This Is Not Unity

An Autopsy of Division

This is the ninth in a series of autopsies.

The first examined the table: This Is Not a Feast. The second examined the sermon: This Is Not Teaching. The third examined professional ministers: This Is Not a Profession. The fourth examined membership: This Is Not Belonging. The fifth examined buildings: This Is Not God’s House. The sixth examined money: This Is Not an Economy. The seventh examined worship: This Is Not Worship. The eighth examined ministry: This Is Not Ministry.

This one examines unity.

Not isolated failures.

One tangled system.

And this one brings us full circle. Back to the table. Where it all began. Where unity is preserved.

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In one of my church experiences—the one that became illustrative, the one in which God provided the understanding to see that these things I was bumping into were not about people but structure and system—we had reached an impasse.

Thirty-plus hours of meetings. Some with the senior pastor, one on one. Some in elder boards with a few others. Some in one-on-one staff conversations over coffee.

I, and an increasing number of others, were being told to just leave. If you disagree, then why don’t you just leave?

This was so confusing to hear based upon the membership pact (see This Is Not Belonging) that explicitly used covenant language. I had signed something. We had all signed something. It said we were family. It said we were committed. It said we were in this together.

I objected. But these are my people. This is my family. Are you saying this is a Costco membership and I should simply move to Sam’s Club?

And always, throughout these conversations, the drumbeat was unity. Don’t do this because of unity. Do this because of unity. Preserve unity.

Unity, unity, unity.

I became acutely aware that pushing the importance of something while simultaneously holding no understanding of its substance is dangerous. In other words, it’s a weapon.

For the sake of brevity, I’ll skip many details, but Ashley and I had a private trial where no one else was allowed to see. Because of unity. Yes, that same unity. Only the elders. We were brought up on charges of—you guessed it—division.

There were also numerous large congregational meetings where there were chastising speeches made from the crowd about our disloyalty. And yes, division. Swells of applause. Yes, real applause. As unity had its final say.

Unity, unity, unity.

As if unity means agreement. As if unity means uniformity. As if unity means silence.

As if unity is a weapon to crush the dissenter.

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I’ve hesitated to share these personal windows for several reasons. They’re mine, might not connect with yours, and are deeply personal. They also open me up to charges of sour grapes or being diagnosed as “church hurt” (see If You’re Calling It “Church Hurt” — You’re Missing the Point).

I don’t believe that is the case, but at the end of the day, I’ll let you decide.

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The Division We Accept

We have hundreds of denominations. Thousands of sects. Countless divisions. And we accept this as normal. As inevitable. As the natural result of people having different beliefs.

I’ve heard many talk about how this splintering is actually a beautiful thing to God. All of these expressions of him. Different flavors. Different styles. Different approaches. Each one revealing a different aspect of God’s character. Each one serving a different need. Each one reaching a different people.

It’s beautiful, they say. It’s diverse. It’s God’s design.

But is it?

Is division the natural result of disagreement? Or is it the result of systems that make division possible? Systems that make division necessary? Systems that make division profitable?

What if the question isn’t whether people will disagree. What if the question is: What happens when they do?

When you leave the table, disagreement becomes division. When you leave the table, you can abstract people into positions. You can label them. You can separate them. You can build walls between them.

The systems we’ve built create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary.

And then we call it beautiful. We call it diverse. We call it God’s design.

But the New Testament calls it division. It calls it sin. It calls it the work of the flesh.

Division is not beautiful. It’s not diverse. It’s not God’s design.

It’s the result of systems that make division possible. Systems that create the conditions for division. Systems that make division easy.

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Unity in the Division

Unity is a hot topic in the New Testament. Jesus prayed for it. Paul commanded it. The apostles wrote about it constantly.

“I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me.”
(John 17:20-21)

“I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment.”
(1 Corinthians 1:10)

“There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to the one hope that belongs to your call—one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.”
(Ephesians 4:4-6)

“Complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.”
(Philippians 2:2)

“For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another.”
(Romans 12:4-5)

Unity is everywhere in the New Testament. It’s not optional. It’s essential.

But here’s the problem: We almost entirely only apply unity to the division we’ve already created. We talk about unity within our denomination. Unity within our church. Unity within our group.

We talk about unity in the division.

But the New Testament doesn’t talk about unity within division. It talks about unity that resists division. Unity that makes division difficult. Unity that is the natural result of being one body.

We’ve accepted division as normal. As inevitable. As the natural result of disagreement.

But the New Testament assumes unity. It commands unity. It makes unity the standard.

Not unity in division. Unity that prevents it.

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Unity as a Weapon

But there’s something worse. Unity has become a coercive weapon used by the structure and the religious leader to preserve uniformity. Anything and anytime honest disagreement arises, the instinctive reaction is the mantra of unity, unity, unity. As if it is a heavy blunt object crushing the dissenter.

And within the system, the passive participants have been trained to become active in support of their leaders and chant unity, unity, unity. Shame. Guilt. Isolation. Division. All in the name of unity.

