Gratitude in Freedom: Love the Country that Lets You Argue With It

This is not my usual theme for my blog, but these are dangerous times and with the help of AI to help me crystalize my thoughts, I wanted to get my voice out there. Gratitude, Dissent, and the Miracle of a Judeo-Christian Framework

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There is a sacred paradox at the heart of American life that is often ignored, sometimes scorned, but never entirely extinguished:

We live in one of the only countries in history where you are free to condemn the very system that gave you that freedom.

It is a strange and glorious tension—one that could only be born in a culture steeped in Judeo-Christian moral foundations: human dignity, individual conscience, law over kings, and the sacredness of speech. It is precisely because of these principles that we are able to argue, protest, march, write, preach, and vote in pursuit of divergent visions for what is right.

We can disagree because we are free. And we are free because we stand on a foundation that, while often mocked today, has quietly upheld the moral soil of liberty for centuries.

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The Miracle We Overlook

What kind of country lets you openly protest it? What kind of civilization lets you legally hate its founding principles, satirize its leaders, or burn its flag—without throwing you in prison or dragging you before a tribunal?

Only a society with moral humility and legal pluralism—values inherited from Judeo-Christian and Enlightenment sources—can do that.

And yet, many now learn to hate this country not because it fails to allow dissent, but because it succeeds. We rage when the vote doesn’t go our way. We shout when our side is out of power. We lash out when our identity feels dismissed. But rarely do we pause to ask:

What other system allows me to feel this angry, this free, and this heard—without fear of imprisonment?

This is not to say the nation is perfect. It is not. But it is to say that the freedom to be discontent is itself a gift.

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History as Evidence of the Tension

Throughout modern American history, we’ve seen moments of moral rupture—some tragic, some terrifying, all deeply revealing. These moments show how deeply people care, how violently they sometimes react, and how precious it is to have a country that lets these things play out in public:

• Rodney King (1991): A grainy video captured police brutality and sparked days of riots in Los Angeles. It also launched national conversations about race, justice, and police power. The system absorbed the anger—imperfectly, painfully—but without silencing it.
  

• 9/11 (2001): The unity that followed a moment of terror revealed the moral and cultural framework that holds this country together. Yet it also invited deep criticism of foreign policy, surveillance, and civil liberties. And those criticisms were legal.
  

• Proposition 8 (2008): When California voters defined marriage traditionally, the response was fierce. Some celebrated it as a moral stand; others called it an act of hate. The anger that followed—even from those claiming tolerance—reflected the same paradox: freedom allows people to fight about morality.
  

• George Floyd (2020): The murder triggered a global reckoning. But peaceful protest and violent reaction became indistinguishable at times. The outrage spoke to injustice—but also revealed how fragile civic trust has become. Still, the country allowed the grief, rage, and debate.
  

• January 6th Insurrection (2021): What began as political protest escalated into violence at the Capitol. While shocking, it too was a symptom of people who believed they were defending something sacred. Even in the aftermath, the ability to discuss, prosecute, investigate—without military suppression—was an expression of the system’s strength.
  

• Charlie Kirk (2025): His assassination shocked the political and cultural world. Whether one loved or loathed his views, his death ignited a firestorm about political speech, media rhetoric, and radicalization. His critics and supporters alike found themselves asking: What kind of country allows this level of friction to rise?

Each of these moments represents something deeper: the freedom to feel, to grieve, to argue, to protest, and to rebuild.

Even polarizing groups like the Westboro Baptist Church, whose hate-filled protests offend nearly all Americans, exist as a testament to the nation’s legal tolerance. Their message is repugnant—but the fact that they can legally spew it is part of the miracle.

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When Discontent Breeds Hate

It is natural to feel frustration. Even anger. But when discontent hardens into hatred—of one another, of our neighbors, of the nation itself—we risk sawing off the very branch we’re sitting on.

Ironically, those who most benefit from American freedom often seem the most eager to discard its roots. They protest under the banner of “No H8” while condemning others as unworthy of speech. They call for equity while silencing conscience. They claim love but speak with disdain.

But this happens on all sides. Moral certainty becomes moral arrogance. Identity turns into ideological warfare. Righteousness is weaponized.

What began as love of truth becomes hatred of the opposition. What began as protest becomes scorched-earth war.

