Leadership Archives - Linthicum Heights United Methodist Church

The Courage to Grow Up

Posted on Nov 8, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership |

When faith requires nerve, not nostalgia.

The Church in an Age of Anxiety

Every pastor understands what it’s like to walk into a room filled with anxiety. The air vibrates with unspoken worries — about attendance, budgets, and the future. People talk in circles, hoping that if they talk long enough, the discomfort will go away. Committees hesitate, plans fall apart, and everyone leaves feeling both tired and unchanged.

I’ve watched this scene unfold in churches of all sizes and setting. It’s not that anyone intends harm. Most people genuinely want what’s best for their church. But anxiety is contagious. It narrows vision, reduces courage, and convinces us that our main goal is to avoid loss.

When that happens, we begin asking the wrong questions. Instead of, “What is God calling us to become?” we ask, “What will prevent everyone from leaving?” Instead of, “What new life might be emerging?” we ask, “How can we go back to what we were?”

Leadership theorist Edwin Friedman once remarked on this very tendency. In the introduction to his book A Failure of Nerve, he wrote:

“The more immediate threat to the regeneration — and perhaps even the survival — of American civilization is internal, not external. It is our tendency to adapt to its immaturity.”

I believe the same applies to the Church. The real danger isn’t the secular world, generational change, or even declining attendance. The bigger threat is internal: our tendency to adapt to our own immaturity — to soothe our anxiety instead of overcoming it.

What Friedman Saw

Edwin H. Friedman was a rabbi, therapist, and leadership consultant who viewed communities as emotional systems. He understood that organizations, like families, can become anxious and reactive, and that their health depends more on emotional maturity than techniques.

When Friedman warned against “adapting to immaturity,” he was describing a cultural pattern: how leaders often give in to reactivity, confusing accommodation with compassion. In anxious systems, the loudest voice tends to win, not because it’s correct, but because others become too tired to resist. Leaders, desperate for calm, succumb to the pressure to appease instead of leading.

Friedman described this as a “failure of nerve.” It’s not about lacking intelligence, strategy, or faith, but about lacking the courage to hold steady in the face of fear. He argued that it’s this loss of nerve that prevents renewal.

In our churches, that pattern feels painfully familiar. We see it when we avoid naming truth because it might offend. We see it when nostalgia replaces mission, when protecting comfort becomes more important than pursuing the gospel. We see it when leaders, tired of conflict, mistake peacekeeping for peacemaking.

Emotional Regression in the Church

Friedman explained that anxious systems tend to regress emotionally.

You don’t have to look far to see how this occurs in congregations. When anxiety increases, people become reactive instead of reflective. We search for someone to blame rather than seeking understanding. We want quick fixes instead of patient growth. We romanticize the past instead of trusting the Spirit’s unfolding future.

In an anxious congregation, leadership meetings can feel like walking a tightrope over a river of fear. A single difficult conversation can send ripples of panic through the entire community. Someone complains, and instead of addressing the issue directly, the focus shifts to damage control, an endless cycle of trying to keep everyone happy.

Friedman would say that’s what happens when we adapt to immaturity. The system remains stuck because its leaders stay anxious. In family systems terms, anxiety always seeks homeostasis—it resists change. So instead of moving forward, the congregation circles the same issues repeatedly, like a family that has the same argument every Thanksgiving but never changes the subject.

And yet, this pattern is not a sign of failure; it’s a signal. It indicates that the Spirit is stirring. It means the system is being called to mature and grow beyond its anxiety into a deeper trust in God.

The Pastor’s Temptation: Caretaking vs. Leadership

Most pastors I know, including myself, started in ministry because we love God’s people. We want to serve, comfort, and help. But love, without the courage to support it, can become distorted.

We convince ourselves we’re “keeping the peace,” when in truth we’re avoiding conflicts that could lead to growth. We say yes when we should say not yet. We soften our words to protect feelings, even when honesty would be a more loving act.

I’ve done this more times than I can count. Early in my ministry, I believed good leadership meant being endlessly accommodating. But over time, I realized that a church led by constant accommodation will always be anxious and exhausted. It turns into a system where the leader’s energy is focused on managing feelings instead of nurturing faith.

Friedman would call that “a failure of nerve.” It’s not moral weakness, it’s emotional exhaustion. It’s what happens when leaders mistake compassion for compliance.

The truth is, leadership isn’t about making everyone comfortable. It’s about helping people grow, and growth always involves some discomfort. The role of a pastor isn’t to absorb everyone’s anxiety but to help the community learn to carry its own.

In pastoral terms, we are called to love people deeply without losing our center. That’s what Friedman called “self-differentiation.” It’s the ability to stay connected to others without being controlled by their emotions. In church life, that looks like a pastor who can listen with empathy, speak truth in love, and remain steady when others react.

Regeneration: The Spirit’s Work of Renewal

Friedman’s word ‘regeneration’ is worth pausing to consider. It’s not the same as survival. It’s not simply about keeping the lights on or maintaining the status quo. Regeneration is about renewal from within.

In biology, regeneration describes the process of a healing body restoring what has been damaged. In the realm of faith, regeneration is the work of the Spirit who breathes new life into old bones and makes the Church more alive, not by holding onto its past, but by empowering its future.

The Spirit’s renewal doesn’t rely on new programs or marketing campaigns; it depends on courage. It comes from a willingness to face the truth about who we are and who we’re becoming.

Theologically, regeneration is always a cooperative act. God doesn’t force renewal; God invites us into it. Divine grace meets human courage. The Spirit renews through leaders and communities willing to face the pain of growth. God’s future is not predetermined; it unfolds through relationship and participation. That means the Spirit’s regenerative work depends on our willingness to collaborate, to trust, and to grow.

Choosing courage over comfort creates space for renewal. When we resist anxiety’s pull and return to love’s steady rhythm, the Spirit is able to breathe freely again. Renewal starts not with a new plan, but with a new mindset.

What a Regenerative Church Looks Like

A regenerative church doesn’t need to be big, trendy, or high-tech. It must be mature, and emotionally and spiritually grounded enough to love well during anxious times.

Such a church:

Can disagree without dividing.
Can grieve without falling into despair.
Can plan without panicking.
Can follow the Spirit without requiring a guarantee.

