Linthicum Heights United Methodist Church

Learning to move with God’s rhythm.

Recently, I spent an afternoon kayaking on a tidal river with friends. We carefully planned our trip, syncing our paddling with the rhythm of the tide. As the tide rose, we paddled upstream—our strokes steady, assisted by the gentle pull of the current. The water was calm, and the weather was hot. We moved upriver, catching glimpses of herons and eagles fishing beside us. It felt as if creation itself was breathing with us.

When we reached our destination, we anchored our kayaks on a sandbar in the middle of the river and waded into the cool, refreshing water. There, with fishing poles in hand and joy in our hearts, we laughed, shared stories, and just enjoyed being together. I felt grateful—grateful for the beauty of God’s creation, for the gift of friendship, and for the stillness that surrounded us like grace.

Eventually, as the tide turned, we climbed back into our kayaks and let the river carry us home. I paddled alone for part of the journey, quietly moving with the tide, surrounded by silence and reflection. That stillness gave me space to think about the day’s joy and understand something deeper: this entire experience was a metaphor for our faith.

Because discipleship isn’t a static decision or a one-time event—it’s a journey. It requires movement, effort, intention, and sometimes, it leaves us feeling completely exhausted. When I got home, I put everything away, ate dinner, and went to bed early. The next morning, a friend told me he felt like Jello. I laughed because I knew exactly what he meant.

That tired-but-satisfied feeling is familiar to anyone who has poured themselves into something worthwhile. And that’s the kind of “holy tired” we often experience after following Jesus. He never promised ease or comfort, but he did promise presence. And he did say this:

“My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
— Matthew 11:30

At first, that sounds like a contradiction. But it isn’t. Jesus wasn’t saying that the journey would be effortless. He said that when we follow his way—when we move with the current of God’s love instead of against it—our lives fall into a sacred rhythm. The work doesn’t disappear, but it no longer feels like a fight.

Moving with God’s tide is a kind of grace. It doesn’t mean skipping the tough parts. It means trusting that love is the way forward, that forgiveness is worth the risk, that justice is worth the effort, and that rest is not weakness but wisdom.

Resting after the day’s effort isn’t failure—it’s faithfulness. God designed us with rhythms in mind. We are created to work, to love, to serve… and then to rest. Even Jesus stepped away. Even Jesus napped in the boat. Even Jesus went off to quiet places.

Sabbath is part of our discipleship, not as an escape, but as a way to recalibrate our hearts to God’s pace.

So what does paddling with the tide in everyday life look like?

It might mean…

It might involve doing the same things you’re already doing—but with intention, with God, with grace. That’s when effort turns into joy.

That day on the river made me realize that we don’t control the current. But we can learn to listen for it, watch for the turn, rest when needed, paddle when called, and move in the direction we were always meant to go.

So yes, some days will leave you feeling like Jello. But it’s the good kind of tired—the kind that says: you were doing what you were made to do.

Paddle with the tide, friends, and rest when the day ends.

Reflection Prompt:
Where in your life are you paddling against the current?
Where might God be inviting you to let go of control and flow with grace instead?

Take a few quiet moments today to listen. The Spirit often speaks just beneath the surface.

If this reflection touched your heart, I’d love to hear what you’re feeling. Feel free to leave a comment, reply, or send me a message. Let’s keep listening together.

Reclaiming the Gospel from Civil Religion and Cultural Myth

“It cannot be emphasized too strongly or too often…”

You’ve probably seen the quote. It’s bold, dramatic, and often shared with patriotic pride: “This great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religions, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ.” The only problem? It’s not true. Neither historically nor theologically.

But that doesn’t stop people from sharing this quote or others like it, especially during national holidays or heated political moments. It feels good to say. It reinforces a worldview. It seems to defend the faith. But when something isn’t rooted in truth, no matter how passionately it’s delivered, it doesn’t build up faith — it cheapens it.

And that’s what grieves me most. Not only the historical inaccuracy, but also the spiritual laziness behind it. We don’t pause to ask, “Is this real?”— we ask, “Does this support what I already believe?” We trade truth for comfort and call it conviction.

What kind of faith is that?

I’m not here to give you a history lesson. I’m here to ask a different question:

Are we actually following Jesus or borrowing his name to prop up our version of the story?

The Problem with Convenient Quotes

Quotes like this are popular because they do a lot with minimal effort. They signal identity, evoke nostalgia, and provide a spiritual shortcut: See? We’re the good guys. We’ve always been the good guys. It’s comforting. But comfort isn’t the same as truth.

What’s troubling isn’t just that these quotes are misattributed (this one is often credited to Patrick Henry, although historians have found no credible source linking it to him). What’s more troubling is how quickly people share these quotes without checking them because they sound right, feel right, and confirm what they already believe.

But when we rely on something that isn’t true to defend what we believe is true, we don’t strengthen our faith—we weaken it. It’s like trying to build a house on sand and claiming it’s solid rock. Jesus warned us about that. The storm always comes. And when it does, shallow certainty doesn’t hold up.