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Recovering the Posture of Gratitude

And yet, we must recognize that not all forces operating within a free society have benevolent intentions. Some of the most corrosive influences come not from the fringes, but from the very institutions meant to shape our minds and guide our moral compass. These forces may be found within our own educational institutions, some of our pulpits, and certainly among some of our elected officials. They wield real influence—over laws, over language, over hearts—and too often use that power not to unite, but to sow division.

They promote dissension, not healthy disagreement; cynicism, not informed critique; and worst of all, hatred—hatred of our nation’s history, ideals, and possibilities. They frame freedom as oppression, patriotism as prejudice, and conscience as a threat. They condition people to despise the very country that protects their right to speak, assemble, protest, and vote.

But here lies the great irony—and the hope:

All we have to do is change our hearts from hating our country, to appreciating the fact that our country allows our purposeful and peaceful protests and dissension to occur.

That small shift—from contempt to gratitude—is the beginning of healing. Not necessarily of all our policy debates or cultural divisions, but of our shared identity. If we can return to that place, we can begin to reclaim something higher:

To be Americans first.

Not Democrats first. Not Republicans first. Not activists or ideologues or tribal loyalists first.

Americans first.

Citizens who honor the miracle of a country that gives space for its own critics. Citizens who fight passionately, but who remember the covenant beneath the conflict.

This is not naïveté. It is a choice—a deliberate act of national stewardship.

And yet, there are those who will hate even this message.

To say, “We should love our country,” has tragically become a political message—claimed by one side and reflexively rejected by another. The idea of national gratitude, of shared civic identity, is no longer seen as a unifying virtue but as a partisan code. This distortion is not accidental. It is the product of cultural and ideological forces that have taken aim at the very symbols of unity.

Consider the slow destruction of one of America’s most patriotic and civil institutions: The Boy Scouts of America. Once an organization synonymous with service, leadership, and citizenship, it has been hollowed out by lawsuits, ideological pressure, and societal disengagement. What was once a training ground for virtue, duty, and civic pride has become a shell—its moral clarity fogged, its cultural relevance dismissed.

The erosion of such institutions affects more than just membership—it shapes the future. It impacts how boys are raised, how they understand responsibility, volunteerism, honor, and the quiet nobility of being a good citizen.

And disturbingly, even this essay—an earnest appeal to gratitude and national healing—could be called racist or oppressive by some, not because of its words, but because their hearts have been trained to see love of country as a threat, not a virtue.

This is the sign of a deeper sickness—a spiritual amnesia about who we are and what we’ve been given. We have been so alienated from our founding spirit that we no longer recognize its goodness. We confuse historical imperfection with unworthiness. We mistake critique for wisdom and contempt for progress.

The answer is not censorship or counter-radicalism. The answer is clarity, compassion, and courage. We must hold the line—not just politically, but morally. We must raise children to love truth, to see nuance, to revere freedom, and to see citizenship as stewardship.

Yes, some will mock this message. But others will remember. And they will build.

This conflict is personal, political, and profoundly spiritual. Consider the example of President Donald Trump—a leader who, whether one supports or opposes him, undeniably attempted to revive national pride, defend traditional values, and call Americans to love their country again. And yet, every good act, every attempt to reinforce unity or assert sovereignty, was often recast as authoritarianism or a threat to “democracy.”

But what do we mean by democracy? For many who invoke it, the term has become a kind of emotional placeholder—used to defend outcomes rather than the principles of self-governance, equal representation, or lawful dissent. It’s no longer about civic process, but about power.

This rhetorical shift deepens mistrust. And here, again, Covey’s wisdom offers clarity. In his framework of the Emotional Bank Account, relationships are sustained through deposits of trust, goodwill, integrity, and consistency. But in our national dialogue, we’ve reached a tragic inversion:

Deposits are now seen as withdrawals.

Efforts to reconcile, to offer compromise, to show restraint—are immediately labeled as manipulation, insincerity, or cover for bigotry. There is no benefit of the doubt. There is no shared reservoir of trust. It is as if one side cannot afford to acknowledge the humanity or legitimacy of the other.

In a marriage, when deposits are no longer recognized—when every act is presumed to be self-serving or sinister—there is only one natural outcome left aside from death: divorce.

