Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Godless Democrats and the MAGA Christian Inquisition: Apparently, Jesus Needs a Republican Registration Card

Well, this ought to be interesting.

After the 2026 midterm elections, the Democrats are preparing to welcome a new Congress, and among the faces representing the party are three men with something rather inconvenient for the MAGA religious establishment: they’re Christian pastors.

Raphael Warnock, James Talarico, and Adam Hamilton.

Three men who have spent considerable portions of their lives studying scripture, preaching the Gospel, and serving Christian congregations. Three Democrats. And apparently, that’s where the theological problems begin.

I’m particularly interested in watching how Turning Point USA, the Charlie Kirk movement, and the MAGA evangelical establishment are going to explain this little development to their audiences.

Because we’ve spent years listening to these people explain that Democrats are godless, anti-Christian, morally bankrupt socialists who are supposedly determined to destroy Christianity in America.

Well, apparently, somebody forgot to tell the three pastors.

And judging by the early reaction, the MAGA religious establishment has already started working on an explanation. We’ve heard the labels: Pastors in Name Only, too woke, not preaching the true Gospel, and even suggestions that their theological positions somehow disqualify them from being Christians.

That’s convenient, isn’t it?

When the other political party starts producing actual clergy, suddenly we need a theological background check.

I suppose the next step is for Turning Point USA to establish a Christian credentials department. Perhaps they can issue membership cards, complete with a Republican elephant, a picture of Donald Trump, and a little disclaimer stating that your Christianity is valid only as long as you agree with the current administration.

Maybe they’ll call it Christianity 2.0. Jesus approved, provided you vote Republican.

The irony is almost too good to pass up.

What exactly is it about these three men that makes their Christianity questionable? Is it their belief that hungry children should be fed? That sick people should have access to healthcare? That immigrants should be treated with dignity? That the poor deserve assistance? That LGBTQ+ Americans are human beings deserving of compassion?

Apparently, some of those positions are now sufficient grounds for religious disqualification.

And this is where the whole thing becomes particularly absurd.

Let’s revisit some of the teachings attributed to Jesus. Feed the hungry. Care for the sick. Welcome the stranger. Help the poor. Love your neighbor. Don’t worship money. Don’t use religion as a public performance to impress other people.

Matthew 25 is especially interesting. Jesus describes how people will be judged by how they treated the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the sick, and the imprisoned.

He doesn’t say to check their voter registration first.

He doesn’t say healthcare is a privilege reserved for people who can afford it. He doesn’t suggest that hungry children should be used as leverage in a budget negotiation. And he certainly doesn’t suggest that accumulating personal wealth is a measure of spiritual accomplishment.

Yet here we are, with a political movement that seems perfectly comfortable defending policies that make life more difficult for struggling Americans while simultaneously claiming exclusive ownership of Christian morality.

And at the center of this political and theological circus sits Donald Trump, apparently elevated to some sort of modern-day biblical figure by people who seem to have confused political loyalty with religious devotion.

This is the same administration whose policies have threatened food assistance, healthcare access, and the economic security of ordinary Americans. Meanwhile, we’re supposed to believe that questioning the president’s conduct is somehow an attack on Christianity itself.

I have a suggestion.

Perhaps instead of spending so much time explaining why three Democratic pastors aren’t real Christians, the MAGA religious establishment should spend a little time explaining how their own political priorities align with the teachings of the person they claim to follow.

Because I’m having a difficult time reconciling the Sermon on the Mount with the political philosophy of cruelty, exclusion, wealth accumulation, and personal worship.

And let’s not forget the late Charlie Kirk’s Turning Point USA. Kirk spent his later years increasingly blending conservative politics with Christian messaging, presenting the culture wars as part of a larger spiritual battle. His organization continues that tradition.

But here’s the problem with turning Christianity into a political weapon: eventually, someone from outside your political circle is going to pick up a Bible and start reading it.

And they might arrive at a different conclusion.

That’s exactly what Warnock, Talarico, and Hamilton represent. They challenge the assumption that Christianity belongs exclusively to the Republican Party. They demonstrate that religious conviction and Democratic political values aren’t mutually exclusive.

