an open letter on the unity of the church

Dear Brother,

It's taken me a few years to write this letter. This isn't the first one I wrote. That one was angry, and hurt, and after a half dozen editing jobs, politely angry and hurt. I never sent that one; it sits on my hard drive still. I never could send to the trash bin, because a part of me really wanted to explain, persuade, defend.

But pretty soon I'm going to delete that file, because I've finally realized that that letter, the one where I explain how wrong you were so very politely, isn't the letter I want to send. It isn't on topic. It's not even close.

But it's taken me years to see this. Years which have been filled with replaying that hurtful scene over and over in my head, trying to figure out what I could have done or said other than what I did (that is, go have a cry in the church bathroom). I've wondered if I should have said something, confronted you in some way. Part of me is ashamed that I didn't, and considers it a failure of moral courage. Part of me is relieved that I could pass you a paper plate and eat a sandwich without making a scene.

And I've wondered if, when I am again in the neighborhood, I will dare to walk through your church doors again, or not. And which would be the right choice?

I've wondered if I really should just give up, and go away. I can't count how many people over these intervening years have asked why I don't--students, friends, family, colleagues. My answer used to be that this church is my home; how do you leave your home? But that Sunday I wondered for the first time if maybe my home might leave me, instead. Later, in defiance, my answer was, why should I? This is my home, too. Then I wondered if it was true that my presence was divisive and harmful to the church, an act of self-gratification and arrogance. I began to be afraid that I really was the kind of person described in your sermon.

For a long time, that was my fear: that my sincere wish to remain a part of the body of Christ into which I was baptized and raised in the faith would be divisive and contentious no matter what I did or didn't do, because of what I do (or don't) believe on this (or that, or that other thing).

But now, I know what I will do next time I'm in the neighborhood. I will be walking through those church doors. I will take a seat in a pew and I will sing, and pray, and listen, and contemplate scripture. I will praise God with you. Because I am certain now that it is not divisive for me to remain. It is a conscious act of unity.

See, I realize that we will probably never agree about a lot of things, and some of these things we both think are really important. And we can argue or debate, and maybe we should. Maybe we can even change each other's minds on some of these things. Maybe not. But the unity of the church has never depended on this. Unity is not conformity of doctrine, and Campbell just plain got that wrong. The unity of the church is a mystery not unlike the mysterious unity of the one-in-three, the mysterious unity of Jesus Christ the Son and God the Father--consider Jesus' prayer in John 17: That they may be one, as we are one.

We could agree to disagree, and walk away from each other. Or we could trust that the mysterious unity of the church will hold, despite all. So I'm not walking away. You can look for me to walk in next time I'm in the neighborhood. Because I believe, despite all, that we are brother and sister, children of God, joint-heirs with the Son, members of the same Body, and I believe that nothing we can say or do can, or should, change that. I choose to claim you, and strive to love you.

That we may be one, as our Lord Jesus Christ and the Father are indeed One.