When Care Lasts Longer Than a Moment
Because the greatest difference is made over time.
How often do we assume we’ve done enough just because we sent a quick text, dropped something off, or sent money?
Most of us like to see ourselves as helpful people. If a neighbor needs to borrow a ladder, we lend it. If a coworker’s having a tough day, we bring them a coffee. If there’s a fundraiser, we contribute a few dollars. These small acts matter. They can brighten someone’s day and lighten a burden in a moment.
But there’s something about quick fixes—meeting an immediate need—that’s both comforting and misleading. It feels good because it’s tangible. We can check it off a list and move on, satisfied that we’ve done our part. It is clean, contained, and easy to handle. The problem is, life’s toughest moments aren’t solved in one afternoon. Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. Financial struggles don’t vanish after a single payment. Loneliness doesn’t go away just because someone stopped by once.
Meeting an immediate need can sometimes be essential. However, on its own, it rarely builds the trust, understanding, or shared experiences that truly change lives. It’s like watering a plant once and expecting it to thrive. Without ongoing care, the need reappears. And without someone dedicated to staying, the relief fades as quickly as it arrives.
This is where charity usually enters the conversation. At its best, charity is an act of compassion: a hot meal, a bag of groceries, a ride across town, a donation. Sometimes those gifts are lifesaving. And sometimes they’re exactly what’s needed. But if we stop at charity, we risk mistaking temporary relief for change. Charity often works like a one-way street: it moves from the giver to the receiver, and then it’s over. The need is met for the day, but little else changes.
The power of presence is different. Staying means, “I want to know your name. I want to understand your story. I’ll walk this road with you, not just drop something off at the curb.” Over time, this kind of presence begins to form a relationship. It trades efficiency for trust, control for vulnerability, and quick fixes for something that endures.
This doesn’t only apply to our friends or neighbors. The same is true with those we marginalize—the hungry, the unhoused, the incarcerated, and the oppressed. Charity can help for a day, but only a relationship—rooted in staying—can challenge systems, restore dignity, and spark real change.
Think about it like this:
- Charity is offering someone a ride when their car breaks down.
- Being present helps them find a long-term solution—and checks in until they’re back on their feet.
- Charity is giving a sandwich to a man on the corner.
- Being present means learning his name, listening to his story, and working together to tackle the housing crisis he’s facing.
Charity acts from a distance. Being present means drawing closer. And when we draw closer, we risk being changed ourselves. We might see realities we’d rather avoid. We might see things we can’t fix. But we also uncover something deeper—mutual respect and a shared humanity.
Presence is showing up again—checking in weeks or even months after the crisis has passed. It’s letting someone know they haven’t been forgotten, because relationships are built on consistency.
That kind of consistency doesn’t usually shout; it speaks softly through small, steady choices: You matter. I see you. I’m still here. Trust grows in those ordinary moments, and trust doesn’t just open doors for conversation but also creates a space for healing. For someone going through a tough time, presence can show that their worth isn’t tied to a transaction.
Presence is slow work. Sometimes it can feel awkward, like nothing is changing. But the effect shows up quietly, over time—like a seed breaking through the ground after a long winter.
It might look like listening without rushing to fix, remembering the small details that show you’ve been paying attention, or following up after everyone else has left—because that’s how presence gradually turns into relationship.
At its core, staying is both practical and deeply personal. In the end, it’s less about what you hold in your hands and more about the message you send with your presence: You are worth my time. You are worth being known. You are worth coming back for.
When you choose to be present, you don’t just impact one person’s life—you create ripples you might never fully see. Your presence can be a lifeline, rebuilding trust in a world that may have taught them not to expect it. And beyond our personal circles, forming relationships with people who are hungry, homeless, pushed to the margins, or overlooked becomes an act of solidarity—the seed of lasting change.
But staying changes you, too. You learn patience. You get better at listening. You notice the patterns beneath the surface—the bigger forces shaping someone’s life. Sometimes that insight prompts you to act in new ways, stand up for change, or pay attention differently in other relationships.