You can believe in God and support universal healthcare.

You can believe in Jesus and believe children shouldn’t go hungry.

You can believe in scripture and support compassion for immigrants, minorities, and people whose lives are different from yours.

You can be a Christian and believe that billionaires should pay their fair share of taxes.

None of those positions requires abandoning your faith.

In fact, they might require taking it a little more seriously.

I’m not suggesting Democrats have some exclusive claim to Christianity either. There are plenty of sincere Republican Christians, just as there are Democrats with no religious affiliation whatsoever. Faith is personal, and political disagreement doesn’t automatically invalidate someone’s religious convictions.

But that’s precisely the point.

The MAGA movement has spent years trying to convince Americans that Christianity and Republican politics are practically interchangeable. That supporting Donald Trump is somehow supporting God’s agenda. That the president’s political opponents are not simply political opponents but enemies of Christianity.

That’s not a religious doctrine. That’s political branding.

And perhaps the most interesting question isn’t whether Turning Point USA will recognize these three men as legitimate Christians. We already have a pretty good idea of how that conversation is going to go.

The question is how many ordinary American Christians are going to start asking why their religious leaders seem more concerned about defending Donald Trump than defending the teachings of Jesus.

Because if your version of Christianity requires you to overlook corruption, excuse dishonesty, disregard hungry children, celebrate the suffering of your political opponents, and defend the accumulation of wealth by the politically connected, perhaps the problem isn’t the Democrats’ interpretation of the Bible.

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider your own.

And I have one final question.

If Jesus walked into the Oval Office tomorrow, would Donald Trump recognize him?

Or would somebody from Turning Point USA have to explain that he was a Middle Eastern immigrant, probably a socialist, sympathetic to the poor, critical of wealthy people, and apparently had some very troubling things to say about how we treat our neighbors?

I’m guessing the Secret Service would be called before the Sermon on the Mount was finished.

Welcome to the new Congress.

Three Christian pastors are joining the Democrats, and apparently the religious right is having a theological identity crisis.

Maybe it’s time we stopped asking whether Democrats are Christian enough and started asking whether the people claiming to speak for Christianity are actually following the teachings of Christ.

After all, Jesus never asked for a Republican registration card.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I spend a fair amount of time driving. Occupational hazard, I suppose, when a good portion of your income depends on keeping four wheels pointed in the general direction of wherever you’re supposed to be going. And when you spend that much time on the road, you start noticing things. Traffic patterns, driving habits, people who apparently received their driver’s licenses in a Cracker Jack box, and lately, a whole lot of student drivers.

Which brings me to the subject of 10 and 2.

For those who may have forgotten their driver’s education classes, 10 and 2 refers to the recommended hand position on a steering wheel. Imagine the steering wheel as a clock. Your left hand goes where the ten would be, your right hand where the two would be. Both hands firmly planted, arms extended, eyes forward. Congratulations, you’re now driving like you’re preparing to land a commercial airliner.

I understand the theory. Control. Stability. Proper steering technique. All perfectly reasonable objectives. But have any of these driving instructors actually tried sitting in that position for more than fifteen minutes? Because I have a sneaking suspicion that whoever came up with this arrangement never had to drive for a living.

Seriously, 10 and 2 has to be one of the most uncomfortable ways to hold a steering wheel for any extended period. Your shoulders are elevated, your arms are extended, and your body is positioned somewhere between a nervous driving student and someone awaiting execution by firing squad.

Most experienced drivers I know have developed their own arrangements. One hand somewhere around the 12 o’clock position, perhaps one hand at 7, or the traditional casual left hand resting around 9 o’clock. Some of us alternate depending on which direction we’re going, how much traffic we’re dealing with, and whether our coffee is in danger of becoming a passenger-side floorboard casualty.

And then there’s my generation.

We grew up driving vehicles with manual transmissions. For anyone unfamiliar with this ancient technology, it required an actual mechanical connection between the driver and the transmission. You had three pedals, a gearshift, and a left leg that got considerably more exercise than it does in today’s automatic-transmission world.

