There is a reason most Americans only know Eva Perón through a Madonna film and a Broadway ballad. The musical is gorgeous. The woman was not.

This is not an accident. History has a well-documented habit of softening its female wielders of power. Male authoritarians get clinical analysis — thick biographies, documentary series, university syllabi dedicated to understanding how they built what they built. Female ones get musicals. Cleopatra gets Elizabeth Taylor. Mary Queen of Scots gets Cate Blanchett. And Eva Perón — a central architect of a political machine that helped shape decades of Argentine instability — gets Andrew Lloyd Webber, Rachel Zegler singing from a London balcony, and a generation of people whose entire frame of reference is “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.”

That song is a lie. Argentina should cry. It has been crying for seventy years.

Economic systems that rely on artificially cheap human labor tend to underinvest in tools and infrastructure. The pattern is consistent across history: when labor is treated as the default solution, capital investment slows.

The American South before the Civil War is one example. Slavery reduced the economic pressure to mechanize agriculture — why engineer a solution to a problem you’ve already solved with people? The region fell behind the industrial North not just morally but technologically, and spent generations recovering from that deficit.

Russia is perhaps the cleaner case. Serfdom kept Russian agriculture and industry in a kind of suspended development for centuries. It was not until the emancipation of 1861 — and more pointedly, the labor pressures and revolts that followed — that Russian industrialization began in earnest. Workers gaining rights didn’t destroy the economy. It forced investment in the infrastructure and tools that a coerced labor system had made unnecessary. The industrialization came because the cheap human substitute was no longer available.

The easiest way to dismiss sexism in politics is to call it fringe. A bad speech. A loud voice. An exception.

That explanation no longer holds.

It’s not on the margins anymore. It’s in the room where policy is being written.

On March 19, 2026, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth stood at a Pentagon podium — having just returned from Dover Air Force Base, where he watched flag-draped caskets come off a plane — and closed his remarks with this: “May Almighty God continue to bless our troops in this fight. To the American people, please pray for them every day on bended knee with your family, in your schools, in your churches, in the name of Jesus Christ.”

It was not the first time. In a CBS News interview days earlier, Hegseth had declared that “the providence of our almighty God is there protecting those troops.” At another Pentagon briefing he recited Psalm 144: “Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle.” The man has tattoos of the Jerusalem Cross and the Latin phrase “Deus Vult” — “God wills it” — on his body. He has hosted monthly Christian worship services at the Pentagon. He invited his pastor Doug Wilson, a Christian nationalist who believes the United States should become a Christian theocracy, to address the U.S. military.

This is not incidental rhetoric. It is a theological claim: that Operation Epic Fury — the surprise U.S.-Israeli assault launched on February 28 CNN without congressional authorization, over the objections of European allies and while indirect nuclear negotiations were showing substantial progress House of Commons Library — carries divine sanction. That God himself is blessing this fight. In the name of Jesus Christ.

There’s a sentence you learn to say in certain church circles. You learn it the way you learn not to slam doors — not because anyone sits you down and explains it, but because you watch what happens to people who don’t say it.

The sentence is: “Good people can disagree on this.”

Said about women in ministry. Said about whether a seminary should ordain her, whether a pulpit should hold her, whether a title should name her. Said with a kind of weary reasonableness, as though the person saying it has personally wrestled long and hard and arrived at magnanimity.

Most people who grew up in church have had this experience at least once: you’re in the middle of a conversation about something that matters — how women are treated, how a church handles money, how a community talks about people on the margins — and someone produces a verse. End of discussion. The verse has been deployed. You’re supposed to sit down now.

Maybe you can’t immediately counter it. Maybe you just feel uneasy but can’t articulate why. So you go home and look it up, and you find that it is, in fact, in the Bible. Right there. In print.

But something still feels wrong.

There is a version of the Bible that Protestant evangelicals have been defending for roughly 150 years as the inerrant, infallible, self-authenticating Word of God. Every word is true. Every attribution is accurate. Every command carries divine authority precisely because it comes from precisely who it claims to come from. The doctrine is called biblical inerrancy, and in American evangelical culture it functions close to a loyalty oath. To question it is to question Scripture itself. To question Scripture is to question God.

This essay does not question God. It questions the history — and the history is not kind to the doctrine.

The word “inerrant” is not ancient. It did not descend from the early church fathers, was not hammered out at Nicaea or Chalcedon, and does not appear in the Westminster Confession in the form evangelicals typically invoke it. Until the 1880s, “inerrancy” in English religious writing referred almost exclusively to papal authority — it was a word critics used to mock the Catholic claim that the pope could not err.

Let’s get one thing out of the way first.

There are people who have legitimate reasons to study the ideological texts of history’s worst movements. Historians analyzing how genocides were justified. Scholars tracing the rhetorical architecture of authoritarian propaganda. Journalists tracking how extremist language migrates from the fringe into mainstream politics. These people exist, their work matters, and nothing in this article is addressed to them.

This article is addressed to everyone else — which is most of us.

There is a document, written by a Dominican inquisitor in 1487, that was used to justify the torture and execution of thousands of women across Europe. It is dense with Latin citations, Aristotelian logic, and appeals to Church authority. For centuries, scholars treated it as a relic of medieval superstition — something primitive and therefore safely distant.

Then Andrew Tate happened, and suddenly the Malleus Maleficarum stopped feeling distant.

Reading Kramer’s text in plain English — stripped of its scholastic scaffolding — reveals something that should make modern readers deeply uncomfortable: not because it is alien, but because it is familiar. The arguments, the anxieties, the rhetorical moves, the specific obsession with women’s sexuality as a threat to male authority — they have not aged. They have merely rebranded.