It is a community that reflects what Friedman called a “non-anxious presence,” a posture that allows calm, clarity, and compassion to lead.

In anxious systems, fear spreads easily, but so does calmness. When leaders stay centered and refuse to mirror the chaos around them, they help others find their footing. In faith language, they reflect the peace of Christ—the deep, steady peace that is not the absence of conflict but the presence of God.

Practices for Regenerative Leadership

So how can we, as pastors and leaders, start to embody this regenerative courage? Here are four practices that have become vital in my own life and ministry.

Stay connected, but not controlled.
Be present with people’s pain without being consumed by it. Leadership that withdraws becomes detached; leadership that absorbs becomes drained. The balance lies in grounded empathy — the ability to love deeply while remaining centered in God.
Name the truth kindly.
Avoiding hard truths does not preserve unity; it delays healing. Clarity, spoken in love, is a form of grace. Jesus modeled this consistently. He told the truth, even when it was uncomfortable, but he did so with compassion and purpose.
Trust the process over panic.
Anxious systems seek quick fixes, but spiritual growth unfolds slowly, through prayer, perseverance, and grace. Leaders must resist the urge for instant results and trust that renewal takes root gradually, like seeds in rich soil.
Return to prayer and presence.
The non-anxious leader is not calm by temperament—they are calm through practice. Ground yourself daily in prayer, silence, or reflection. The ability to lead through anxiety begins in the quiet where we remember who and whose we are.

The Courage to Grow Up

Ultimately, what Friedman described as “a failure of nerve” is actually a failure of imagination. It’s the unwillingness to believe that love can still produce something new. The Church doesn’t need more programs to survive; it needs the courage to mature — to move beyond emotional reactivity and rediscover spiritual maturity.

This kind of maturity is not rigid; it’s resilient. It doesn’t come from knowing all the answers but from trusting the Spirit enough to stay faithful through the questions. It’s having the courage to disappoint people for the sake of greater integrity. It’s possessing the wisdom to wait when others push for speed. It’s showing grace to lead with hope when fear would be easier.

When we grow up this way, renewal begins, not through control, but through cooperation with God. The Spirit does what it always does: breathes new life into exhausted structures, calls forth courage from hesitant hearts, and transforms anxious gatherings into communities of peace.

A Final Word

Maybe the Spirit isn’t waiting for the Church to calm down. Maybe the Spirit is waiting for us to grow up. To trust again that courage is a form of love. To believe that peace is not passive but powerful. To remember that renewal begins when we stop managing fear and start practicing faith.

Keeping Time with the Spirit

Posted on Oct 20, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership, Pastoral Reflections |

When faith means trusting the tempo of change.

Over the last seven years, I’ve served what I sometimes call four different congregations, though they’ve all shared the same name. There was the pre-Covid congregation, the one that learned to breathe through the shutdown, the one that rebuilt after it all, and now the post-Covid congregation learning how to live and serve in new ways. Each had its own rhythm. Its own heartbeat. Its own way of being the Body of Christ in the world.

Those years weren’t shaped solely by the pandemic. The larger church was struggling with its own identity — what it means to belong, to include, and to make room for difference. The tension that permeated our denomination also affected local congregations, and it wasn’t easy.

As I’ve reflected on those seasons, I’ve realized that the church doesn’t simply change over time. It moves. It keeps time with the Spirit’s rhythm—sometimes steady, sometimes syncopated, sometimes silent; but always pulsing with life.

The Rhythm of Gathering and Scattering

Before Covid, the church’s rhythm was one of gathering. We met in familiar spaces, at familiar times, surrounded by familiar faces. We had calendars full of meetings and ministries. We knew our steps.

Then, almost overnight, the rhythm came to a halt. Sanctuaries fell silent. Fellowship halls emptied. Choirs stopped mid-song. But something else began to emerge beneath the silence. Connection took on new forms — through screens, doorstep visits, and quiet acts of care. Prayers traveled through phone lines and Zoom screens. Neighbors cared for neighbors. The church scattered—and in that scattering, discovered a new rhythm.

It was slower, less polished, more fragile — and somehow, more genuine. We learned to find God in pixelated faces, in drive-through prayers, in the ache of absence that became its own kind of presence. That season taught me something I never want to forget: The rhythm of the church is not limited to the walls where we gather. It’s the rhythm of gathering and scattering, breathing in and breathing out. The church comes together to be filled and scatters to be poured out again.

The Rhythm of Grief and Grace

When we returned to our sanctuaries, the rhythm was different. Some chairs sat empty. Some voices were gone. Some ministries never came back. We mourned what we lost — the people, the routines, the sense of ease. We also mourned who we used to be. The way things once “worked.” The certainty we once had about what church should look like.

There were moments when harmony felt impossible—when voices within the same body of Christ sang in different keys. We struggled with who we were becoming and who some longed for us to remain. These tensions hurt. They still do. But grace keeps inviting us to listen for the deeper melody, the one that embraces even dissonance within its beauty.

But even as grief lingered, grace began to hum beneath it. We started singing again. We began to rebuild, this time with more humility, more creativity, and, I hope, more love. I believe that’s what grace does: it sets a rhythm we don’t always notice until we stop trying to lead. Grace teaches us to sway with the Spirit’s tempo, rather than force our own.

Every season of the church has its own time signature. Some are written in minor keys, others in joyful refrains. But together, they form a living song — one that tells the story of resurrection again and again.

The Rhythm of Change and Continuity

If you’ve ever played in a band or sung in a choir, you know how easy it is to lose the beat when the tempo shifts. You start a little too fast or drag behind, and suddenly the harmony falters. The church is like that too. Every time the rhythm changes — new leadership, new structure, new mission — it takes a moment to find the downbeat again.

Over the past seven years, the rhythm has shifted multiple times. We’ve learned to adapt, to simplify, and to collaborate in ways that challenge us. Sometimes, amid all that change, we’ve wondered: Is this still the same song? But the truth is, the melody remains unchanged. The mission of the church — to make disciples, to love God and neighbors, to embody grace in the world — has always been the steady note beneath the shifting rhythms. Change is not the enemy of continuity; it is how continuity endures. The rhythm of the church is less about returning to what once was and more about listening for what God is doing now.