You couldn’t keep both hands on the steering wheel all the time because one of them occasionally had to operate the gearshift. You know, that little stick thing in the middle of the car that actually required some coordination and participation from the driver.

We learned to steer, shift, accelerate, brake, check mirrors, and occasionally negotiate a passenger trying to give us directions without sounding like a hostage negotiator. We managed. Somehow, civilization survived.

Now, I’m not advocating that everyone drive with one hand hanging out the window while steering with their pinky finger. There is a difference between being comfortable and being careless. And certainly, modern steering-wheel positioning recommendations have changed over the years. The old 10 and 2 recommendation has largely given way to 9 and 3, partly because of airbags and improved steering control.

But here’s my question: Is there really an efficiency argument for insisting that a driver maintain a rigid hand position regardless of circumstances?

Driving isn’t a static activity. You’re constantly making small adjustments. You’re accelerating, slowing down, changing lanes, navigating curves, checking mirrors, and occasionally trying to figure out why the person in front of you has apparently mistaken the interstate for a scenic Sunday afternoon parade.

Your hands should be positioned in a way that gives you adequate control without creating unnecessary tension or fatigue. That’s the point, isn’t it?

And for those student drivers, I suspect there’s something to be said for teaching them how to actually operate a vehicle rather than simply teaching them how to pass a driving test. Understanding steering control, situational awareness, maintaining distance, anticipating traffic, and knowing when to make adjustments seems considerably more valuable than memorizing where your hands belong on an imaginary clock.

Of course, I realize I’m becoming that guy. The Gen X guy watching the next generation learn something and wondering whether we’ve somehow overcomplicated a perfectly ordinary activity.

We used to drive cars with manual transmissions, no backup cameras, no lane departure warnings, no blind-spot indicators, and certainly no computer screen telling us that we were getting too close to the white line. We had mirrors, a steering wheel, and a general understanding that if we hit something, it was probably our fault.

Maybe that’s nostalgia talking. Maybe modern driver education is better than what we had. I can certainly acknowledge that airbags, stability control, and improved safety practices have made driving safer.

But I still question the practicality of treating 10 and 2 like some sacred driving commandment.

I’m not flying an aircraft. I’m not performing surgery. I’m driving a car, and I’ve got another six hours of it ahead of me.

So, to the driving instructors out there, by all means, teach control, safety, and proper technique. Just remember that eventually these students are going to graduate, get a job, and spend eight hours a day behind the wheel.

And when they do, I suspect they’ll discover that driving comfortably and driving safely aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

Besides, if I spent all day holding my arms straight out at 10 and 2, I’d need a chiropractor before I made it to lunch.

End of transmission. Keep your eyes on the road, your hands somewhere sensible, and for the love of all things automotive, learn how to use your turn signal.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There is something particularly ironic about a man who has repeatedly demonstrated that he has little interest in history occupying an office that is, arguably, the most historically consequential position in the world. Donald John Trump has never struck me as a student of history, unless we’re talking about the history of Donald Trump. That particular subject seems to hold his undivided attention.

But perhaps if he had spent a little time studying the history of the American presidency, he might have learned something about the consequences of treating the Oval Office as personal property rather than a public trust.

We’ve had some questionable occupants of that office over the years. Warren G. Harding gave us the Teapot Dome scandal, cronyism, corruption, and an administration so thoroughly compromised that it became synonymous with presidential incompetence. Richard Nixon gave us Watergate, the abuse of executive power, political enemies lists, and a president who ultimately discovered that the Constitution wasn’t simply a decorative document sitting on somebody’s desk.

Both men left considerable stains on the institution of the presidency. Yet here we are, watching Donald Trump seemingly attempt to combine the worst characteristics of both administrations and add a generous helping of reality television, personal grievance, and authoritarian ambition.

Harding had his cronies. Nixon had his enemies list. Trump appears to have an entire government operating around the principle that loyalty to Donald Trump is more important than loyalty to the United States Constitution.

And that’s where the comparison becomes particularly uncomfortable.