So what about America? If we can no longer see one another as fellow citizens—if every act of national healing is met with cynicism or contempt—then are we destined for civil divorce?

That is the road we are on.

But it is not the only road available.

There is another path—a harder one—that requires us to reclaim the discipline of trust-building, even with those who do not reciprocate. To make deposits without demand. To stay in the covenant of citizenship not because it is easy, but because the alternative is ruin.

Just as in marriage, the solution is not simply passion—it is patience. It is shared commitment to something higher than either partner’s immediate needs.

In a nation, that “something higher” must be our common story, our shared ideals, and the miracle of the Constitution that holds us together despite our flaws.

We must not divorce. We must rebuild.

But how? In a struggling marriage, couples often turn to therapy—a trained, neutral third party who helps each side see themselves and each other more clearly. Why? Because there is still something worth saving: children, legacy, history, shared dreams. Even amid pain, there is still a flicker of hope.

So the natural question becomes:

Who can be the therapist for America?

Some would say: Only Jesus Christ can heal this land. And for millions of Americans, that is a sincere and foundational belief.

But for others, invoking Christ sounds like an imposition. It triggers fears of theocracy, exclusion, or cultural domination. It is dismissed as “religious overreach,” even when offered in goodwill.

So who can we turn to when the very source of healing for some is seen as a threat by others?

Where is the voice both sides would accept? Who holds enough trust to speak honestly to both wounds? Who can affirm moral order without triggering political reflex? Who can speak of humility without being seen as weak?

We do not currently have such a figure. And that may be our greatest danger of all.

Without trusted mediation, marriages dissolve. Without shared trust, nations fragment.

And yet, perhaps the solution is not in a single therapist—but in a renewed covenant of conscience across the citizenry. Perhaps the answer is not a person, but a principle: that we each become agents of reconciliation, small mediators in our own communities.

We may not agree on theology. We may not trust the same institutions. But if we can agree that liberty is precious, that citizenship requires both rights and restraint, and that this country is still worth saving—then we have a place to begin.

What if we became one another’s therapists—not to fix each other, but to listen? To ask real questions. To stop labeling and start laboring.

This is not a call for moral relativism. It is a call for moral patience. It is not a rejection of faith. It is a recognition of pluralism. It is not surrender. It is stewardship.

Divorce is not inevitable if we remember what we promised. To each other. To our posterity. To this fragile, miraculous union of fifty states and one people—still striving to become more perfect, even when we feel most divided.

We must be willing to stay in the room. And speak the truth. And hear the truth. And refuse to give up.

There is another tension worth naming—one that is both humbling and revealing:

Legal immigrants often love this country more than many who were born here.

It’s not because immigrants are inherently more virtuous. It’s because they have earned something that others have merely inherited. They have studied this nation’s founding. They’ve passed citizenship tests. They’ve taken solemn oaths. They’ve sacrificed to arrive, waited in line, and, in many cases, fled far worse systems. Their love for America is not abstract—it is informed, chosen, and lived.

By contrast, birthright citizenship, while a profound and generous gift, comes with no prerequisites. No test. No vow. No intentional entry. And because of that, it often breeds a sense of entitlement rather than stewardship.

Worse still, many of those born into American citizenship are immediately handed not gratitude, but grievance. They are told—by teachers, by media, by ideologues—that the very country of their birth is irredeemably flawed, corrupt, or oppressive. And so they never develop the emotional or intellectual antibodies to resist radicalization.

Citizenship, once viewed as a privilege to protect, is now seen by many as a right to reject.

That’s a tragedy.

It explains why some of the most fervent defenders of American ideals are those who chose this country—while some of its loudest detractors are those who never had to earn their place in it.

This should not be a cause for shame—but for reflection. Perhaps what we need is not fewer birthright citizens, but more civic rites of passage. More public education rooted in virtue. More experiences of national gratitude. More visible models of sacrificial citizenship.

America is not made strong merely by population—it is made strong by people who understand what it means to be American.

And in this moment, those who remember—those who chose her—might just help teach the rest of us how to love her again.

But we must also be clear-eyed about something else:

Laws do not change hearts.

We can pass statutes. We can amend constitutions. We can regulate and restrict and incentivize. But no law has ever taught a citizen to love. No policy has ever awakened conscience. Only example, education, and experience can do that.