And yet, every time the rhythm shifts, there’s a part of us that wants to pull it back, to return to the tempo we once knew. Change unsettles us. We mistake the unfamiliar for the unfaithful. But staying in rhythm with the Spirit means learning to trust the new measure God is setting before us, even when it feels offbeat at first. Faithfulness isn’t found in keeping the old tempo; it’s found in following the Conductor — trusting that even in the unfamiliar, God is still writing the next verse of the song.

Every generation contributes its own rhythm to the life of the church. Some rhythms carry wisdom and depth — the steady pulse of faith that has sustained the song for decades. Others bring energy and imagination — the new improvisations that keep it growing. The challenge is not choosing one over the other, but learning how they can work together in harmony. Renewal occurs when the familiar beat makes room for the new, when the elders’ faith and the dreamers’ hope find a way to stay in sync.

The Rhythm of Belonging

Today, the rhythm feels different again. We’re learning — slowly — to resist the rush and make space to listen. We don’t always get it right, but we’re learning that listening itself is a form of love. We’re becoming less focused on perfect programs and more drawn to authentic relationships. We are discovering that belonging doesn’t happen on a schedule; it develops through rhythm — by showing up again and again, even when it’s inconvenient or uncertain.

Belonging is a long walk in the same direction, a steady heartbeat of presence that keeps time with God’s love. Sometimes the rhythm is strong and clear, like a hymn sung aloud. Other times it’s a quiet hum of hope that barely breaks the silence. But either way, it’s real, and it’s enough. Through every change, one truth has remained: the Spirit never stopped keeping time.

The Rhythm of the Spirit

Looking back, I can see how each of those four “congregations” taught me something about the rhythm of the Spirit:

The first taught me steadiness.
The second taught me surrender.
The third taught me resilience.
And this one — this post-Covid, ever-evolving community — teaches me trust.

Trust that God’s Spirit knows the rhythm even when we can’t hear it. Trust that the church’s song is bigger than any one instrument. Trust that resurrection keeps time with every breath of faithfulness.

Maybe that’s why I love the metaphor of rhythm so much. It’s not static. It’s not something you master. It’s something you live into, over time, until it becomes part of you. The church’s rhythm has always been cyclical, like seasons that turn, like tides that rise and fall, like breath that flows in and out.

Each season teaches us something:
Winter teaches waiting.
Spring teaches hope.
Summer teaches joy.
Autumn teaches release.

And through them all, the Spirit keeps conducting the unseen symphony that is God’s redeeming work in the world.

A Closing Reflection

If you’ve felt the rhythm of your own faith change in recent years, you’re not alone. The church is learning, right alongside you, how to listen again. We are learning to make room for the pauses, to trust the rests, to welcome the new melodies God is composing among us.

Maybe the question for all of us is this: What rhythm is the Spirit inviting you to live by now? Because the song of faith doesn’t end when the beat changes. It moves into a new measure — one that invites us to listen, to trust, and to play our part with courage and grace.

When Christianity is Hijacked

Posted on Sep 27, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership, Pastoral Reflections |

Unmasking Christian Nationalism and reclaiming the gospel of Jesus.

Naming the Moment

In recent months, Christian nationalism has been clearly visible in our public life. You don’t have to look hard to notice it: rallies that blur crosses and flags, sermons that confuse the gospel with partisan loyalty, and public leaders who invoke God to justify their power. People are embracing it because it promises something our exhausted nation craves: belonging, certainty, and clarity in a confusing time.

But the question we need to ask is this: Is this the gospel of Jesus Christ, or is something else masquerading under his name?

The answer is important. Because what appears to be devotion can actually be distortion. What sounds like faith can actually be idolatry. And what seems to strengthen our country might ultimately weaken both our democracy and our witness.

How We Got Here: The Roots of Christian Nationalism

Christian nationalism didn’t appear overnight. Its origins date back to the earliest days of this country. When Puritan settlers talked about building a “city upon a hill,” they saw America as a new Israel — a chosen nation with a divine purpose. That sense of sacred destiny remained influential in our civic life, even as the Constitution intentionally kept church and state separate.

In the 19th century, the language of divine purpose fueled westward expansion. Manifest Destiny was preached as though conquering land and displacing people was God’s will. During the Civil War, the Union and the Confederacy claimed God’s blessing. Afterward, a kind of civil religion formed, one that anointed America’s story as part of God’s story. Even our national symbols carried that weight: “In God We Trust” first appeared on coins in the 1860s, later becoming the national motto in the 1950s.

The Cold War energized this fusion. To set itself apart from “godless communism,” America defined itself as a Christian nation. “Under God” was added to the Pledge of Allegiance. The language of faith became a symbol of patriotism. By the late 20th century, the Religious Right built on that foundation, claiming that America was losing its Christian identity and needed to reclaim it. Debates over abortion, prayer in schools, and LGBTQ+ rights intensified this feeling of being under siege.

In the 21st century, Christian nationalism shifted from being a hidden influence to an open banner. After 9/11, religion, patriotism, and militarism often blurred together. In recent years, prominent pastors and politicians have openly embraced the label “Christian nationalist,” asserting that liberty itself depends on Christianity and that political loyalty can be equated with loyalty to God. January 6, 2021, clearly displayed Christian nationalism with crosses, prayers, and “Jesus Saves” banners carried into the storming of the Capitol.

Christian nationalism is not a new concept. What is new is how unapologetically it is expressed. What started as mythic ideas about America’s destiny has evolved into a political movement that endangers both genuine faith and the strength and health of our democracy.

What Christian Nationalism Is

At its core, Christian nationalism is not the same as Christianity. It is a political ideology that combines a narrow version of Christianity with American identity and power. It claims that being a “real American” means being a “real Christian,” and that being a “real Christian” means supporting a specific version of America.

This is not the same as patriotism. Patriotism is love for one’s country. Christian nationalism is something different — it is the belief that the nation itself is God’s chosen vessel and that Christianity must dominate public life through law and power.

And because it wears the appearance of faith, it can be difficult to recognize. That’s why we need to pay close attention to how it communicates.

The Seductive Rhetoric — and the Hidden Dangers

Christian nationalism relies on half-truths and catchy slogans that seem appealing but conceal significant risks.

“Freedom requires Christianity.” Some voices argue that liberty cannot exist unless the entire nation is Christian. At first, it may seem noble — defending freedom by anchoring it in faith. But the truth is the opposite: liberty belongs to everyone, regardless of their beliefs. If freedom is only for Christians, then it isn’t true freedom at all.