And there’s one more ripple: others notice. When people see you stick with someone, it quietly challenges their assumptions about what care looks like. It shows that kindness doesn’t have to be quick or flashy to be real. It plants the idea that maybe they, too, could slow down and build lasting relationships.
Presence isn’t about being the hero in someone else’s story. It’s about becoming part of a shared story—and sometimes, that story has more chapters than either of you expected at the start. That’s what a relationship is: not a single act, but a thread woven over time.
Think about the people in your life right now. Who might need more than just a one-time gesture? Who might need someone who will stay around?
But also—think beyond your usual circles. Who in your community is waiting not just for a handout, but for a hand held in solidarity? Who is hungry, unhoused, overlooked, or carrying a burden in silence because they’ve learned not to expect anyone to stay?
It doesn’t have to be dramatic. You don’t need all the answers, a grand plan, or unlimited time. Just start small—one person, one moment, one decision to keep showing up.
The truth is, most of us can offer quick help. But the real difference lies in choosing not to disappear when the moment passes, in being willing to stay even when it’s inconvenient, uncertain, or uncomfortable. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can give isn’t what we bring in our hands—it’s what we bring with our presence. When we keep showing up, presence becomes trust. Trust turns into a relationship. And relationships are what change lives—ours and the world’s.
What changes lives isn’t what we give, but that we remain—long enough for relationships to grow, lives to change, and justice to take root.
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Finding the Rhythm That Brings Life
True connection isn’t built in a rush — it grows in the steady, repeated rhythms that keep us rooted and alive.
We rush through life. Our schedules are full, our phones never stop buzzing, and we confuse activity with progress. The truth? Rushing doesn’t bring us closer to what truly matters. You can push yourself to exhaustion and still miss the most important moments.
And when it comes to the spaces we share — whether at work, in our neighborhoods, or in any community we’re part of — how we show up is more important than how much we do. Sometimes we show up, check the boxes, and move on to the next task. We’re polite, efficient, and productive — but nothing really stays with us once we walk away.
At times, the pace slows down. People stay longer. Ideas are exchanged, stories are shared, and a spark of creativity or understanding starts to grow. The unplanned moments — a shared laugh, a helpful insight, a genuine offer of support — are where the real impact begins to take hold.
That’s the difference. It’s not about how much you do — it’s about the rhythm you live in. We’re drumming to the beat of urgency when what we really need is the steady, deliberate cadence of connection. And connection takes time.
The Lie We Believe
Somewhere along the way, we bought into a lie: rushing from one activity to another will bring us closer to what truly matters.
We think that just doing more — joining another group, attending another event, signing up for another committee — will finally make us feel connected. But you can fill your schedule with “important stuff” and still feel completely alone.
Sometimes we dive into everything all at once — saying yes to every chance, showing up everywhere, filling every open slot. At first, it feels exciting, even productive. But without the steady rhythm of shared routines, it often results in exhaustion, frustration, and a feeling of disconnection.
Why? Because without shared rhythms — consistent, relational patterns of life together — all you have is noise.
You can’t microwave trust.
You can’t quickly build community.
You can’t binge your way into meaningful change.
In fact, doing more without a clear purpose often backfires. It drains energy that could be better used on more meaningful commitments. It tricks you into thinking you’re making progress when, in reality, you’re just going in circles.
Growth — genuine, lasting, heartfelt growth — depends on the slow, sometimes uncomfortable process of showing up day after day. And most of us resist slow progress.
What True Rhythms Look Like
Busyness is like a treadmill — you keep moving, but you don’t really go anywhere. Rhythm, on the other hand, propels you forward without wearing you out.
Healthy rhythms aren’t complicated. In fact, they’re simple enough to list:
- Show up — consistently, even when you don’t feel like it.
- Listen — making room for voices you might not otherwise hear.
- Act — doing something together that truly matters.
