Sanders Hits Back: Fights Religious Critics Over Christmas Holiday Closure

Paul Riverbank, 12/23/2025Arkansas Christmas closure and D.C. media disputes ignite fresh battles over faith and free speech.

Enter the Freedom From Religion Foundation (FFRF), pen poised, dashing off a letter that critiqued not the closure itself, but the message they believe it sent. Officials, they argued, should tread with care—especially where the line between public service and personal faith grows blurry. Having the state observe a day so closely tied to Christmas, FFRF claimed, could leave non-Christian Arkansans out in the cold, constitutionally speaking.

If Governor Sanders was ruffled, it didn’t show. Her written response didn't duck the religious roots of Christmas—in fact, she brought them front and center. “Christmas,” she wrote, “is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ,” suggesting that telling that story openly was not only honest but fitting. And for those who saw her move as some sort of snub to pluralism, Sanders offered a scene from real life: her return from a Menorah lighting, surrounded by Arkansans of all backgrounds, as she penned her reply. Recognizing one faith, she insisted, does not require ignoring the mosaic of beliefs across the state. To her, giving voice to all is how communities feel recognized—silence, not celebration, breeds alienation.

On the other side, FFRF held its ground. To them, Sanders had stepped outside the proper bounds of her office, using state authority to champion a particular faith, in tension with the Establishment Clause. Sanders, undeterred, closed her letter with a passage about universal love and redemption—a message clearly Christian, but in her telling, one intended for everyone.

These debates about where faith meets governance are hardly new. Yet, while Arkansas sparred over Christmas, a parallel drama was playing out in Washington. In a Senate committee hearing, Senator Ted Cruz leaned into a different First Amendment powder keg—media speech and government overreach.

The former presidential contender took sharp aim at comments made by late night host Jimmy Kimmel, who’d lobbed pointed jabs at conservatives during a broadcast. FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr had characterized Kimmel’s remarks as especially egregious, hinting at possible regulatory remedies. Cruz wasn’t impressed by Kimmel’s style but reserved his real ire for any suggestion that government might crack down on unpopular speech. It’s one thing, Cruz retorted, for a broadcaster to make an internal decision—to yank a host whose jokes flop—but it’s another entirely for officials to exert pressure or threaten consequences in response to what is said on the air.

The senator’s point landed plainly: “What government cannot do is force private entities to take actions that the government cannot take directly.” Any such threat, he argued, risks cooling the vibrant disorder that a free press—and by extension, a free country—requires. Cruz folded the FCC discussion into broader complaints about administration “jawboning” of social media platforms on contentious issues, including the pandemic and disputed election claims.

For his part, Commissioner Carr seemed aware of the thin ice, promising fidelity to the limits Congress and the courts had set. Still, the underlying unease hung over the room: When officials even hint at punitive action over expression, voluntary self-censorship can follow. That, Cruz made clear, is not compatible with the American tradition.

Both the Arkansas and D.C. dustups circle the same core question, albeit from different angles: How—and by whom—should boundaries on state power over conscience and conversation be drawn? Holidays and broadcast jokes may seem trivial next to the weightier matters on a legislative calendar. But, as these cases remind us, the front lines of the First Amendment are often found not in sweeping Supreme Court decisions, but in the everyday push-and-pull between faith, government, and the right to speak freely—even, or perhaps especially, when disagreement is loudest.

That these lines get redrawn again and again is hardly a flaw in the system; rather, it’s testimony to a civic culture that, however noisy, refuses to accept easy answers. In that perpetual negotiation, each generation leaves its own marks on the margins of what public officials and institutions can—and cannot—say or celebrate on the nation’s behalf.

If Arkansas state employees thought the day after Christmas might slide quietly into an unremarkable long weekend, they hadn't considered the politics of holiday time off in 2023. Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders, in a nod to family and tradition, shuttered state offices that Friday—an act that, not too long ago, would probably have sparked at most a grumble over delayed paperwork. Not anymore.Enter the Freedom From Religion Foundation (FFRF), pen poised, dashing off a letter that critiqued not the closure itself, but the message they believe it sent. Officials, they argued, should tread with care—especially where the line between public service and personal faith grows blurry. Having the state observe a day so closely tied to Christmas, FFRF claimed, could leave non-Christian Arkansans out in the cold, constitutionally speaking.If Governor Sanders was ruffled, it didn’t show. Her written response didn't duck the religious roots of Christmas—in fact, she brought them front and center. “Christmas,” she wrote, “is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ,” suggesting that telling that story openly was not only honest but fitting. And for those who saw her move as some sort of snub to pluralism, Sanders offered a scene from real life: her return from a Menorah lighting, surrounded by Arkansans of all backgrounds, as she penned her reply. Recognizing one faith, she insisted, does not require ignoring the mosaic of beliefs across the state. To her, giving voice to all is how communities feel recognized—silence, not celebration, breeds alienation.On the other side, FFRF held its ground. To them, Sanders had stepped outside the proper bounds of her office, using state authority to champion a particular faith, in tension with the Establishment Clause. Sanders, undeterred, closed her letter with a passage about universal love and redemption—a message clearly Christian, but in her telling, one intended for everyone.These debates about where faith meets governance are hardly new. Yet, while Arkansas sparred over Christmas, a parallel drama was playing out in Washington. In a Senate committee hearing, Senator Ted Cruz leaned into a different First Amendment powder keg—media speech and government overreach.The former presidential contender took sharp aim at comments made by late night host Jimmy Kimmel, who’d lobbed pointed jabs at conservatives during a broadcast. FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr had characterized Kimmel’s remarks as especially egregious, hinting at possible regulatory remedies. Cruz wasn’t impressed by Kimmel’s style but reserved his real ire for any suggestion that government might crack down on unpopular speech. It’s one thing, Cruz retorted, for a broadcaster to make an internal decision—to yank a host whose jokes flop—but it’s another entirely for officials to exert pressure or threaten consequences in response to what is said on the air.The senator’s point landed plainly: “What government cannot do is force private entities to take actions that the government cannot take directly.” Any such threat, he argued, risks cooling the vibrant disorder that a free press—and by extension, a free country—requires. Cruz folded the FCC discussion into broader complaints about administration “jawboning” of social media platforms on contentious issues, including the pandemic and disputed election claims.For his part, Commissioner Carr seemed aware of the thin ice, promising fidelity to the limits Congress and the courts had set. Still, the underlying unease hung over the room: When officials even hint at punitive action over expression, voluntary self-censorship can follow. That, Cruz made clear, is not compatible with the American tradition.Both the Arkansas and D.C. dustups circle the same core question, albeit from different angles: How—and by whom—should boundaries on state power over conscience and conversation be drawn? Holidays and broadcast jokes may seem trivial next to the weightier matters on a legislative calendar. But, as these cases remind us, the front lines of the First Amendment are often found not in sweeping Supreme Court decisions, but in the everyday push-and-pull between faith, government, and the right to speak freely—even, or perhaps especially, when disagreement is loudest.That these lines get redrawn again and again is hardly a flaw in the system; rather, it’s testimony to a civic culture that, however noisy, refuses to accept easy answers. In that perpetual negotiation, each generation leaves its own marks on the margins of what public officials and institutions can—and cannot—say or celebrate on the nation’s behalf.