Unity becomes the weapon that silences dissent. Unity becomes the tool that enforces conformity. Unity becomes the mechanism that maintains control.

Disagree with the sermon? Unity. Question the professional? Unity. Challenge the system? Unity. Unity, unity, unity. As if unity means agreement. As if unity means uniformity. As if unity means silence.

The systems have co-opted the language of unity to enforce uniformity. They’ve weaponized it. They’ve turned it into a tool of control.

But look at how the New Testament describes unity. It’s about being one body. One Spirit. One hope. One Lord. One faith. One baptism. One God. The unity the New Testament commands is not uniformity. It’s not agreement on every detail. It’s being one body in Christ.

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How the Systems Create Division

The sermon creates division. One voice speaks. Many listen. The voice becomes authoritative. The voice becomes the standard. Disagree with the voice, and you disagree with the church. The sermon creates a center that must be defended. A position that must be maintained. A unity that is fragile because it depends on agreement with one voice.

The profession creates division. Professional ministers become gatekeepers. They define orthodoxy. They enforce boundaries. They create insiders and outsiders. Disagree with the professional, and you’re outside. The profession creates hierarchy that requires division. Authority that requires submission. Unity that is conditional on agreement with the professional.

Membership creates division. Formal membership creates insiders and outsiders. Those who belong and those who don’t. Those who agree and those who don’t. Membership creates boundaries that must be defended. Unity that is exclusive. Division that is institutionalized.

Buildings create division. Buildings create places to separate. Rooms to divide. Spaces to exclude. Buildings create physical boundaries that reinforce spiritual ones. Unity that is location-based. Division that is architectural.

The economy creates division. The economy creates us and them. Those who give and those who don’t. Those who support and those who don’t. The economy creates financial boundaries. Unity that is transactional. Division that is economic.

Worship creates division. Worship creates performers and audience. Those who lead and those who follow. Those who participate and those who watch. Worship creates aesthetic boundaries. Unity that is performative. Division that is cultural.

Ministry creates division. Programs separate the body. Children here. Youth there. Men here. Women there. Ministry creates demographic boundaries. Unity that is programmatic. Division that is structural.

Each system creates division. Each system requires it. Each system makes it necessary.

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How Unity Fits the Tangled System

By now, the pattern should be clear. Division is not an accident. It’s not inevitable. It’s not natural.

It’s structural.

The systems we’ve built create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary.

Accept the table, and you accept limits. Accept limits, and you reject the monopolized sermon. Reject the sermon, and you reject the professional. Reject the professional, and you reject membership. Reject membership, and you reject the building. Reject the building, and you reject the economy. Reject the economy, and you reject the performance model of worship. Reject the performance model, and you reject programmatic ministry.

But what about unity?

The systems create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary. But if you’ve accepted the table, you’ve accepted limits. You’ve accepted presence. You’ve accepted relationship.

And at the table, division is difficult. It’s unlikely. It’s resisted.

The systems create division. The table creates unity.

Not through agreement. Not through uniformity. Not through conformity.

Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.

Each part depends on the others. Division is not isolated. It’s part of the system. And the system is one tangled ball. Pull one strand, and the whole thing tightens. Which is why reform always fails. And why only return works.

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The Necessary Distinctions

Now, let’s address the obvious objections. And these are not minor concerns. These are serious questions. Legitimate challenges. The kind that could undermine the entire argument if left unanswered.

Are you saying that in your fairy land of table, they are homogeneous? No distinctives? No differences? That the table in São Paulo, Brazil will be precisely the same as the one in San Antonio, Texas?

And what about beliefs? Are you saying there are no beliefs that separate the table? That the one at table who says, “I’m convinced that the resurrection is simply a metaphor for living a better life,” that we just keep eating?

And who decides what’s essential and what’s secondary? Isn’t this the very reason why there are denominations? One group differed on what’s essential. Another group differed on what’s essential. And now we have hundreds of denominations, each one convinced that their definition of “essential” is the right one.

These are legitimate concerns. Honest questions. Serious objections.

And I will attempt to answer them in what follows. Not with a rulebook. Not with a policy. Not with an institutional declaration. But with how the table actually works. How presence actually functions. How relationship actually handles these things.

But here’s what I believe: The splitting and how it happens necessarily presupposes systems to enable and empower them. The table doesn’t eliminate the questions. It changes how they’re answered.

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The Table and Unity

So we return to the table. Not as a sacred object. As a place of one anothering. Knowing and being known.

This is where we began. The first article examined the table. This one returns to it. Full circle.

The table preserves unity.

At the table, when someone says, “I’m not sure that 1,000 years is literal,” what happens? Do the others throw them out? Do they create a new table? Do they divide?

Or do they keep eating together? Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep knowing and being known.

Because at the table, the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement. The presence matters more than the doctrine.

The table doesn’t eliminate differences. It preserves them within relationship. The table in São Paulo will have Brazilian food, Brazilian culture, Brazilian expressions. The table in San Antonio will have Texan food, Texan culture, Texan expressions. They will be different. They will be distinct. They will reflect their context.