- Rest — protecting it like your soul depends on it.
These beats aren’t glamorous. They won’t go viral on Instagram. They’re not designed to impress. But they will keep a community alive — and keep you from quietly drifting into isolation.
In Acts 2, the early church “devoted themselves” to teaching, fellowship, breaking bread, and prayer. That’s not a list of flashy programs. That’s a list of rhythms. And “devoted” means they did them over and over again, until those rhythms shaped who they were.
We need those same patterns today — not because they’re nostalgic, but because we can’t grow without them. And here’s the key: rhythms don’t have to be complicated to be effective. They just need to be consistent.
The Disruptions We All Face
Yet, even the best rhythms get broken.
Grief hits.
Jobs change.
Kids get sick.
Work drama blows up.
Sometimes it’s a slow fade; sometimes it’s a train wreck. Either way, the beat gets lost.
I know what it’s like to go through seasons where everything feels like you’re putting out one fire after another. In those times, reflection seems like a luxury, connection feels like another demand you can’t keep up with, and rest seems out of reach.
Spoiler: life didn’t slow down. I had to choose to step back into the rhythm. It started with one phone call, one conversation over coffee — not a grand plan, just a simple return to connection.
I learned the hard way that if I waited for life to slow down, I’d be waiting forever. This reveals a truth we often avoid: We are quick to blame others for disrupting the rhythm — “They stopped calling… they dropped the ball… they didn’t make me feel welcome…” — but sometimes, we’re the ones who stop showing up. Maybe it wasn’t dramatic. Perhaps it was one missed gathering that turned into three. Or skipping a team meeting because the week got busy. Or letting a friendship fade because reaching out felt awkward after too much time had passed.
It’s easier to retreat than to take a risk. It’s safer to stay busy with solo projects instead of jumping back into the unpredictable waters of real relationships. But when we do that, we’re not just protecting ourselves — we’re starving ourselves. You can’t grow roots if you keep pulling yourself out of the soil.
Growing Together Requires Commitment, Not Convenience
Why? Because we have a cultural allergy to commitment.
We desire community… but only when it fits our schedule.
We seek deep relationships… but only if they don’t become complicated.
We aim for meaningful growth… but without the discipline necessary to achieve it.
If you want to grow together — in a marriage, friendship, team project, or neighborhood community — it means choosing to stay even when feelings fade. It also involves showing up on the weeks you’re tired, when you’d rather be anywhere else, and when no one’s handing out gold stars for effort.
Convenience makes for nice acquaintances. Commitment builds community.
And community is where true growth happens — the kind that endures through storms, disagreements, and seasons when you feel like you’ve got nothing left to give. It’s the people who keep showing up, who hold you steady when life is unstable, and who celebrate with you when joy finally breaks through.
We all know the objections — projects fall apart, people drop the ball, circumstances shift overnight. Yes. And? That’s precisely what makes commitment valuable. It’s not a guarantee that nothing will go wrong. It’s a choice to invest anyway, because the outcome is worth the risk. Choosing commitment over convenience says: I want something that will last beyond the easy seasons.
Invitation: Reset the Beat
If your life feels scattered and your relationships seem distant, maybe it’s time to stop adding more noise—and start finding your rhythm again.
So let’s step back and ask:
- Where’s the rhythm in your life right now? Do you have any patterns that anchor you — or are you living in constant reaction mode?
- Who do you show up for consistently? And who shows up for you?
- What’s one simple practice you could build into your week that would deepen connection — a meal, a phone call, a walk, a moment of reflection?
- Where do you need rest? Are you making space for it, or do you only collapse when you’re already burned out?
- What’s one rhythm you’ve lost that you’d like to recover?
Maybe it’s committing to a weekly dinner with friends — phones down, presence up. Maybe it’s deciding that weekly gathering isn’t optional, not because you’re checking a box, but because you want to keep your soul tethered. Maybe it’s scheduling regular rest before your body forces it.