The presidency was never intended to be a throne. It wasn’t designed to be a family business, a personal investment opportunity, or a platform for settling decades-old grudges. The founders deliberately established checks and balances because they understood what happens when too much power is concentrated in the hands of one individual. They had just finished separating themselves from a monarchy, after all. Apparently, somebody should have included that little historical footnote in Trump’s briefing materials.

During his second term, the attacks on established institutions, the treatment of independent government agencies, the pressure placed on political opponents, the willingness to blur the boundaries between public office and private financial interests, and the repeated questioning of constitutional constraints have raised questions that extend well beyond ordinary partisan disagreements.

This isn’t simply about whether you like his policies. It isn’t even about whether you voted for him. It’s about whether the American presidency can survive being treated as an extension of one man’s personality and personal ambitions.

And let’s be honest, the personality isn’t exactly reassuring.

Nixon eventually discovered that there were limits to presidential power. His own administration produced the evidence that ultimately brought him down. Harding didn’t live long enough to see the full consequences of his administration’s scandals, but history certainly didn’t give him a pass.

Trump seems determined to challenge whether those historical lessons still apply.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all this is the normalization of behavior that would have once produced bipartisan outrage. Things that would have ended political careers in previous administrations are now treated as another Tuesday afternoon in Washington. We have become so accustomed to the daily circus that the extraordinary has become ordinary. The goalposts move, the headlines change, and yesterday’s constitutional controversy is replaced by today’s outrage.

It’s exhausting. And perhaps that’s part of the problem. Exhaustion creates indifference, and indifference is exactly what allows institutions to deteriorate.

There is a distinction between damaging a presidency and damaging the institution of the presidency itself. Presidents come and go. Some are celebrated, some are criticized, and some become cautionary chapters in American history textbooks. But the office is supposed to remain larger than the individual occupying it.

George Washington understood that distinction when he voluntarily surrendered power. Lincoln understood the weight of preserving the Union. Eisenhower understood the importance of a peaceful transfer of power. Even Nixon, eventually, had to acknowledge that he could not remain above the law indefinitely.

The question now is whether Trump understands that the presidency belongs to the American people, not to Donald John Trump.

I suspect history will have a rather unflattering answer.

And here’s the real irony: Trump seems obsessed with his legacy. Buildings bearing his name, his likeness, his signature, and his version of events. He wants to be remembered as one of the greatest presidents in American history. But history is a rather stubborn record keeper. It doesn’t necessarily cooperate with the people who want to write their own biographies while they’re still occupying the office.

Harding left behind a legacy of corruption. Nixon left behind a legacy of constitutional crisis and resignation. Trump may yet leave behind something more consequential: a presidency that tested just how much institutional damage one individual can inflict before the system finally pushes back.

Perhaps the history books will eventually need a new chapter. Not simply about another corrupt or controversial president, but about what happens when a president actively challenges the institutions designed to limit his power.

And if Trump had bothered to study those history books, he might have recognized the warning signs.

Unfortunately, he seems far more interested in being the headline than learning from the history that came before him.

The Oval Office is not a throne. The Constitution is not a suggestion. And the United States government is not a subsidiary of the Trump Organization.

Those are lessons that should never have needed repeating.

But apparently, here we are.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Someone Needs to Speak for Congress

I’ve been thinking about the communication problems in Congress, or perhaps more accurately, the complete lack of effective communication coming out of the House and Senate. We have a government full of elected officials, committees, leadership positions, press conferences, television appearances, and an endless supply of people willing to talk. Yet somehow, when it comes to explaining what Congress is doing, why it’s doing it, or what it hopes to accomplish, we’re often left scratching our heads.

Maybe it’s time to rethink how congressional leadership handles public communication.

Here’s an idea that might sound a little unconventional: What if the Speaker of the House and the Senate Majority Leader weren’t necessarily the primary public-facing representatives of their respective chambers?

Think about it. The Speaker of the House and the Senate Majority Leader have enormous administrative responsibilities. They’re responsible for managing legislative schedules, negotiating with members, building coalitions, counting votes, managing committees, navigating internal party politics, and trying to keep hundreds of elected officials moving in something resembling the same direction. These are demanding, full-time administrative and political jobs.