For decades, there have been proposals—on both sides of the aisle—to outlaw the burning of the American flag during protest. And yet, for all the offense it causes, banning such acts would violate one of the most sacred rights enshrined in the Bill of Rights: free speech. The freedom to dissent—even foolishly, even disrespectfully—is part of what sets America apart.

Similarly, gun control laws, however well-intentioned, cannot erase evil intent. Criminals do not follow laws by definition. Disarming the law-abiding does not disarm the violent. The deeper issue is not merely one of access—it is one of culture, of community, of formation.

Hearts must be changed before habits will. And habits must be formed before law can find its proper place.

A society that depends solely on legislation to preserve its soul is already running on borrowed time. We need more than policy. We need principles.

And those principles must be written not just in legal code—but on the hearts of a people who remember why liberty matters.

I’m reminded of a biblical story—and perhaps more strikingly, the part of the story that wasn’t told.

Jesus asked Peter, “Dost thou love me?” And Peter responded, “Yea, Lord, thou knowest.” Three times, the question was asked. Three times, Peter affirmed his love.

But Jesus did not reply, “Then petition unto Caesar to change the laws of the land so that all people are compelled to live as I would have them live.”

No. Jesus said: > “Feed my lambs. Feed my sheep.”

Three times.

He didn’t point to political power. He pointed to personal responsibility. He didn’t advocate for systemic compulsion. He called for relational compassion. He pointed not to government, but to neighbor.

This is how hearts are changed: one-on-one, one-by-one, not through statute but through conversation, connection, and care.

If the nation is to heal, it will not be through sweeping laws or the next election cycle. It will be through thousands—millions—of small acts of civic love. A conversation over coffee. A respectful debate in a classroom. A child being taught both gratitude and responsibility. A neighbor refusing to caricature another.

This is the work. This is the way.

And maybe, just maybe, this is how we feed our country back to health.

Consider this: what other country would allow someone to wave another nation’s flag during a riotous protest—without arrest, without exile, without execution?

Only a nation that so cherishes liberty that it permits even the insult of that liberty. Only a society whose speech protections are so robust that they include even the symbols of its own rejection.

We could, of course, pass a law banning the flying of foreign flags during protests. Some would call that common sense. Others would call it patriotic. But it would also be a form of nationalism—and another step toward censuring free speech.

Freedom of speech isn’t merely about what we want to hear—it’s about protecting the things we hate to hear, because we trust that truth and dialogue are stronger than censorship and coercion.

That’s the test. That’s the miracle. And that’s the burden of a free people: to live with tension, not tyranny. To endure offense, not enforce orthodoxy.

Our enemies may see this as weakness. But in the long arc of history, it may be our greatest strength: a country so free, it even tolerates protest against its own existence.

Which leads us to a troubling, yet essential question:

Should it be illegal to teach ideas that promote hatred of our own country?

In many other nations, such speech would be considered sedition, treason, or a subversive act against the state. Their educational systems are tightly controlled to promote national unity, tradition, or ideological loyalty. In such systems, criticizing the government or questioning foundational narratives is forbidden.

But in America, even the promotion of ideas that undermine the nation’s own survival is protected as free speech. It’s maddening—and miraculous. Our First Amendment does not carve out exceptions for civics professors with contempt in their curriculum. It does not censor the novelist, the activist, or the misinformed TikTok influencer.

This freedom is dangerous—but it is also essential. Because the moment the state begins regulating which ideas are acceptable, it claims the power to define not only what is true, but who may speak.

And yet, while we must not criminalize such teaching, we also must not leave it unchallenged. The antidote to bad speech is not censorship—it is better speech. The cure for anti-American indoctrination is not state policing of thought—it is cultural renewal, intellectual courage, and principled pushback.

Let us not confuse tolerance with agreement. Let us not confuse liberty with passivity. Let us not confuse freedom of speech with freedom from responsibility.

To love our country is not to silence her critics. It is to outthink them, outlive them, and outshine them with truth and virtue.

Our Constitution grants us rights from our government—freedom of speech, religion, assembly, and more. These rights are protected by law, ratified by history, and secured through generations of sacrifice.