Start small. Pick one rhythm. Keep it steady. And as you find your rhythm, invite others into it — because growth isn’t a solo act.
Now imagine this: a community where people actually show up for each other — not because it’s easy, not because it’s convenient, but because they’ve chosen to belong.
Imagine your life rooted in rhythms that do more than just fill your time—they keep you genuinely alive. Your life will follow the rhythm you select. Make sure it’s one worth dancing to.
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Who’s Not Here Yet
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?
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)
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?
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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When Grace Finds You
A reflection on beginning again—and becoming whole
Some words sound beautiful but are used so often that they lose their meaning—words like love, healing, freedom, hope, and home. We hear them in songs, see them in social media posts, and cling to them during difficult times in our lives. Yet even meaningful words can become background noise. We say them without truly thinking about what they really mean—or how they’re shaping our lives.
Lately, I’ve been sitting with the word grace. Not in an abstract, theological sense—but in the real, lived way that grace finds us. It reshapes how we see the divine, the people around us, and even ourselves.
I don’t know where you are on your journey. Maybe grace feels distant or unfamiliar. Maybe you’ve been carrying doubts, hurts, or weariness that no one sees. If that’s you, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too—and I want to say: grace still finds us. Even when we don’t know how to ask for it.
I’ve always struggled to explain grace.
You recognize grace when you experience it—when it slips in through the cracks of your shame, doubt, and grief. Sometimes it comes directly through prayer or reflection. Other times, it shows up through others—an old friend who says what your heart needed to hear, a kind stranger who reminds you that you matter, or a moment of quiet you didn’t know you needed. In those moments, I believe it’s God’s love reaching us—through unexpected messengers. Grace may come from God, but it often flows through people—reminding us that we’re seen, known, and not alone.
Grace opened my heart to God—not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, unfolding manner. I thought I already knew who God was, but over time, grace drew me closer. It changed my understanding of faith. It stirred a calling to lead, to serve, and to grow into the kind of love I was being shown. That kind of grace doesn’t just leave you where it found you. It invites you to change—not through pressure, but through presence.
Grace shifted how I saw the church—from an institution to a community—a place where I didn’t have to pretend, where my doubts wouldn’t disqualify me, and where I could ask tough questions without being pushed away.
After I was confirmed, I didn’t have much to do with the church. And by the time I came back, it had been years. Honestly, I hadn’t thought much about church in a long time. But something in me had started to feel… off. Like something essential was missing.
If you’d asked me back then, I probably would have told you I was searching for God—or at least for some purpose in my life. So I decided to go church shopping. Shopping for God. I had no idea what I was really looking for. I just knew I couldn’t keep living the way I had been.
To my surprise, the first church I entered became my home. And here’s the thing—it wasn’t the sermon, the music, or even the people or the welcome I received. I went to a Sunday morning worship celebration, and somewhere in the middle, something shifted. Not around me… inside me. Something cracked open and softened. Something woke up. And I knew: I wasn’t alone. That’s grace.
I understand that not everyone’s experience with church is the same. For some, it has been a place of judgment, exclusion, or silence. I’ve also seen that and felt the tension between longing for spiritual belonging and fearing rejection. But grace kept nudging me to imagine what church could be. It is not perfect or free from struggle—but a space where healing and honesty are possible. I’ve glimpsed that kind of church—when people come together with humility, compassion, and a desire to grow. Grace helped me hope for that kind of community again… and even become part of creating it.
Grace allows me to explore what I believe and why I believe it. It creates space for the tension between faith and doubt. It keeps the door open even when everything else urges me to walk away. Grace has also helped me recognize my privilege—not to feel shame, but to listen more, see differently, and live more humbly and generously.
Grace doesn’t just comfort—it transforms. It involves learning to say “I was wrong,” showing up for someone even when it’s uncomfortable, or giving yourself permission to rest without guilt. Transformation isn’t flashy—it’s often quiet and repetitive—but it changes us.