“Political loyalty equals loyalty to God.” Pastors have stood in pulpits and suggested that to oppose a political leader is to oppose the Lord. On the surface, it sounds like spiritual seriousness. But this reduces devotion to Christ to allegiance to a party or a person. The gospel does not sanctify our politics; it judges them. When we equate God with a candidate, we trade the living Christ for a golden calf.

“God raises up our leaders.” Public officials sometimes claim their authority directly comes from God. It sounds humble, as if they are under divine sovereignty. But in reality, it protects them from accountability: if God put them there, who dares challenge them? Yet in scripture, rulers were always judged by whether they did justice, loved mercy, and walked humbly. Authority was never a blank check.

“Politics is a holy war.” Commentators describe our cultural debates as a holy war, casting political opponents as enemies of God. That language can feel energizing. It gives people purpose. But it turns neighbors into enemies and democracy into a battlefield. The gospel calls us to love our enemies, not destroy them in God’s name.

This rhetoric is powerful because it cloaks fear and grievance in religious language. But once you look past the words, you see it for what it truly is: a bid for power.

Why People Buy In

We live in anxious times. Cultural shifts — such as growing diversity in our neighborhoods, advances in gender equality, and the push for racial justice — make some people uneasy. They fear losing old certainties, from traditional church authority to unquestioned national dominance. Many also feel like they are losing privilege: when being white, male, or Christian no longer guarantees influence. Amid this anxiety, Christian nationalism offers simple answers: we are the righteous ones, and they are the problem. It draws a clear line between “us” and “them” and promises that order will return if the right people lead.

It appeals to our desire for certainty, identity, and belonging. But it only brings division, suspicion, and idolatry.

The Dangers to Faith and Nation

The dangers are real.

To faith: Christian nationalism distorts the gospel. It replaces the cross with the flag. It substitutes the power of Christ’s love with the love of power. It makes following Jesus about political conformity rather than discipleship.
To the church: It suppresses prophetic critique. If the church becomes a chaplain to the state, it loses its freedom to call leaders to repentance. Instead of being salt and light, the church becomes just another political tribe.
To democracy: It weakens pluralism. If only some Americans are seen as “real Americans,” then liberty is diminished for everyone. It endangers religious freedom, not just for minorities, but eventually for Christians who dissent from the mainstream view.

Christian nationalism feeds on fear and division. It targets scapegoats to unite against: immigrants seen as threats (xenophobia), women often silenced or demeaned (misogyny and anti-feminism), LGBTQ+ individuals portrayed as enemies of God (homophobia). Its core idea is “us versus them.” While this identity might feel powerful temporarily, it is ultimately empty — because it defines itself solely by who it hates.

The Whitewashing of History

Christian nationalism doesn’t just thrive on fear; it also relies on forgetting. Its strength comes from telling a filtered, idealized version of our history. It depicts America’s past as a golden age of Christian virtue, when the country supposedly thrived under God’s blessing. But that story only holds if you ignore entire chapters of the truth.

It forgets that the same Puritans who dreamed of a “city on a hill” also expelled dissenters and supported systems of slavery. It overlooks how Indigenous peoples were displaced, colonized, and murdered in the name of spreading Christian civilization. It erases the cries of enslaved people whose faith in Christ often shined brighter than the hollow religion of their masters. It ignores the women whose leadership was silenced, the immigrants who were regarded as threats, and the communities of color who suffered the most injustice even as they held onto hope.

This whitewashing doesn’t just distort history — it corrupts the present. If you believe America was once solely Christian and righteous, then every step toward inclusion, diversity, or justice feels like a step backward. Every effort to tell the fuller story of our nation’s sins is regarded as unpatriotic. That’s why Christian nationalism often claims it’s “restoring” what was lost. But you cannot restore what never truly existed.

The gospel doesn’t call us to nostalgia. It calls us to embrace the truth, which involves honesty about beauty, brokenness, triumphs, and sins. Anything less is worshiping a false past.

The Misuse of Free Speech

One of the main ironies of Christian nationalism is its perspective on free speech. It claims to support liberty but also tries to silence opposing voices. The main contradiction arises from a basic misunderstanding of free speech.

In our country, free speech protects us from being silenced by the government for our beliefs. It doesn’t mean we are immune from critique, consequences, or accountability. However, Christian nationalism often twists this into a weapon: Instead of disagreement, they claim, “If you disagree with me, you’re cancelling me. If you challenge me, you’re persecuting me.” That turns democracy upside down. Critique is not persecution. Accountability is not oppression. Living in a free society means accepting that many voices — some we agree with, some we don’t — share the public square.

What makes this even more troubling is how Christian nationalism combines its distorted view of free speech with scripture. Leaders cite verses about “speaking the truth boldly” or “not being ashamed of the gospel.” But in the Bible, bold speech was never about demanding power. It was about faithfully witnessing to God’s truth, even at great personal risk. The prophets said things nobody wanted to hear, and they paid a high price for it. The apostles preached Christ crucified, knowing it could land them in prison or worse.

Biblically, speech is not a license to say whatever we want without consequences. It is a calling to speak truth rooted in love, justice, and humility — and to accept the cost of doing so. When Christian nationalism claims its leaders should speak without critique or consequence, it is not following the example of scripture. It is seeking power.

The irony runs even deeper. While it claims to defend free speech, Christian nationalism often works to suppress it — especially voices within the church who dissent, women who lead, LGBTQ+ persons sharing their experiences, or neighbors of different faiths. It aims to limit who gets to speak in pulpits, classrooms, and public life. True free speech allows many voices to be heard. Christian nationalism fears that space because it only thrives when one voice dominates.

If freedom of speech is truly a gift, then it must be protected for everyone. Anything less isn’t true liberty — it’s privilege in disguise.

A Faithful Response

But here’s the good news: the gospel calls us to something better. Where Christian nationalism seeks to narrow who speaks, Jesus broadens the table. Where it silences dissent, Jesus invites honest lament, courageous truth, and voices from the margins. Where it wraps power in religious language, Jesus reminds us that true freedom is found in servanthood and love.