But today, the greater threat may not come from government suppression, but from cultural manipulation—from thought leaders, media influencers, academic ideologues, and political agitators who do not need law to impose control. They simply shape the “court of public opinion,” where the rules are unwritten, the justice is mob-driven, and dissent from the mob is punished by shame, cancellation, or worse.

In this court, there are no judges—only outrage. There is no Constitution—only consensus. There is no due process—only mob rule.

This is how freedom erodes without legislation. Not through tyrants, but through crowds. Not through armies, but through algorithms.

It is not enough to defend liberty in the halls of government—we must also defend it in the hearts of the people. We must teach that rights come with responsibilities, and that disagreement is not hatred.

Because when public opinion becomes weaponized without principle, the result is not justice—it is anarchy in disguise.

And from such seeds, republics have fallen.

And in the face of such manipulation, we must recommit to gratitude—not as blind optimism, but as the discipline of seeing the bigger story: that this country, for all its flaws, remains a place where liberty still lives, and where conscience can still speak.

We need not agree with everyone. We should not pretend all views are equal. But we must remember the miracle of the system that allows this debate at all.

To argue well is to love the country that lets you argue. To protest well is to be grateful for the right to speak. To vote well is to remember the miracle of voting.

Gratitude, then, becomes the tempering virtue:

• Gratitude for the ability to dissent

• Gratitude for a system that checks power

• Gratitude for laws that protect conscience

• Gratitude for our opponents, who sharpen us

Even in loss, even in frustration, there can be reverence for the stage on which the conflict plays.

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From Conflict to Contribution: What We Can Do Better

If this is to become a unifying message—not just a reflection—we must ask: what now? How can we disagree better? How can we restore civic virtue without compromising moral clarity?

One essential shift is this:

We must stop counting victories for one side as defeats for the other.

This zero-sum mentality—where every political, social, or legal outcome is viewed as a battle won or lost for “my team” or “the enemy”—is not just toxic, it’s dangerous. It is the fuel of polarization, the logic of tribalism, and the mindset that makes civil war not only possible, but inevitable.

In truth, we are already living through a kind of civil cold war—a conflict not (yet) fought with arms, but with algorithms, rhetoric, lawfare, and social sorting. It is unofficial, but deeply felt. Each side believes it must “win” the narrative, the election, the institutions, the future. And in doing so, both sides risk losing the republic.

To escape this trap, we must cultivate a new civic mindset—one that seeks shared flourishing, not partisan domination.

Here we might borrow from Stephen R. Covey, whose 7 Habits of Highly Effective People offers deeply personal tools with public impact:

• Be Proactive: Own your emotions. Choose your response. Avoid letting external triggers dictate internal reactions. Be response-able.
  

• Seek First to Understand, Then to Be Understood: Listen before lecturing. Hear the heart, not just the words. This is the start of empathy and the end of lazy caricatures.
  

• Think Win-Win: Not all disagreements must end in dominance. Look for mutual benefit, even when consensus is impossible. Respect is the currency of durable peace.
  

• Sharpen the Saw: Civic renewal starts with personal renewal. Read widely. Pray. Reflect. Rest. Reengage with deeper awareness and humility.

These aren’t just private habits. They are public healing disciplines. In a time of division, they help reclaim a culture of dialogue, not destruction.

A new perspective begins when we stop asking: How do I win this fight?—and start asking: How do we preserve the place where all of us are still allowed to fight and still live together afterward?

It begins when we see compromise not as betrayal, but as humility. It begins when we see opponents not as enemies, but as co-heirs of liberty. It begins when we care more about the health of the relationship than the thrill of being right.

Without that shift, the cold civil war may someday grow hot. With that shift, we might yet rebuild a better union.

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What Is the Work Ahead?

Perhaps this is a book. Perhaps a long essay. Perhaps just a needed message for our time:

Love the country that lets you argue with it.

It may not be fashionable. It may not win Twitter arguments. It may not gratify the soul that seeks only victory.

But it may be the only way forward.

To live in a nation that allows dissent is a miracle. To recognize that miracle is a discipline. To protect that miracle is a duty.

And to build a better future through dialogue, discipline, gratitude, and grace—that is the calling of the moment.

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To give thanks for that miracle? That’s the beginning of a better politics. To build on it? That’s the work of a better citizen.