Grace Isn’t the Reward—It’s the Beginning
Some people talk about grace as if it’s something we receive after we’ve done the right things — as if it’s a reward for good behavior. But I’ve come to believe that grace is the starting point. It’s what allows us to begin again, to grow, to change, and to become. It’s not a stamp of approval; it’s an open door.
There is a line in the New Testament that stays with me: “For by grace you have been saved through faith… it is the gift of God.” (Ephesians 2:8) We often hear that and think about salvation as something distant or only for the afterlife. But what if grace is also what helps us become whole—here and now?
What if grace is what makes that process possible—over and over again?
Living Grace, Not Just Talking About It
We’re all becoming something. But how often do we stop to ask: Who am I becoming?
Am I becoming someone who chooses:
the courage to grow—over hiding behind fear,
trust over the need to stay in control,
compassion over criticism,
and peace over the pressure to perform?
We carry a lot—expectations, questions, mistakes, regrets. And most days, we’re just trying to hold it together. But grace doesn’t demand perfection. It simply invites us to become—with honesty, not shame.
I’ve come to see faith—not as a checklist of beliefs but as how I accept grace, live grace, and share grace. On my best days, that means showing compassion—for others and myself. During harder times, it involves being honest about my own limits and letting love hold what I can’t fix.
An Invitation to Begin Again
I don’t know what your relationship with grace has been. Maybe you’ve experienced it in a dramatic way—a moment of forgiveness or healing that changed everything. Or maybe, like me, grace has come more quietly—through friendships, second chances, or the courage to stay when leaving seemed easier.
You don’t need to have all the answers. Just start—right where you are, with what you have. That’s where grace meets us.
So wherever you are today—may you have the courage to begin again, and the grace to let love hold what you can’t fix.
Accept it.
Live it.
Share it.
Reflection Question:
What’s one area of your life where you feel pressure to prove yourself—and need to receive grace instead?
Want to stay connected?
I share weekly reflections on faith, leadership, grace, and everyday life—along with daily devotionals to guide your journey. You can subscribe at hearingbeyondthenoise.com or follow me on Instagram and Facebook @MWBynum.
I’d love to hear from you—feel free to share, reach out, or join the conversation anytime.
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Paddling with the Tide
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…
- Saying yes to something that challenges your faith.
- Saying no to something that drains your soul.
- Choosing love when it would be easier to walk away.
- Listening before you speak.
- Forgiving when you’d prefer to forget.
- Making time for stillness, even when the world demands more.
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.
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When Faith Becomes Folklore
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.
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What I’m Reading–And Why It Matters
The Voices, Questions, and Stories Shaping My Life
I spend a lot of time with Scripture. It’s the foundation of my writing, preaching, teaching, coaching, and prayer life. Scripture is where I return—again and again—for grounding, challenge, wisdom, and grace.
But alongside Scripture, I also read extensively. I believe God can speak through many voices, and I’ve learned that staying grounded often means staying curious. I’m a lifelong learner—always listening for wisdom in stories, science, theology, resistance movements, leadership frameworks, and more. Learning doesn’t just inform what I do; it shapes who I am becoming.
We’re now halfway through 2025, and as I continue to build Hearing Beyond the Noise, I want to share a midyear reflection: a glimpse into the books shaping my soul, my leadership, and my perspective so far this year. These aren’t just titles on a list. They are conversation partners. Some have helped me make sense of change. Others have strengthened my emotional resilience, deepened my understanding of justice, or reawakened my hope. Sharing them here offers you a glimpse into what’s been shaping me—and maybe encourages you to reflect on what’s shaping you, too.
Spirituality & Inner Life
In a noisy world, inner silence is both a gift and a necessity. These books helped me nurture the parts of the soul that aren’t always visible but shape everything else—our relationships, our resilience, and our ability to respond to God’s call with depth and integrity.
