When employees come to work, they should never have to wonder whether the next email from the boss will contain a work assignment or a sermon. That's the issue at the heart of a new lawsuit against USDA Secretary Brooke Rollins. A group of federal ...
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The workplace is not a pulpit

When employees come to work, they should never have to wonder whether the next email from the boss will contain a work assignment or a sermon.

That's the issue at the heart of a new lawsuit against USDA Secretary Brooke Rollins.

A group of federal employees and their union have asked a federal court to block Rollins from sending agency-wide emails that preach her personal Christian beliefs to roughly 100,000 Department of Agriculture employees. The plaintiffs allege that despite already being sued over the practice, Rollins has continued using official USDA communications to quote Scripture and deliver explicitly evangelical messages—not just on Easter and Christmas, but now on Memorial Day and Independence Day as well. They are asking the court to stop the messages before the next major Christian holiday arrives.

According to the lawsuit, this isn't merely an elected official acknowledging religion or wishing employees a happy holiday. The complaint alleges that Rollins has repeatedly used official government email to proclaim that "Jesus has been raised from the dead," refer to "our faith," "our risen Lord," and "the greatest story ever told," while speaking as the head of a federal agency to employees required to read her communications. The plaintiffs argue that these messages communicate that Christianity is the preferred faith within USDA and pressure employees of different faiths—or no faith at all—to conform.

Whether the plaintiffs ultimately prevail on their Establishment Clause claims is for the courts to decide.

But from an employment-law perspective, the allegations illustrate a much more universal principle.

Power changes everything.

A conversation about religion between two friends is one thing. The same conversation between a supervisor and an employee is something entirely different. The law recognizes that employees don't experience communications from their bosses as ordinary conversations. Supervisors control evaluations, promotions, assignments, discipline, and careers. Employees know that. Even when no threat is made, the imbalance of power creates pressure.

That's why Title VII requires employers to accommodate employees' sincerely held religious beliefs while simultaneously prohibiting religious harassment. It protects an employee's right to practice a religion. It also protects an employee's right not to have someone else's religion imposed upon them.

Those protections don't disappear because the speaker sincerely believes what they're saying.

In fact, sincerity is beside the point.

The issue isn't whether Secretary Rollins has the right to hold or express her Christian beliefs in her personal life. Of course she does.

The question is whether the head of a federal agency should use the machinery of government—and mandatory workplace communications—to evangelize a captive audience of employees.

That's a workplace issue every employer should understand.

Most employers would never tolerate a manager repeatedly sending department-wide emails urging employees to attend church, quoting Scripture, or telling employees that salvation comes through Jesus Christ. HR would shut it down immediately, not because religion is unwelcome in the workplace, but because coercion is.

The problem, however, is that proselytizing in the workplace is inherently coercive.

It blurs the line between personal belief and professional conduct. It pressures coworkers—especially subordinates—to nod along, stay quiet, or risk being labeled difficult, disrespectful, or even insubordinate.

And while defenders often frame these efforts as promoting religious liberty, they frequently accomplish the opposite. They open the door to exclusion, marginalization, and retaliation against employees who decline a coworker's or boss's invitation to Bible study or object to being told they're going to hell over coffee or lunch.

That doesn't promote inclusion.

It undermines it.

And it doesn't protect religious liberty.

It weaponizes it.

Employees have the absolute right to practice the religion of their choice—or none at all. That right is personal, private, and protected. It's no one else's business.

The workplace is not a pulpit, and no employee should ever feel pressured to conform to, participate in, or endorse an employer's, supervisor's, or coworker's religious beliefs or practices.

Anything less violates the core principles that Title VII was designed to protect, regardless of what any administration—or any employer—might prefer.

Winning a disability discrimination claim doesn't necessarily win an ADA lawsuit

Winning a disability discrimination claim doesn't necessarily win an ADA lawsuit. The 2nd Circuit's recent decision in Cangro v. Department of Finance is a perfect example. The employer successfully defeated the employee's disability discrimination and retaliation claims—but still must defend a reasonable accommodation claim.

The employee suffered from serious respiratory conditions. After working remotely during the pandemic, he requested permission to work his required in-office days from the employer's Staten Island office instead of its Manhattan headquarters, claiming the commute and office environment aggravated his medical issues.

The employer said no.

The 2nd Circuit agreed that the employee hadn't plausibly alleged disability discrimination or retaliation. There wasn't sufficient evidence of discriminatory intent or a qualifying adverse employment action. Those claims were dismissed.