Scripture gives us this vision: Paul reminds us in Philippians 3:20 that “our citizenship is in heaven.” Micah 6:8 calls us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with our God. Jesus blesses not the conquerors but the peacemakers, the poor in spirit, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

How can we actively oppose Christian nationalism?

Stay focused on worshiping Christ. Our sanctuaries should have fewer flags and more crosses. Our loyalty is to Jesus alone.
Build bridges with neighbors. A Christian faith that fears or excludes people of other faiths (or no faith) is not the faith of Jesus.
Speak truth to power. We must refuse to confuse partisanship with discipleship and demand justice from leaders.
Live the gospel every day. Our resistance isn’t just in what we reject but also in how we live—humbly, lovingly, and courageously.

The gospel is not threatened by diversity. It thrives when we demonstrate Christ’s love across all boundaries.

Conclusion: A Call to Courage

Christian nationalism claims that saving the nation requires loyalty to one version of Christianity. But Jesus never asked us to save America. He asked us to follow him.

So we must ask ourselves: Am I following Jesus, or am I following a flag wrapped around a cross?

The gospel is bigger than any nation. It is not limited by borders or political parties. It cannot be reduced to a campaign slogan. And it will not be taken over by power, no matter how loudly it’s proclaimed in God’s name.

The way of Jesus still guides us beyond fear into love — a love that heals, reconciles, and transforms. That is the hope we need. That is the witness our world is waiting for.

Idols of Fear

Posted on Sep 23, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership, Pastoral Reflections |

When fear demands our allegiance, the gospel calls us back to love.

Naming the Moment

If you’ve noticed the cultural temperature rising — whether at the grocery store checkout, in your newsfeed, or at a school board meeting — you’re not imagining it. Much of our public life is discipled by fear. We’re told that only a strong hand can save us, that our problems stem from “those people,” and that security depends on someone’s silence or their spot at the back of the line. These are old temptations dressed up with new names.

Beneath the headlines are three patterns that promise control but cause harm: authoritarianism (the lure of domination), scapegoating (the habit of blaming the vulnerable), and supremacy (the lie that some are more human than others). They’re efficient; fear always is. But they are not the gospel. As followers of Jesus, we confess that love — not coercion — is the organizing principle of God’s life and the shape of our own (1 John 4:18). God works with us, not over us, inviting real collaboration in a future that is not yet fixed but is always being shaped by love.

Here’s the question guiding this reflection: What does the gospel say about our desire for control, our tendency to blame, and our addiction to hierarchy? How might we challenge these patterns in our public witness and personal relationships? My aim isn’t to score points but to speak the truth in love, to help us hear beyond the noise, and to remember that Jesus’ way remains the most subversive path to human flourishing: a table big enough for all, a power expressed in service, and a community sustained by hope.

Love, Liberation, Relationship

Before we can name what the gospel opposes, we must remember what it proclaims. At its heart, the gospel is not a list of rules or a control strategy — it is the good news that God’s love becomes real in Jesus, inviting us into relationship with God and each other. Love, not fear, is the thread running throughout scripture: from God walking with Adam and Eve in the garden, to God liberating Israel from Pharaoh’s oppression, to Christ sharing bread with outcasts and sinners.

Jesus clearly shows this through his life and teachings. In the Sermon on the Mount, he blesses the poor, the meek, and the peacemakers — not the powerful. At his table, he welcomes tax collectors, zealots, women, and children — not the privileged elite. His ministry is characterized by compassion rather than coercion, healing instead of domination, and inclusion instead of exclusion. Jesus says the kingdom of God is like a feast where everyone is invited, even those the world has rejected (Luke 14:15–24).

The apostle Paul communicated this vision to the early church, writing to the Galatians that in Christ “there is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male and female; for all are one” (Galatians 3:28). This isn’t a denial of our differences — it’s a statement that no difference makes one person more deserving of love than another. God’s future is constantly being shaped with us, through us, and for us. At the core of that ongoing story is not authoritarian control, scapegoating, or supremacy, but a radical invitation into beloved community.

Authoritarianism Is Antithetical to the Gospel

Authoritarianism promises safety through control. It whispers that if we just hand over our freedom to the “right” leader, our lives will be secure and our problems solved. But the gospel challenges this illusion. Jesus never consolidates power for his own benefit. Instead, he consistently spreads it — sending disciples out two by two, empowering women as witnesses, and reminding his followers that true greatness is found in service (Mark 10:42–45).

When tempted in the wilderness to take political control, Jesus refused. He would not turn stones into bread to prove his strength, nor bow to the devil for authority over kingdoms (Luke 4:1–13). His entire life demonstrates a rejection of coercive power. And when he washed his disciples’ feet (John 13:1–17), he gave them a living parable: authority in God’s kingdom is measured not by domination but by humility, not by fear but by love.

The Spirit Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 3:17 — “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” — is the opposite of authoritarianism. Christian faith cannot thrive in fear-based control because fear and love cannot coexist (1 John 4:18). Whenever the church leans toward authoritarian patterns — whether in politics, culture, or even within its own leadership structures — it loses sight of the One who emptied himself, “taking the form of a servant” (Philippians 2:7). Authoritarianism opposes the gospel because it confines the freedom Christ came to give.

Scapegoating Is Antithetical to the Gospel

Scapegoating is as old as humanity. When communities feel anxious, they look for someone to blame. If we can just shift the “problem” onto one group — the immigrant, the poor, the queer neighbor, the political opponent — we think we’ve found peace. But scapegoating doesn’t heal; it only deepens the wound.

The cross clearly shows this. Jesus becomes history’s ultimate scapegoat—falsely accused, abandoned by friends, and killed as a threat to the system. From one perspective, the crucifixion appears to be another example of empire silencing a troublemaker. But through faith, it reveals the full mechanism of blame. As René Girard and others have pointed out, Jesus’ death exposes scapegoating for what it truly is: a cycle of violence that claims to restore order but actually deepens injustice.

The gospel presents a different way. Paul writes that God “reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Corinthians 5:18). Instead of projecting our fears onto others, Christ absorbs our violence and responds with forgiveness. Instead of exclusion, he creates space at the table. Scapegoating is anti-gospel because it damages community, while Jesus’ way is to heal community through love, truth, and reconciliation.