- Anatomy of the Soul by Curt Thompson, MD
Healing isn’t separate from your spiritual life—it’s a vital part of it. Thompson weaves together neuroscience and faith to show how naming your story can bring you closer to God. - Breathing Under Water by Richard Rohr
Rohr says we’re all addicted—not just to substances, but to the illusion that we can control or earn our way to wholeness. This book invites us to surrender to grace instead of striving to deserve it.
- The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown
Wholeness doesn’t come from striving—it comes from releasing who you think you’re supposed to be. Brown’s reflections on shame, courage, and belonging serve as a guide for living authentically.
- Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown
Naming emotions is the first step toward healing them. This book helps readers broaden their emotional vocabulary and develop deeper connections—with themselves and others. - Why I Believe by Dr. Henry Cloud
Cloud explores faith through the lens of reason, psychology, and real-world experience—providing thoughtful responses to honest questions. - Trust by Dr. Henry Cloud
Trust is built in layers—and lost in moments. Cloud’s practical framework helps us understand how to rebuild trust in broken systems and strained relationships. - Meditations: The Philosophy Classic by Marcus Aurelius
Written almost two thousand years ago by Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, these reflections surprisingly still resonate today—reminding us to stay grounded in purpose, resist the pull of ego and distraction, and live each day with integrity.
Leadership & Change
In times of disruption, faithful leadership is not about going back to what was—it’s about discerning what’s possible. These books provided me with tools and language to handle uncertainty, envision a future, and walk with others toward renewal instead of retreat.
- Leading Change by John P. Kotter
Change doesn’t happen because we want it to—it happens because we lead it. Kotter outlines the steps for turning vision into action, especially when resistance is strong. - Dare to Shift by Dr. Michael Bowie & Dr. Stephen Handy
This book calls the Church to stop waiting for “normal” to return—and instead cultivate a right-side-up mindset grounded in spiritual resilience, innovation, and mission. - The Adept Church by Douglas Powe, Jr.
Churches that thrive in changing times are those willing to learn, adapt, and engage their communities in new ways. Powe offers a practical and hopeful vision for transformation. - Essentialism by Greg McKeown
Saying no isn’t selfish—it’s strategic. McKeown helps leaders focus on what matters most and eliminate distractions that drain energy and purpose. - Reset by Dan Heath
Sometimes what’s broken isn’t just the process—it’s the starting point. Heath challenges us to rethink how we define problems before we try to solve them. - Maximize Your Influence by Phil Cooke
If you want to make an impact in the digital age, you need more than good ideas—you need clarity, creativity, and courage. Cooke offers guidance for faith-based communicators ready to engage the public square. - Show Your Work by Austin Kleon
You don’t need to be an expert to share what you’re learning. Kleon encourages creatives (and leaders) to be open, generous, and visible along the way.
Justice, Culture & the Bigger Picture
To hear beyond the noise, we must name the noise—especially the noise of injustice, fear, false narratives, and silence. These books challenged me to see more clearly, listen more deeply, and stay alert to the systems and stories that shape our shared lives. They remind me that faith isn’t meant to shield us from the world but to call us more fully into it—with love, courage, and truth.
- The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates
Framed as a letter to his son, Coates vividly addresses the realities of Black life in America with haunting honesty. His words serve as a call to witness—and a challenge to reckon with history. - The False White Gospel by Jim Wallis
Wallis exposes how whiteness has been mistaken for righteousness in the American church. He offers a passionate, theologically grounded call to rediscover the gospel of justice, truth, and love. - Blueprint for Revolution by Srdja Popovic
Nonviolent resistance isn’t just idealistic — it’s strategic. This book shares stories of real movements that changed the world through creativity, courage, and grassroots power. - 21 Lessons for the 21st Century by Yuval Noah Harari
In a world flooded with information and noise, Harari provides big-picture thinking about democracy, technology, identity, and what it means to be human today. - Revenge of the Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell
Building on his earlier work, Gladwell examines what causes ideas to spread and what prevents meaningful change from stalling. This is a reminder that transformation is rarely straightforward.