Why, then, do we automatically expect those same people to be the primary spokespeople for everything happening in Congress?

Being an effective legislative administrator and being an effective public communicator are two entirely different skill sets. One requires organizational ability, negotiation, patience, and political maneuvering. The other requires the ability to explain complicated issues, communicate a consistent message, think on your feet, and occasionally deliver an answer that doesn’t sound like it was written by a committee of attorneys.

Maybe we should stop pretending one person has to do both.

What if we created an official Speaker for the House, separate from the actual Speaker of the House? Someone whose primary responsibility would be public communication, explaining legislation, responding to the press, addressing the American public, and making sure people understand what’s happening inside that enormous building on Capitol Hill.

The same concept could apply to the Senate.

And here’s the interesting part: These positions wouldn’t necessarily have to go to the most senior members of Congress. In fact, maybe they shouldn’t. Perhaps there’s a junior representative with a background in communications, public relations, journalism, or simply an exceptional ability to explain things to ordinary people. Maybe there’s someone outside elected government altogether who has the experience, temperament, and credibility to handle the job.

We could even establish two official spokesperson positions for each chamber, one representing the Democratic caucus and one representing the Republican caucus. That way, neither party feels excluded, and the public gets to hear clearly identified perspectives from both sides.

Imagine that. Actual communication instead of waiting for whichever politician happens to grab a microphone that afternoon.

This wouldn’t eliminate political disagreements, nor should it. Republicans and Democrats are going to disagree. That’s the nature of representative government. But there’s a difference between disagreeing about policy and failing to communicate what you’re doing in the first place.

It would also give congressional leaders the opportunity to concentrate on their actual responsibilities rather than constantly being pulled into television interviews, press conferences, and the daily media circus. Let the Speaker manage the House. Let the Majority Leader manage the Senate. Let someone whose job is communication handle communication.

And before someone suggests this is just another layer of unnecessary government bureaucracy, consider how much time and energy is currently wasted trying to coordinate messaging across dozens of politicians, each with their own interpretation of what the party should be saying.

A little organization might actually save everyone some time.

There’s also something to be said for consistency. The American public shouldn’t have to piece together congressional policy from cable news appearances, social media posts, competing press releases, and whatever sound bite happens to make the evening news. We should have a reliable, recognizable source of information explaining what Congress is doing and why.

Of course, there’s one important distinction. These spokespeople shouldn’t become party propagandists. Their job should be to communicate, not manufacture narratives. They should be able to explain what their respective caucuses support, acknowledge disagreements, answer difficult questions, and occasionally admit when something hasn’t gone according to plan.

I realize that last part might be asking a little much from Washington.

But seriously, perhaps we need to reconsider what congressional leadership actually means in the modern era. We have an increasingly complicated government communicating with an increasingly impatient public through a media environment that rewards outrage, confrontation, and 15-second sound bites.

Maybe the answer isn’t having our busiest legislative leaders spend even more time in front of cameras.

Maybe it’s giving communication the same organizational importance we give legislation.

Congress doesn’t necessarily need more people talking. It needs people who know how to communicate.

And if we’re going to spend our time arguing about who should lead the House and Senate, perhaps we should also spend a little time figuring out who should be responsible for explaining what the hell they’re doing.

Because somewhere between the Capitol and the American living room, the message seems to keep getting lost.

And considering these people work for us, perhaps it’s about time somebody made sure we were actually being kept in the conversation.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Apparently, We Missed the Point of Being Human

I recently came across a comment attributed to Neil deGrasse Tyson that made me laugh, not necessarily because it was particularly profound, but because it was so ridiculously accurate in illustrating the stupidity of racism. The analogy went something like this: Racism probably started when a white zebra with black stripes complained about a black zebra with white stripes.

Think about that for a minute. Two zebras, essentially the same animal, standing there arguing over the arrangement of the same two colors. Welcome to humanity. We’ve apparently been doing variations of this nonsense for thousands of years.