But the reasonable accommodation claim survived. 

The employee claimed that the employer denied his accommodation request without engaging in a meaningful interactive process despite medical evidence that the Manhattan office and commute aggravated his respiratory disabilities.

Whether the requested accommodation was actually reasonable is a question for another day. The 2nd Circuit expressly declined to answer it. Indeed, the real lesson for employers isn't about remote work at all. It's about process.

Too many employers treat accommodation requests as problems to defeat instead of workplace problems to solve. The ADA does not require an employer to grant an employee's preferred accommodation, but it does require a thoughtful, individualized process—evaluating the request, considering alternatives, engaging in a genuine dialogue, and documenting why a proposed accommodation will or will not work.

That process becomes even more important when the employee has already performed the job successfully under the same or a similar arrangement. Prior remote work does not permanently entitle an employee to work from home. Business needs change, job duties evolve, and temporary pandemic practices do not necessarily become permanent essential-function determinations. But if an arrangement worked for an extended period and the employer now says it cannot work, the employer should be prepared to explain what changed—and support that explanation with facts, not assumptions.

A well-supported, well-documented accommodation analysis may keep a dispute from becoming a lawsuit. And if litigation follows, it gives the employer its best chance at a good resolution. Without it, however, an employer can win the discrimination and retaliation battles and still spend years fighting the reasonable accommodation war.

WIRTW #804: the 'crash on the barrelhead' edition

Ryan Adams canceled his latest tour this week. His explanation? He's broke. Sick. Tired. Defeated.

Maybe all of that is true. Touring is brutal. The music business is unforgiving. And I don't take pleasure in watching someone suffer.

But I also don't have much sympathy for Ryan Adams.

For years, multiple women—including Phoebe Bridgers and Mandy Moore (his ex-wife)—have described the same basic pattern. Adams allegedly offered to mentor young female artists, pursued them romantically, and then, when those relationships soured or his advances were rejected, retaliated by undermining their careers or harassing them. Those allegations permanently altered how many view him.

What struck me wasn't just the allegations. It was how many musicians felt compelled to turn them into songs.

Phoebe Bridgers gave us "Motion Sickness".

Jason Isbell wrote "Chaos and Clothes".

Lucinda Williams unloaded with "Shadows & Doubts" and "Little Rock Star".

Old 97's? Depending on how you count, they may have written three songs inspired by Adams: "The New Kid", "Book of Poems", and "Crash on the Barrelhead".

I can't think of many musicians who've inspired an entire playlist of songs about what an awful human being they allegedly are.

That last one, "Crash on the Barrelhead", hits especially hard. Its message is unmistakable: if you keep living this way, eventually your choices catch up with you. Twenty-seven years later, these lyrics feel almost prophetic:

You're gonna crash on the barrelhead, son
You'll regret the things that you done
One of these days you're gonna rue
All the messed up things you do

The universe has a funny way of keeping score. Not always. Not quickly. But often enough.

Your reputation is the ledger.

It's one of the few things you build every single day without even realizing it. Every decision, every interaction, every kindness, every betrayal—they all become part of the story other people tell about you.

Once that story hardens, it's incredibly difficult to rewrite. Trust takes years to earn, seconds to lose, and for many people is never fully regained. Rebuilding a reputation is far harder than rebuilding a career or a tour schedule.

Eventually, enough people tell the same story about you that it stops sounding like gossip and starts sounding like your legacy.

Live your life so that you're never the subject of someone else's song about what an awful person you are.


Here's what I read this week that you should read, too.


The EEOC Just Broke Ground on EEO-1's Funeral 🪦 — via Eric Meyer's Employer Handbook Blog

When Employees Are Held Accountable for AI-Generated Decisions — via Harvard Business Review



The ADA is a two-way street

Once an employee requests an ADA accommodation, the employer has to give them exactly what they ask for… is NOT the law. In fact, it's the opposite of the law.

The ADA requires a reasonable accommodation—not the employee's preferred accommodation. Further, the ADA is a two-way street; employees have obligations, too.

One recent decision, Belval v. Electric Boat Corp., drives those points home.

The employee, who had multiple serious medical conditions, wanted to continue working from home full-time after COVID-era return-to-office policies resumed. Electric Boat didn't simply say "no." It allowed remote work throughout much of the pandemic, granted FMLA leave, consulted with his healthcare providers, engaged in the interactive process, and ultimately offered him three remote days each week—more than other employees received.