Supremacy Is Antithetical to the Gospel

Supremacy is based on the false idea that some lives are more valuable than others. It depends on hierarchy — whether racial, national, gender, or cultural — and requires some to be elevated by putting others down. Supremacy may offer pride and a sense of belonging, but it always comes at the cost of another person’s dignity.

The gospel presents a very different story. From the first chapter of Genesis, every person is described as bearing the image of God (Genesis 1:27). To diminish someone’s value is to deny the divine mark within them. Jesus demonstrated this truth by consistently breaking boundaries: touching lepers, healing Gentiles, respecting women, and welcoming children. His parables about the kingdom depict a banquet where the poor and the marginalized are given seats of honor (Luke 14:7–14). Supremacy has no place at that table.

Paul’s words in Galatians 3:28 and the vision of Revelation 7:9—“a great multitude…from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages”—deliver the same message: the beloved community is not uniform, but radically inclusive. Supremacy is anti-gospel because it rejects the diversity of God’s love and fractures the unity of Christ’s body. Where supremacy causes division, the Spirit unites. Where supremacy excludes, the gospel offers a welcome without walls.

Christian Nationalism

These three forces — authoritarianism, scapegoating, and supremacy — are not just ideas. We see them in our public life today. One clear example is what has come to be called Christian Nationalism. By this, I mean the belief that Christianity should be merged with American identity and political power — often privileging one race, one culture, or one party as if it alone expresses God’s will.

Christian Nationalism exhibits all three dangers: authoritarianism when loyalty to leaders is mistaken for loyalty to God, scapegoating when immigrants, minorities, or LGBTQ+ neighbors are blamed for society’s problems, and supremacy when Christianity is equated with whiteness, cultural dominance, or the myth of a chosen nation.

The tragedy isn’t just political — it’s spiritual. Christian Nationalism corrupts the gospel by replacing Christ’s universal love with a tribal idol. It narrows the kingdom of God to national borders and treats neighbors as threats instead of siblings.

A Better Way

If authoritarianism, scapegoating, and supremacy distort the gospel, what does faith invite us into instead? Jesus doesn’t just expose the broken systems of his world — he embodies an alternative. His life shows us a different rhythm, one rooted in love, humility, and community.

Instead of authoritarianism → servant leadership. Jesus says, “Whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant” (Mark 10:43). Leadership in the way of Christ is not about control, but about empowering others, lifting them up, and sharing the work of God’s kingdom.
Instead of scapegoating → solidarity. Jesus stands with the vulnerable, not against them. He touches those others avoid, dines with those others condemn, and even from the cross says, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). Solidarity involves refusing to project our fears onto others and instead committing to share their burdens.
Instead of supremacy → beloved community. The vision of the kingdom is a table where every tribe, tongue, and people find belonging. Supremacy divides; beloved community heals. This is the gospel invitation: to live as if we are truly siblings, because in Christ we are.

Richard Rohr often reminds us that God is not a distant monarch but the flow of love itself, drawing all things into union. Thomas Oord describes God’s very nature as uncontrolling love. To follow Jesus, then, is to participate in that flow — to resist systems that constrict and to build communities that expand. The gospel is not just about personal salvation; it is about shaping a world where love has the final say.

Hope and Courage

It can be tempting to focus on the forces of authoritarianism, scapegoating, and supremacy and feel overwhelmed. They are loud, deeply rooted, and influence much of our public life. But the gospel reminds us that these forces are not ultimate. They may wound, but they do not have the final say. Love does.

Resurrection is God’s response to the world’s violence and control. The cross was meant to silence Jesus forever, making him the scapegoat of the empire. Yet, God raised him up, confirming his way of love and nonviolent resistance. This pattern exemplifies our faith: when fear and domination seem to prevail, the Spirit keeps moving, opening a future shaped not by coercion but by grace.

So let us take heart. The gospel’s call is not just to reject what is false but to live out what is true. In our homes, churches, neighborhoods, and yes, in our politics, we are called to practice a different kind of power: servant leadership, reconciliation, and beloved community. We are invited to declare with our lives that authoritarianism, scapegoating, and supremacy are anti-gospel — and that Christ’s love is big enough to gather us all.

Love is not naïve; it is the only force powerful enough to shatter the idols of fear.

The Art of Being Remade: Leadership on the Potter’s Wheel

Posted on Sep 11, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership |

Leadership is less about perfection and more about how we respond amidst failure.

I’ve never met a leader whose plans have gone exactly as they imagined.
Not once.

Maybe you’ve experienced this yourself. You assemble a team, develop a vision, plan the steps, and move forward with enthusiasm. Then — something falls apart. The plan that seemed so foolproof on paper starts to crack under pressure. The strategy that appeared innovative ends up fizzling out. The people you relied on shift, change, or burn out.

It’s tempting to see those moments as failures. We observe the collapse and think, Well, that’s it. I must not be suited for this. We wasted our time. We blew it.

But what if those moments aren’t the end?
What if they’re part of the art of being remade?

Watching the Potter at Work

An old image has stayed with me — a potter sitting at a wheel with spinning clay under steady hands. The clay begins to take shape, rising into something beautiful, until suddenly, it collapses.

But the potter doesn’t throw it away. He presses it back down, gathers it into a lump, and starts again. His hands are patient. His vision remains focused. The clay isn’t wasted; it’s simply reshaped.

That image comes from scripture — the Book of Jeremiah. In chapter 18, the prophet is sent to the potter’s house to learn about God’s work with people. Jeremiah sees what every leader eventually learns: the work doesn’t always go as planned. The clay collapses. But the collapse is not the end — it’s a chance to be remade.

Whether or not you relate to Jeremiah’s story, the message is strong: life, leadership, and community are always evolving. We are works in progress — on the potter’s wheel.

And here’s the key: being on the potter’s wheel isn’t just about ownership. Yes, sometimes the idea or vision is ours — it begins in us, sparked by our creativity or conviction. But even then, leadership asks us to hold it with open hands. We don’t own people, and we don’t own outcomes. What we truly carry is stewardship: the responsibility to nurture, guide, and align our ideas with a larger purpose that outlives us.

Leadership on the Wheel

So, what does this mean for those of us who lead — whether it’s a company, a classroom, a nonprofit, a congregation, a family, or even our own lives?

The potter’s wheel offers three leadership insights I believe are worth adopting:

Failure isn’t a waste.
Leaders must remain pliable.
Healthy cultures normalize being remade.