Somewhere along the way, human beings decided that the amount of pigment in another person’s skin was a perfectly reasonable excuse to assign value, intelligence, worth, and even basic human rights. Apparently, we looked at the extraordinary complexity of the human species and decided the most important characteristic worth judging was how much melanin somebody happened to inherit from their parents. Congratulations, civilization. We’ve reached the pinnacle of intellectual achievement.

But here’s the interesting part: Racism didn’t simply appear because people noticed that other people looked different. Humans have always recognized differences between populations. Different languages, customs, clothing, appearances, and traditions have existed throughout history. The problem developed when those differences became a convenient excuse for establishing hierarchies, claiming superiority, controlling resources, and justifying the exploitation of other human beings.

And if we’re being historically honest, racism as we understand it today was heavily shaped by colonialism, slavery, and the economic interests of people who needed an excuse for treating other human beings as property. It is considerably easier to sleep at night when you’ve convinced yourself that the people you’re exploiting are somehow inferior to you. Eventually, people even invented elaborate pseudoscientific theories to give their prejudices the appearance of intellectual credibility. Nothing says enlightened civilization quite like inventing science to justify your own bigotry.

And here we are, centuries later, still dealing with the leftovers of that intellectual dumpster fire.

The irony is that underneath all that pigmentation, we’re remarkably similar. We share essentially the same biological machinery, the same organs, the same vulnerabilities, the same capacity to love, grieve, laugh, learn, and occasionally do something spectacularly stupid. Our skin color is largely an adaptation to different levels of ultraviolet radiation over generations. That’s biology, not a ranking system. Mother Nature wasn’t handing out gold, silver, and bronze medals based on complexion.

In fact, if you want to get particularly scientific about it, human genetic variation within populations is substantial, and racial categories don’t neatly divide humanity into distinct biological groups. We’re one species with a remarkably complicated family history. Somewhere along the evolutionary journey, our ancestors spread across the planet, adapted to different environments, and developed different physical characteristics. That’s not a reason to hate one another. It’s actually a pretty extraordinary story.

And yet, somehow, we’ve managed to turn that story into a competition over whose ancestors got the better geographical real estate.

What makes racism particularly absurd is that it requires an enormous amount of effort to maintain an imaginary distinction. You have to teach it, reinforce it, defend it, pass it down, and occasionally rewrite history to keep it alive. Nobody is born looking at another infant and deciding that the amount of melanin in that baby’s skin makes it less deserving of love or compassion. Those ideas have to be learned. And unfortunately, they can be unlearned.

I’m a Gen Xer. We grew up hearing about Martin Luther King Jr., the civil rights movement, and the promise that people should be judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin. Somewhere between those lessons and the present day, apparently some people decided that was all a little too ambitious.

And that’s perhaps the most disappointing part. We have the technology to explore other planets, communicate instantaneously across continents, map the human genome, and develop artificial intelligence. Yet we still have people who cannot walk into a room with someone whose skin is a different shade without making assumptions about their worth.

Seriously? We can put a rover on Mars, but we haven’t figured out how to get along with the people living next door?

Maybe Tyson’s zebra analogy is more insightful than it initially appears. Imagine two zebras standing in the African savanna, arguing over their stripes while a lion watches from the bushes. The lion doesn’t care which zebra has white stripes or black stripes. It sees dinner. And perhaps there’s a lesson in that. The things that divide us often matter considerably less than the things we share.

We all bleed the same color. We all experience pain. We all have families, hopes, disappointments, fears, and an expiration date. Nobody gets an exemption from being human because their skin happens to be a different shade.

I suppose the real question isn’t why racism exists. History gives us plenty of explanations for that. The question is why, with everything we’ve learned about ourselves and the world around us, we’re still willing to entertain something so fundamentally ridiculous.

Maybe it’s time we stopped worrying about the color of one another’s stripes and started recognizing that we’re all zebras.