On Tuesday morning, Senator Markwayne Mullin sat before the Senate Homeland Security Committee for his confirmation hearing as the next Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. By most political calculations, he will be confirmed. The math favors him. The votes are likely there. The hearing will be remembered, if at all, as a tense exchange between two Republican senators — Rand Paul and Mullin — and a few awkward moments where Mullin’s carefully cultivated biography started to show some fraying.

But I want to stay with something that got less attention than it deserved. At one point, Senator Gary Peters pressed Mullin on public statements suggesting he had experienced combat overseas — that he had “smelled war,” operated in classified environments, done “special assignments outside of DOD.” Peters wanted to know: what exactly was that? And where is the paperwork?

Mullin’s answer was, essentially: it’s classified. You can’t see it. Trust me.

There is a famous thought experiment in moral philosophy called the trolley problem. A runaway trolley is barreling down the tracks. Five people are tied to the rails ahead. You are standing at a lever. Pull it, and the trolley diverts onto a side track — but there is one person tied there. Do nothing, and five die. Act, and one dies by your hand.

Philosophy professors love this problem because it forces students to choose between competing moral frameworks — utilitarian math versus the ethics of direct action. It gets people talking, gets people arguing, and it feels urgent and real.

But here is the question nobody asks in the classroom: Who tied those people to the tracks?

There is a script we know by heart.

A foreign government does something brutal — arrests protesters, executes dissidents, silences opposition. The footage is ugly. The details are worse. And suddenly, the language shifts.

We are not intervening for power. We are not intervening for resources. We are intervening because we care.

A Pew Research Center survey released in March 2026 asked adults in 25 countries a simple question: are the people around you morally good or bad? In 24 of those countries, the majority said good. Countries torn by political violence. Countries with deep religious divisions. Countries where civil society is fragile by any measure.

The United States was the only country where the majority said bad.

Fifty-three percent of American adults described their fellow citizens as morally or ethically bad — the worst number in the entire survey, worse than Nigeria, worse than Mexico, worse than countries currently experiencing civil strife. And the gap breaks along predictable lines: 60 percent of Democrats and Democratic-leaning independents described their fellow Americans as morally bad, compared to 46 percent of Republicans. Both numbers are damning. Neither side gets to feel superior.

A question worth taking seriously: why doesn’t the church send delegations to investigate new works the way the apostles sent Peter and John to Samaria? Why do denominations wall themselves off, compete, and refuse the correction that comes from outside their walls?

It is a good question. But it has an answer those who ask it rarely anticipate.

The church did send delegates. The Spirit did show up in unexpected places. And again and again, the institution’s response was not Peter and John kneeling in the dirt to ask what God was doing. It was a trial. A condemnation. A burning.

Today the New York Times published the results of a multi-year investigation into César Chávez. The findings are not ambiguous. Two women — Ana Murguia and Debra Rojas — say he sexually abused them for years during the 1970s, beginning when they were twelve or thirteen years old and he was in his forties. More than sixty people were interviewed. Union records and documents were used to corroborate accounts. And then there is Dolores Huerta — now nearly ninety-six, Chávez’s most celebrated co-founder, a living civil rights legend — who disclosed publicly for the first time that he sexually assaulted her and fathered two of her children.

Huerta’s statement is worth sitting with. She said she kept silent for sixty years because “building the movement and securing farmworker rights was my life’s work.” She believed, as so many women before and after her have believed, that the cause was too important to risk on the truth about the man.

This is the bargain women have been asked to make throughout history. Over and over again. Across ideological lines. On both sides of every partisan divide. The pattern is always the same: powerful men do what they want to women, the movement closes ranks, and the women are quietly asked to understand that the work is bigger than what happened to them.

There is a pattern hiding in plain sight in American immigration history. Corporations recruit people from other countries, extract their labor under conditions no one with other options would accept, and then — once the political winds shift, or the work is done, or domestic workers start complaining — those same people become “the problem.” The gate swings open from the inside. It swings shut from the inside too.

But this isn’t just a story about what’s done to migrants. It’s a story about what’s done to all workers — and the racial grievance that is always available, on demand, to keep them from figuring that out.

Let’s start with the most literal example of building America.

There is a recurring move in debates about women in ministry that I want to name before we go any further, because once you see it you cannot unsee it. The move goes like this: someone asks whether women are permitted to preach, teach, or lead in the church. And the answer comes back immediately, confidently, with the tone of a man reading from a settled constitution: First Timothy 2:12. “I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man.”

That’s it. That’s the whole case.

Now, the person making this argument is often sincere. They are not usually trying to harm women — they believe they are simply reading the Bible as it is written. And in a certain surface sense, they are reading something as it is written. But here is the question they rarely stop to ask: What else is written?

There is a regulation in the United States that says a parent receiving food assistance cannot use those benefits to buy a birthday cake for their child.

Not because birthday cakes are harmful. Not because the child doesn’t deserve a celebration. But because someone decided that poverty is a moral condition requiring supervision — and that the price of survival is submission to the judgment of those who provide it.

There is a word for what we used to call this.

Vocation.

Not a job. Not a headcount. Not a line item on a labor cost report.

Every so often someone raises a familiar objection: How can we trust history books? After all, the winners write history, the powerful control the archives, and every generation tells the story differently. If the people in charge decide what gets preserved and what gets buried, how can anyone claim to know what actually happened?

There is some truth in that concern. Power has always tried to shape the narrative. Kings commissioned chronicles. Empires published heroic accounts of their conquests. Governments still produce carefully worded press releases explaining why everything they do is necessary and good, why the people they hurt deserved it, and why anyone who says otherwise is misremembering.

But the skeptical conclusion — that history is therefore unknowable, that we can never really get at the truth — is wrong.