Let’s take them one at a time.

Failure Isn’t Waste

Clay collapses. Plans collapse. People collapse. You know this is true if you’ve led anything for more than five minutes.

What matters is how we interpret the collapse. If we see it as a sign of failure — “I’m not good enough,” “We’ll never recover” — we disconnect from growth. But if we view collapse as part of the process, we open ourselves to new possibilities.

I’ve repeatedly observed this in leadership.

A ministry that declined in size but spawned a new community effort that reached more people in need.
A business venture that failed but taught the founder how to build a more sustainable second company.
A leader who experienced burnout, took a step back, and returned with healthier routines that transformed their life and the organization.

Failure is often the raw material of transformation. The question is not “Will things collapse?” but “What will we do when they do?”

The potter doesn’t waste the clay. Neither should we waste our failures.

Part of not wasting our failures is learning the lessons embedded in the “no’s” and the “can’t’s.” Too often, leaders resist the “no’s” and the “can’t’s,” as if they were enemies to be conquered. But the potter’s wheel teaches us otherwise: boundaries and setbacks are teachers. “No” can protect us from misalignment. “Can’t” can push us to collaborate, to listen, or to reimagine. Every limit holds wisdom if we allow it to reshape us.

Leaders Must Stay Pliable

There’s another truth about clay: it can only be reshaped when it’s soft. Once it hardens, it can’t be remade.

The same applies to leaders. The most effective leaders I know are not the ones who insist that their way is the only way and become rigid. Instead, they remain flexible — open enough — to continue learning.

That might mean:

Admitting they don’t have all the answers.
Listening to those on the margins of the conversation.
Changing direction when new information emerges.
Releasing ego to foster collaboration.

Rigid leaders break. Pliable leaders adjust.

And pliability doesn’t mean weakness. It means resilience. It’s about having the courage to stay flexible enough to be reshaped when needed, instead of pretending everything is fine while cracks grow beneath the surface.

This is where stewardship plays a role again. If I believe I own the outcome, I’ll hold onto it tightly. But if I see myself as a steward — entrusted with people, vision, and resources for a time — I can hold them loosely. I can align with a greater purpose, even if that requires reshaping my assumptions.

Part of staying pliable is listening well. Leaders who stop listening are leaders who begin to harden. Listening — to staff, to the quiet voices in the room, to the rhythms of a community — keeps us soft enough to be remade.

Cultures of being Remade

Finally, the potter’s wheel teaches us about culture.

When clay collapses, it isn’t punished; it’s remade. Imagine how our leadership cultures would change if they worked the same way.

Too often, we punish failure. We shame people for trying something that didn’t work. We push for perfection on the first try, and when someone stumbles, we quietly set them aside. The result? Fear. People stop taking risks. Innovation dies—growth stalls.

But what if we created cultures where being remade was normal? Where feedback wasn’t seen as a threat but as an invitation? Where leaders showed humility by admitting when they needed to be reshaped?

In those cultures, people take risks, speak up, and step into new roles. They learn and grow.

That’s stewardship in action: leaders viewing their role not as ownership over people’s performance but as caring for their growth and alignment with a shared purpose. At its core is love. Love is the glue that keeps people connected when things get chaotic. Love fosters belonging even as they are being remade.

The Hard Part: Trusting the Process

Of course, being remade isn’t easy. It feels like loss, uncertainty, and even failure.

Leaders don’t like being pressed back down on the potter’s wheel. We don’t enjoy starting over. We’d rather present a polished product, not a lump of clay being reshaped in public view.

But here’s the thing: our credibility as leaders doesn’t come from pretending we’re perfect. It comes from how we navigate imperfection.

When we can honestly name the collapse, stay pliable in the midst of it, listen carefully to those around us, and invite others into the process of being remade, we demonstrate something far more powerful than flawless perfection. We demonstrate resilience, stewardship, and hope.

Above all, we showcase love — the kind of love that keeps people connected even when everything else feels uncertain.

The Universal Invitation

Maybe you wouldn’t consider yourself a leader. That’s okay. This image is still meant for you.

Because leadership isn’t just about titles or positions — it’s about influence. It’s about how we shape the people, systems, and communities around us. And every one of us does that in some way.

The invitation remains the same:

Don’t let failure go to waste.
Stay pliable.
Learn from the “no’s” and the “can’t’s.”
Steward the vision you’ve been entrusted with instead of holding on to ownership.
Listen carefully.
And love, because love is what makes everything else possible.

And if you happen to be someone wrestling with faith — or even deconstructing it — the potter’s wheel provides another layer of comfort: your questions and your doubts are not wasted. They might be the very clay being reshaped into something new.

Conclusion: Leading on the Wheel

Leadership is never about knowing everything from the start. It’s not about creating perfect plans that never fail. It’s about what you do when plans do fail.

The art of being remade isn’t about perfection but about resilience, humility, and hope. It’s about stewardship—caring for what’s entrusted to us without clinging to it as if we owned it. It’s about listening carefully, learning from the “no’s” and the “can’t’s,” and leading with love.

So here’s my question for you: where in your life — or your leadership — might you be in the process of being remade?

It won’t always feel good, and it rarely feels easy. But it might be where something new, something necessary, and something beautiful is starting to form.

Because the potter’s wheel is still turning, and the potter’s hands remain steady.

Who’s Not Here Yet

Posted on Aug 4, 2025 by Michael Bynum in BLOG, Leadership, Pastoral Reflections |

Who’s Missing—and Why the Church Should Care

A few Sundays ago, I stood at the back of the sanctuary, coffee in hand, watching people arrive. It was a good morning—the kind where the music was already filling the room and the conversations buzzed with familiar energy. You could feel it—the sense that people were happy to be there. And I was, too.

But as I looked around, something stirred inside me. Not quite a thought—more like a question slowly rising, like a hand raised in the back of the room.

Who’s not here yet?

Not who’s late, not who’s on vacation, not who’s usually in that pew. But… who’s missing? Who doesn’t realize they’re welcome here? Who’s never even thought this could be a place for them?

It’s a question that unsettles—in the best possible way. Because it invites us to consider not just who’s present, but also the edges, and that’s where Jesus always seemed to focus first.

