve. While I understood the point, I wondered if Daddy King (as he was called) would have agreed.
Pope Francis will be remembered as a champion for the vulnerable. The outpouring of praise from global leaders shows a near universal appreciation for his voice for justice.
Former President Joe Biden marked Francis’ death in a statement, saying the pope “commanded us to fight for peace and protect our planet from a climate crisis. He advocated for the voiceless and powerless.” President Donald Trump ordered flags to be flown at half-staff in the pope’s honor. Several other leaders in the U.S. and around the world also took time to honor Francis.
But you can’t have a voice for justice without boldly denouncing injustice, and Francis was brave enough to do so. Recalling Francis’ simplicity and humility, we must avoid the risk of erasing his courage and audacity, letting the powerful — all too keen to praise a pope whose advice they routinely ignored — off the hook in the process.
Even if you haven’t seen Warfare, you might have come across news headlines calling it “the most realistic war film ever made.” This isn’t a cheap marketing ploy. The film, the latest from Ex Machina, Annihilation, and Civil War director Alex Garland, does indeed have a strong claim to that title. Garland’s first foray into cinematic nonfiction, Warfare is based on the memories of Navy SEAL soldiers who were ambushed by al-Qaida in the aftermath of the Battle of Ramadi in 2006.
Born Again opens by bringing back the central members of the Netflix series cast, including Charlie Cox as blind lawyer Matt Murdock, Elden Henson as his best friend and partner Foggy Nelson, and Deborah Ann Woll as his love interest and other partner Karen Page. Within minutes, they’re attacked by the super-assassin Bullseye (Wilson Bethel) and Matt changes into Daredevil to fight back. But he’s not quick enough to stop Bullseye from killing several innocents, including Foggy. After Matt tries to kill Bullseye in retaliation, he decides to put his vigilante days behind him and seek justice through the law instead of through fighting on rooftops.
To put it another way, Matt decides that vigilantism has failed and it’s time to put his faith in the law. Yet, each episode of Born Again has put that faith to the test — with decidedly mixed results.
At Lane Murray, where I’m incarcerated, a bureaucratic rule creates a peculiar dilemma for someone like me who finds truth and solace in both Christianity and Buddhism. The prison system demands I choose just one, but my soul refuses to be so neatly categorized. We’re also only allowed to change our religious affiliation once every six months. As if divine inspiration could ever follow an administrative calendar.
The German pastor was executed by the Nazi regime at Flossenbürg concentration camp on April 9, 1945, just two weeks before the United States liberated the camp. When he died he famously remarked to another prisoner, "This is the end — but for me, the beginning."
Alissa Wilkinson, a movie critic at The New York Times and a Didion expert, is especially interested in how Hollywood continues to use such cliches when telling stories. Her newest book, We Tell Ourselves Stories: Joan Didion in the American Dream Machine, is an exploration of Didion’s writing in connection to the movie business and how her observations about Hollywood can help us interpret the current political landscape