He insisted on full-time remote work.

The court sided with the employer because the ADA doesn't require an employer to provide the accommodation an employee wants. It requires an accommodation that is reasonable and enables the employee to perform the essential functions of the job. Employers may choose among effective accommodations.

Just as important, this opinion is a reminder that the interactive process should be documented like any other critical employment decision. Electric Boat had the receipts. It documented communications with the employee, consultations with his medical providers, proposed accommodations, repeated phone calls, follow-up correspondence, and even a final letter establishing a deadline to report to Occupational Health. That record showed more than participation. It showed cooperation.

Finally—and this may be the most overlooked lesson—the interactive process is a two-way street. Employees have obligations too. According to the court, the employee repeatedly failed to communicate with Occupational Health, directed company representatives to speak only with his attorney, ignored multiple attempts to discuss accommodations, and failed to appear for a required appointment. That mattered. The court held that the employee—not the employer—was responsible for the breakdown in the interactive process, which independently doomed his failure-to-accommodate claim.

Here are my three practical takeaways for employers from this case:

• The ADA requires a reasonable accommodation—not the employee's preferred one.

• Document every step of the interactive process: conversations, medical information, proposed accommodations, follow-ups, and attempts to communicate.

• Remember that good-faith participation is required from both sides. When an employee refuses to engage, ignores communications, or derails the interactive process, that failure can be fatal to an ADA claim.

Accommodation is a dialogue, not a demand. The employers that treat it that way—and carefully document every step—put themselves in the strongest position if that dialogue ever ends up in court.

A post-mortem on personal responsibility

"Sure, I posted racist memes and comments on my public Facebook page while identifying myself as a Chicago firefighter. But firing me violated my 1st Amendment rights."

That's the essence of last week's 7th Circuit opinion in Inendino v. Nance-Holt. And while the court spent most of its time parsing constitutional doctrine, I came away thinking about something much simpler.

Whatever happened to personal responsibility?

Sam Inendino spent 16 years as a Chicago firefighter and EMT. On his public Facebook page, where he prominently identified himself as a firefighter, he posted a series of racist and offensive comments directed at Black people, Asian Americans, immigrants, and others. Members of the public complained. The City investigated. He was fired. An arbitrator found just cause for his discharge. The 7th Circuit ultimately upheld it. 

The legal issue wasn't whether his posts were offensive. Everyone agreed they were.

The harder question was whether the 1st Amendment protected them.

Interestingly, the 7th Circuit actually gave Inendino more credit than the trial court had. It assumed that many of his posts—even crude, racist ones—touched on matters of public concern because they commented on current political controversies surrounding Black Lives Matter, policing, immigration, and public officials. 

But that's where many people stop reading.

The court didn't say, "Speech about public issues means you can't be fired."

Instead, it asked the next question: Does the government's interest as an employer outweigh the employee's interest in speaking?

For a firefighter whose job requires the trust of every member of the public, the answer was yes.

The court emphasized 7th facts that employers should remember. Inendino wasn't speaking anonymously. He publicly identified himself as a firefighter. His page featured photos of him in uniform on a fire truck. His comments were visible to everyone. And he served a predominantly Black neighborhood while posting content that openly demeaned Black residents—the very people he might someday be called upon to rescue. Under those circumstances, the City had a compelling interest in protecting public trust in its emergency services. 

All of that is important.

But here's what struck me.

Too often, cases like this are framed as though the employee is merely the victim of an employer's overreaction. The conversation becomes about cancel culture, free speech, corporate overreach, or constitutional rights.

Missing from that conversation is the most obvious point.

You are still responsible for your own choices.

No one forced Inendino to make his Facebook page public.
No one forced him to identify himself as a firefighter.
No one forced him to post racist memes.
No one forced him to keep them online.

Employees have rights. Employers have obligations. But neither erases personal accountability.

This wasn't a case about someone being punished for an immutable characteristic or an unpopular belief quietly held. It was about a series of deliberate, public decisions that predictably destroyed the trust essential to performing a public-facing job.

The law often protects people from the consequences of who they are. It rarely protects them from the foreseeable consequences of what they choose to do. That's especially true in employment law.

If you publicly associate yourself with your employer while broadcasting views that undermine your ability to perform your job or destroy the public's trust in the institution you serve, don't be surprised when those decisions have employment consequences.

That's not a post-mortem on free speech. It's a post-mortem on personal responsibility.

      

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