Linthicum Heights United Methodist Church

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.