The Welcome That Starts with Jesus

If you read through the New Testament, you notice something: Jesus had a way of seeing the people others overlooked. He wasn’t drawn to status. He didn’t network at the temple. He observed the ones on the outside—sitting at wells, hanging on the fringes, climbing trees to get a glimpse. He didn’t wait for people to fit in before welcoming them. He welcomed them first—and then invited them to grow—not into sameness, but into belovedness.

There’s a passage in scripture that I have been thinking about lately:

“Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” (Romans 15:7)

That’s the whole playbook. Not “Welcome people who agree with you.” Not “Welcome people who are easy to love.” Just: “Welcome one another… as Christ welcomed you.” And if we’re honest—Christ welcomed us when we were still figuring it out. Still unsure. Still unfinished. Maybe still skeptical. That’s the kind of welcome we’re called to offer—not a polished greeting, but a radical openness to the other. Not a welcome that waits for comfort, but one that moves toward relationship.

Real Stories, Real Tension

I’ve witnessed the beauty of that kind of welcome in the church. I’ve seen it unfold in quiet, everyday ways that feel anything but ordinary. I’ve observed an older congregation greet a young adult arriving alone — not just handing over a bulletin but pulling up a chair, creating space at the table, and asking questions that cultivate real belonging.

I’ve seen young families walk into unfamiliar sanctuaries and gradually—sometimes tearfully—realize that there’s space for their children, their chaos, and their longing. They didn’t just find a friendly church. They found a place that said, ‘You belong here, too.”

Those are the moments I want to hold onto—because they remind me of the kind of community faith is meant to create. But if I’m honest, I’ve also seen the other side. I’ve watched people grow visibly uncomfortable when someone who didn’t “look the part” walked into the sanctuary—tired, carrying bags, looking for rest. No one said, “You don’t belong here.” But no one said, “You do,” either. And sometimes silence speaks just as loud.

I’ve seen churches invite new people in, only to turn them away when their ideas feel unfamiliar. I’ve heard quiet complaints about kids being noisy during worship… as if joy, movement, and life are disruptions instead of signs that something sacred is still unfolding.

I’ve seen congregations become anxious when a pastor attempts to change the shape of worship—not for creativity’s sake, but to reflect the needs of the community around them. A community that no longer resembles the people sitting in the pews.

And that’s where the question comes back with force:

Who’s not here yet?

And maybe more importantly: Why?

What Happens If We Don’t Ask

This isn’t a rhetorical question. Because when we stop asking who’s not here, we begin to believe the lie that the church is only for us. We confuse comfort with calling. We protect familiarity instead of embracing faithfulness. And eventually, we stop noticing that our gospel has become too small.

In a world where polarization is profitable and differences seem threatening, the Church can easily become just another curated space for the already-convinced. But Jesus didn’t build echo chambers. He built tables.

The Question That Break The Mold

“Who’s not here yet?” isn’t a growth strategy. It’s spiritual discipleship. It’s not about boosting attendance or expanding programs. It’s about cultivating hearts—hearts that notice who’s missing and care enough to respond. It’s about breaking the mold.

It’s the kind of question that jolts us out of autopilot. Because when we pause and look around—not just at who’s present, but at who’s missing—we start to notice the quiet edges of our community. Edges where someone has been waiting for an invitation. Edges where someone used to be, but no one followed up. Edges where someone doesn’t even realize they’re welcome.

And if your church feels just right to you, it might be because it was built around you. But the gospel doesn’t call us to create a church that’s comfortable for ourselves. Instead, it calls us to become a people who make room for someone else.

The Unspoken Rules That Keep Us Small

This question pushes us beyond the comfort of “our people” and into the humility of God’s people. It challenges the unspoken rules:

“We already have enough.”
“They wouldn’t feel at home here.”
“They can come if they want to… but we’re not changing anything for them.”

But welcoming someone—a real, Christlike welcome—requires more. It urges us to listen. To stretch. To create space not only in our buildings but also in our habits, in our leadership, and in our lives. Because a church isn’t full simply when the seats are occupied. It’s full when people feel they belong—and understand they matter.

Invitation to the Reader

So, maybe take a walk through your life this week. Not just your church pews, but your routines, your inner circle, your go-to conversations, your dinner table, your neighbors, and your calendar. Then ask gently—not with guilt, but with curiosity.

Who’s not here yet?

Who have I overlooked? Who has slipped away while no one was watching? Who never showed up because they were never truly invited to belong?

You don’t need to change everything this week. But you can notice. You can listen. You can make a little space. Because welcoming someone doesn’t start with programs. It starts with…

A conversation.
A gesture.
An invitation.
A choice to speak up when someone’s being left out.
A decision to move toward someone instead of away.

You don’t need perfect words. You just need a heart willing to stretch.

A Table That Grows

Here’s what I believe:

Jesus didn’t come to preserve an exclusive circle—he came to shake it up. He arrived to extend a longer table, where grace is the main course and the invitation is still unfolding. And if we’re not adding more chairs… we’re not truly following Jesus.

So let’s keep asking the question—again and again. Let it shape our worship, our leadership, and our way of life. Because the love that welcomed us was never meant to stop with us. And the Church was never meant to stay quiet while someone waits on the edges.

Are We Becoming Dinosaurs or Disciples?

Posted on Jun 30, 2025 by Michael Bynum in Leadership |

Are we leading people toward Comfort—or the Future?

“The typical twentieth-century organization has not operated well in a rapidly changing environment… the standard organization of the twentieth century will likely become a dinosaur.”
— John P. Kotter, Leading Change

Change is no longer an occasional visitor—it’s the air we breathe. But for many churches, especially those shaped by twentieth-century structures and expectations, that reality feels more like a threat than a gift. We keep doing what we’ve always done, even when it no longer works. We manage ministries instead of reimagining them. We organize our governance around what made sense decades ago, not what fosters connection and growth today.

So we slowly fossilize—layer by layer, tradition by tradition—becoming institutions of preservation rather than communities of transformation. It’s not because we lack faith. Often, it’s because we’ve confused familiarity with faithfulness.

But the Gospel isn’t about preservation. It’s about resurrection. About movement. About the courage to leave old nets behind and follow Christ into an unknown future. If we want to be faithful in the twenty-first century, we need to face an uncomfortable question:

Are we becoming dinosaurs—or disciples? Read more…