But more than that, the table accommodates different understandings. Different ways of reading Scripture. Different theological emphases. Different expressions of faith. Different experiences of God. Different questions. Different struggles. Different gifts. Different perspectives.

The table doesn’t require uniformity. It doesn’t require agreement on every detail. It doesn’t require the same understanding of every passage. It doesn’t require the same theological framework. It doesn’t require the same expression of faith.

But they will be one body. Not because they’re the same. Because they’re united in Christ. Because they’re present with one another. Because they’re in relationship.

The table doesn’t create uniformity. It creates unity. Not through sameness. Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.

This doesn’t mean tables in different places are somehow magically connected. A table in São Paulo and a table in San Antonio are separate gatherings. But they’re both part of the same body—the body of Christ—not because they’re in the same building or under the same institution, but because they’re both gathered around the same table, in the same way, with the same presence, the same relationship, the same knowing and being known.

Think about dinner with friends. What would someone have to say? What lengths would they have to go to? What insane utterance would they need to make for the group to cast them out?

It would take something extreme. Something that fundamentally breaks relationship. Something that makes continued presence impossible. Something genuinely harmful or dangerous.

And even then, in ongoing relationship, there would be a knowing. A knowing that says, “This isn’t like Jason. Let’s not react. Let’s wait and see what’s happening. We have time. We’re family. We don’t have to issue proclamations.”

The table creates that knowing. That patience. That time. That family.

The table doesn’t eliminate the possibility of necessary separation. But it makes that separation relational, not institutional. It makes it known through presence, not declared through policy.

Obviously, I can’t spell out every kind of disagreement. I can’t tell you how to determine if it’s trivial or actually hazardous to the very nature of the table. These are the kinds of things I generally think that God’s people, indwelt by God’s Spirit, in relationship with other believers, are well equipped to discern and handle.

And the New Testament seems to bear that out.

“But the anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about everything, and is true, and is no lie—just as it has taught you, abide in him.”
(1 John 2:27)

“For who has understood the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ.”
(1 Corinthians 2:16)

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.”
(James 1:5)

The Spirit indwells God’s people. The body has the mind of Christ. Wisdom is available. Not through institutional policy. Not through professional declaration. Through the Spirit. Through relationship. Through presence.

At the table, when someone says something concerning, you don’t immediately divide. You talk. You listen. You ask questions. You share your conviction. You bear witness. You pray. You continue in relationship.

Because at the table, the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement. The presence matters more than the doctrine.

And because you know them. You’ve eaten with them. You’ve talked with them. You’ve been present with them. You have time. You’re family. You don’t have to issue proclamations.

But in the systems, you don’t know them. You haven’t eaten with them. You haven’t talked with them. You haven’t been present with them. You don’t have time. You’re not family. You have to issue proclamations.

The systems make division easy because they make relationship difficult. They make abstraction easy because they make presence difficult. They make proclamation easy because they make patience difficult.

The table makes division difficult because it makes relationship easy. It makes abstraction difficult because it makes presence easy. It makes proclamation difficult because it makes patience easy.

The table requires presence. The table requires limits. The table requires face-to-face relationship. The table makes division difficult because you can’t abstract someone into a position when you’re eating with them.

The table creates unity not through agreement, but through presence. Not through uniformity, but through relationship. Not through conformity, but through knowing and being known.

But at the table, unity is not a weapon. It’s not a tool. It’s not a mechanism. It’s presence. It’s relationship. It’s knowing and being known. And it can’t be weaponized. Because it can’t be coerced. Because it can’t be enforced. It can only be experienced. Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.

This doesn’t mean the table eliminates all disagreement. It doesn’t mean people at the table will always agree. It doesn’t mean the table is a magic solution that makes all problems disappear. But it does mean that when disagreement arises, it’s handled relationally. Face-to-face. With presence. With time. With patience. With knowing and being known.

And yes, there may come a point where someone’s beliefs or behavior make continued presence impossible. But that point is discovered through relationship, not declared through institution. It’s known through presence, not decided through policy.

The New Testament assumes unity. The table preserves it.

Not by eliminating disagreement. By making it manageable. By making it relational. By making it secondary to presence.

What if they’d never left the table? What if, when disagreement arose—over the millennium, baptism, spiritual gifts, end times, or any number of other issues—they’d stayed at the table? What if they’d kept eating together? Kept talking. Kept listening. Kept knowing and being known.

Would we have hundreds of denominations? Thousands of sects? Countless divisions?

We can’t know for certain. History is what it is. But we can observe this: The table makes division difficult. It requires presence. It requires relationship. It requires knowing and being known. The systems we’ve built make division easy. They create the conditions for division. They make it likely. But the table? The table makes division difficult. It makes it unlikely. It resists it.

The table is where unity becomes visible. Not as agreement. Not as uniformity. Not as conformity.

As presence.

At the table, unity is not agreement. It’s presence. It’s relationship. It’s knowing and being known.

And it requires no system. No structure. No division.

Only presence. Only relationship. Only the table.

Where unity is not agreement.

But presence.