- The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer
Through the lens of ecology, Kimmerer invites us to envision economies and communities grounded in reciprocity rather than extraction. This offers a poetic, prophetic vision of interconnected life.
Relationships, Emotion & Community
If love is the heart of Christian discipleship, then learning how to connect—how to really see, hear, and understand others—is essential. These books delve into the emotional, social, and psychological dynamics that influence our relationships and communities, especially in a fragmented world.
- The New Emotional Intelligence by Travis Bradberry
Emotional intelligence isn’t just a buzzword—it’s a crucial component of healthy relationships and successful leadership. Bradberry explains it as practical skills that anyone can develop. - Life in Three Dimensions by Shigehiro Oishi, PhD
A fascinating look at what makes a meaningful life. Oishi explores how personal well-being, connection to others, and contribution to the larger world all come together. - How to Know a Person by David Brooks
Brooks provides a powerful reminder that deep listening is a sacred act. This book explores the art of making others feel truly seen—something our culture and churches desperately need. - Together is Better by Simon Sinek
A simple yet powerful book about the importance of shared vision, belonging, and courage. It’s a leadership book disguised as a story—and it works.
Fiction That Feeds the Soul
Stories tend to sneak truth past our defenses. These novels captured something raw and genuine about race, grief, justice, and redemption—and they reminded me that storytelling is a spiritual act.
- All the Sinners Bleed by S.A. Cosby
A gritty southern noir that confronts the darkness of racism and violence but still explores grace, identity, and moral clarity. - Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby
A revenge story with heart, this novel explores fatherhood, loss, and the cost of hate. It’s a brutal yet redemptive journey through brokenness and reconciliation.
What I’m Reading Now
These two books speak directly into my current season—one through the lens of adaptive leadership, the other through a bold reimagining of a classic American story.
- Tempered Resilience by Tod Bolsinger
Leadership demands more than just strategy—it calls for inner resilience. Bolsinger provides a compelling reflection on how leaders are shaped through struggle and refined through surrender. - James by Percival Everett
A retelling of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the enslaved Jim’s point of view, James reimagines the American story with sharp insight and literary brilliance.
Closing Invitation
That’s a glimpse of what has been shaping me so far this year. If any of these titles speak to your heart, I hope you’ll consider picking one up. More than that, I hope you’ll keep listening—beyond the noise of certainty, shame, fear, or comfort—and into the deep, courageous places where learning becomes transformation.
If you’re reading something that’s touching you this year, I’d love to hear about it. Let’s keep the conversation going.
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Are We Becoming Dinosaurs or Disciples?
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?
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Swords into Plowshares: A Pastoral Reflection on Peace Amid Conflict
In the wake of distressing news from the Middle East, many of us are feeling grief, anger, and confusion. As a pastor, I write with a heavy heart, holding our collective sorrow and hope.
On June 21, 2025, the United States carried out airstrikes against Iranian nuclear sites amid escalating tensions between Iran and Israel. While opinions on this conflict vary, our shared humanity compels us to lament the violence and seek God’s guidance. We worship a relational, love-centered God who is present with all who suffer.
In this moment of crisis, we mourn with those who mourn, remembering that every casualty has a name, a family, a story precious to God. We also affirm that God’s heart is for reconciliation and peace, even when war seems to have the upper hand. As disciples of the Prince of Peace, how do we respond? With honesty, with compassion, and with a hope that refuses to let violence have the final word.
Even global faith leaders have reminded us that war is never a true solution. Pope Leo XIV recently implored, “Let diplomacy silence the weapons. Let nations chart their future with works of peace, not with violence and bloody conflicts!” He warned, “War does not solve problems, but rather it amplifies them… No armed victory can compensate for the pain of mothers, the fear of children, the stolen future.”
These words resonate deeply. They echo the cry of the prophets and the teachings of Jesus, calling us to break the cycles of hatred. In that spirit, let us gently explore the context of this conflict and seek a faithful, peace-rooted response.
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