This is a spiritual issue, not just a historical one. If Christians claim to be people of truth, then truth must matter—even when it’s inconvenient or doesn’t align with our preferred version of history or politics. Even when it challenges the stories we’ve been told or those we’ve told ourselves.

Truth matters. Not just for accuracy, but for the integrity of our testimony.

Christianity vs. Christendom

So if this isn’t about facts alone, what is it about? It’s about the difference between Christianity and Christendom. Christianity is the way of Jesus. It’s discipleship. It’s a daily surrender. It’s feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, loving your enemies, forgiving seventy times seven. It’s the cross before the crown. It’s resurrection hope in a world still marked by wounds.

Christendom is something entirely different. It’s not about following Jesus but using his name to justify power. It wraps faith around national identity, cultural dominance, or political control. Once Christendom takes hold, it doesn’t need transformed hearts; it only needs symbols: a Bible on a podium, a cross on a flagpole, a slogan that sounds like Scripture but serves the state.

The tragedy is that these two concepts—Christianity and Christendom—are often confused. When they are, we stop questioning whether we are truly following Jesus and instead focus on whether we are “winning.” We cease confessing our sins and start claiming moral superiority. We stop listening for the Spirit and instead use religion to preserve the status quo.

That’s not the gospel or the kin-dom of God. It echoes the language of faith but misses the essence of Christ. Jesus never asked us to build a Christian empire; he called us to bear a cross.

The Danger of Civil Religion

Civil religion occurs when faith shifts from focusing on God to emphasizing the nation. It combines patriotic rituals with spiritual language, turning Christianity into a form of civic performance. ‘God bless America’ becomes the altar call. The flag takes the place of the cross. Military success is mistaken for divine approval. It feels sacred—but it’s hollow.

Civil religion doesn’t demand repentance or humility. It sidesteps tough questions about justice, truth, and love. Instead, it uses God-language to keep people comfortable and obedient. It sustains the system and labels it morality.

But Jesus didn’t die to make America great. He died to reconcile all things to God. He didn’t rise so we could dominate culture wars. He rose so we could become new creations—peacemakers, truth-tellers, disciples of a kingdom not built by human hands.

Civil religion is risky because it can make us feel sacred while keeping us distant from God. It tells us we’re on the right side, without ever asking if we’re walking the right path. It offers us symbols of faith without the substance of obedience. It blesses whatever power wants, instead of listening for what the Spirit says.

We don’t need more God-and-country slogans. We need more Christ-shaped lives.

A More Honest Heritage

Here’s the truth: the founding of this country is complex. It includes moments of brilliance and deep injustice. Faithful Christians were involved—alongside enslavers, deists, agnostics, and opportunists. Religious freedom was a core value, but it was often applied selectively. And while the gospel may have inspired some, it was distorted or ignored by many. That doesn’t mean we throw the whole story away. But it does mean we tell it honestly.

We don’t need to mythologize the past to live with purpose in the present. In fact, the more we romanticize what was, the harder it becomes to see what God is doing now. The gospel doesn’t rely on the legacy of any one nation. It calls every nation to humility, every people to justice, and every person to love.

There’s something liberating about embracing a more honest heritage. It removes our defensiveness. It opens up space for repentance and repair. It allows us to tell the truth without fear—because our hope isn’t in national identity, it’s in Christ.

We can honor what was good, lament what was wrong, and continue to live faithfully today. The church’s role isn’t to rewrite history. It’s to bear witness— to the truth, to the gospel, to the God who is still moving, still calling, still redeeming.

The Real Question and a Call to Faithful Witness

Ultimately, the real question isn’t whether America was founded as a Christian nation, but something far more personal—and urgent: Are we following Jesus today?

Are we loving our enemies and praying for those who hurt us? Are we caring for the poor, lifting up the marginalized, and seeking justice with humility? Are we embodying the radical grace and truth of the gospel in how we live, lead, speak, and serve?

Or are we clinging to Christian symbols while neglecting the call of Christ?

It’s easier to win an argument about history than to live a life of integrity. But the world doesn’t need more Christian slogans; it needs Christians who live like Christ.

Let’s stop trying to prove we’re a Christian nation. Instead, let’s start living like we belong to a risen Savior. Let’s care more about truth than image. Let’s trade shallow certainty for deep discipleship. Let’s choose the gospel over nostalgia, and faithfulness over fear.

What God is creating doesn’t rely on a flag, a founding document, or a myth.

It depends on Christ.
It depends on us.
It begins now.

Concluding Prayer

Gracious God,

We confess how easily we chase comfort instead of truth, image instead of integrity.
We’ve looked for power in the wrong places.

We’ve used your name to defend what you never asked us to protect.

Forgive us.

Set us free from shallow faith and civil religion.
Remind us that you didn’t call us to win arguments

you called us to be salt and light.

Give us courage to live as disciples—
to speak truth, seek justice, show mercy, and walk humbly with You.

May our lives reflect not the myths of a nation, but the hope of resurrection.
May we be known not by what we claim, but by how we love.

In Jesus’ name, the One we follow above all others,
Amen.