And if we’re going to spend our limited time on this planet arguing about something, perhaps we could find something a little more productive than the paint job.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The Leadership Dilemma: Be Careful What You Wish For

Well, here we are. After celebrating a Democratic sweep and the possibility of finally changing the direction of this country, we’ve managed to find ourselves with a new dilemma. Apparently, winning elections wasn’t enough. Now we’re preparing for the inevitable internal wrestling match over who gets to sit in the big chairs in Congress. The potential fights over House Speaker and Senate Majority Leader are already becoming another test of Democratic unity.

Before everybody starts sharpening their knives, perhaps we should take a moment to remember exactly what these positions entail.

First, let’s understand that both of these jobs are largely administrative positions. The Speaker of the House isn’t suddenly handed a magic wand and given the ability to personally write legislation, fix the economy, or solve every problem facing the country. The Speaker’s primary responsibility is managing the business of the House, determining what legislation comes to the floor, overseeing the legislative agenda, and keeping the various personalities and factions of the party moving in roughly the same direction.

And let’s be honest, it’s not exactly a dream job.

You’re constantly under a microscope. Every disagreement, every legislative failure, every unexpected political development somehow becomes your responsibility. When something goes wrong, whose face do you see on television? The Speaker’s. When legislation stalls, the Speaker gets blamed. When members of your own party decide they have a better idea, congratulations, you’ve just inherited another headache.

The Senate Majority Leader faces much the same predicament. You’re responsible for managing the Senate’s schedule, organizing the legislative priorities, negotiating with members, and deciding what gets brought forward for consideration. You’re not suddenly appointed chairman of every important committee, nor do you personally control every senator’s vote.

Both positions carry considerable political influence, certainly, and they are excellent fundraising platforms. But they’re also enormous administrative responsibilities that require managing people who sometimes seem incapable of agreeing on what day of the week it is.

So why are we already entertaining the possibility of turning this into an internal Democratic pissing contest?

I understand the argument for new leadership. I understand that people want fresh faces, new ideas, and a departure from the same familiar names we’ve seen for years. There’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting change. In fact, change is often necessary. But there’s a difference between demanding accountability and creating unnecessary division just because we want to demonstrate that we’re doing something different.

We should also remember that leadership doesn’t operate in a vacuum. We elected these people, we gave them a mandate, and we still have the ability to influence the direction they take. We don’t have to agree with every decision a Speaker or Majority Leader makes. We can push them, challenge them, and demand that they follow through on the priorities that got Democrats elected in the first place.

And let’s not forget the power of the pen. Committee chairs, legislative priorities, investigations, oversight, and the ability to actually move legislation through Congress are all tools available to a Democratic majority. We have an opportunity to accomplish something meaningful, provided we don’t spend the first several months arguing amongst ourselves about who gets the better office and the nicer desk.

We just spent considerable time watching the Republican Party turn the selection of a Speaker into a political circus. Multiple rounds of voting, public disagreements, backroom negotiations, and enough internal dysfunction to make a dysfunctional family reunion look organized. We don’t need to recreate that particular performance. We’ve already seen the show, and frankly, the reviews weren’t very good.

There’s something else worth considering: The person occupying the leadership position isn’t necessarily the person who determines the direction of the party. The people behind that person, the members who provide the votes, have considerable influence over that direction.

If we want progressive legislation, stronger oversight, accountability, economic reforms, and a government that actually responds to the people who elected it, then we need to make those expectations clear. We need representatives who understand that winning an election isn’t the finish line. It’s the beginning of the responsibility.

So by all means, let’s have a discussion about leadership. Let’s consider experience, competence, effectiveness, and whether someone can actually bring the different factions of our party together. But let’s not confuse replacing leadership with changing direction. Those are two entirely different things.

We’ve spent years watching Republicans put party loyalty ahead of governing. We shouldn’t celebrate winning back Congress only to start demonstrating that Democrats are perfectly capable of doing the same thing to themselves.

We’ve got a lot of work to do, and the country is expecting results. Let’s spend less time fighting over who gets to hold the gavel and more time figuring out what we’re going to do with it.

We didn’t vote for a new set of personalities. We voted for a change in direction. Let’s not lose sight of that distinction.