4. Other examples of the New Testament’s focus on unity include 1 Cor 12–14 and the letters of 1–3 John, although one could multiply instances of the warnings against dissension and conflict and admonitions toward unity.
5. The idea of scattering has a notable place in the Old Testament. One finds it in the Tower of Babel (Gen 11:1–9), in the punishments promised for Israel in Deuteronomy (28:64 and implicitly in 28:7, 25), in the Deuteronomic promise of restoration, or gathering after scattering (30:1–5, cf. Nehemiah 1:8–9), and in the prophetic corpus (e.g., Ezek 34:1–6, 11–13, 20–24).
6. In the case of the Great Schism, the punishment of division for the guilty party intensifies the prior infraction. Those guilty of division become further divided.
7. History testifies against the East to a lesser degree. Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453, and one can reasonably ask if this was not a punishment for wrongdoing. I respond that the Orthodox Churches are not without fault in the Great Schism, but history does not testify against them as it does for the Catholics. Being conquered by a foreign people is at best an equivocal judgment upon the followers of God. The Church grew under the reign of the Roman Empire and men do not see this as a punishment. Nor does the Old Testament treat every experience of the Jews under foreign rule as negative, as seen with the Persians. The New Testament further reminds Christians that they must suffer on earth (1 Peter), a suffering that often takes place under pagan authorities. The witness of a restricted and burdened life under other peoples is not nearly as strong as that of geographical displacement and schism, both of which troubled the Catholics and neither of which have plagued the Orthodox. The evidence stands against the West, not the East.
8. Some may object that those in their churches are good people. The challenge is, then, to set the history of violence, schism, and uproar in the Western church against the concrete experience of worship with people who are friendly, agreeable, and devout. It would seem that such people cannot be deceived, and that the Holy Spirit is among them.
But there are friendly, agreeable, and devout people in every religion. If this becomes our standard of judgment, what of the Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, and Buddhists are who are agreeable, friendly, and devout in their faith? Are they also followers of Christ according to their own way? There must be some standard other than the friendliness of people in order to determine the Holy Spirit’s presence: the biblical standard of unity.
We have such a standard in the assertion that the Holy Spirit gathers the body of Christ. It is present in unity and absent from schism. The question is not whether people are amicable but whether they have forgotten their deeper division, and by forgetting condoned a spirit of schism that hides beneath an otherwise sincere desire for God. Cannot Satan, who makes himself into an angel of light (2 Cor 11:14), secretly turn man’s yearning for the divine to his own purposes? He would be a poor deceiver who could not hide his plans from the casual observer or whose ruses were obvious. One must consequently hold fast to the criterion of Christ, who looks at the church as well as the individual heart, and ask whether one accepts the church as dissolved or affirms it as unified. As for what we moderns know as unity, is it anything more than the ruin left by repeated wars of attrition?
1 John 1:1–2
That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched—this we proclaim concerning the word of life. The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life which was with the Father and has appeared to us.
The sentry, decked out in full colors and bearing the seal of his king, gazed at the old man from across the doorway. The latter squinted at the visitor. He stood leaning over his cane, his face wrinkled, his hands hardened by labor.
“I do not mean to impose on you, sir, but the hour is late, I come from another land, and I seem to have lost my way. Will you show me hospitality by allowing me to stay for the night?”
“Of course. Please come in,” said the old man, who was overjoyed to entertain a guest affiliated with wealth and station.
After dinner the two fell into conversation. The old man asked about the royal way of life, its comforts, its delicacies, and its esteem. He also asked about the customs of the distant land, trying to discover how they differed from his own. For much of the night the man prodded the sentry to divulge all he could about his affairs, and the guest obliged.
The sentry then inquired about the old man’s way of life. “I have lived humbly,” replied the man, describing the difficulties and joys of the peasantry. “Now I am old, burdened by fatigue and wounded flesh, stooped with an injury that follows me like a shadow of death. But I am most troubled by the loss of my sight, which has faded in recent years and makes my getting around more dangerous. I wish that I could see with the clarity of my youth. I could at least then enjoy the world around me and make my way more safely.”
The sentry smiled. “I believe that I can help you with this desire of yours,” he said. “My king employs many sorcerers, and they have lately developed a weapon meant to counter death and suffering and empowered to give life. I carry this weapon with me as a part of my errand. Would you like to see it?”
The old man responded skeptically that he would like to behold this weapon, if its powers were true. The sentry then removed a cloth from his blouse, unwrapping it to reveal a double-edged dagger. Its blade gleamed in the firelight, and its handle was gilded and studded with gems. The old man held it up to his face, noticing an inscription that he could not make out. It reads, “To conquer death, and to achieve life immortal,” said the sentry in answer to the old man’s curiosity. “Would you like to use it, regaining the powers of sight that you once had, and escaping the danger of your condition?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “What must I do?”
“It is simple,” replied the sentry. “Take the dagger and apply it to that part of your flesh that is ailing, making a deep wound so that the blood flows, and the power of the dagger will so transform the wound that it will shortly heal with a greater strength than the body had before the defect. In your case, as you wish to repair your sight, you must strike your eyes. You will lose your sight for a few moments, but soon afterwards it will be restored and you will see with the eyes of youth.”
The old man hesitated, doubting the promise of the sentry. Would he really gouge out his eyes in order to see? “I sense that you do not believe,” said the visitor. “Have you not heard of the resurrection of the one called Christ, who overcame death by dying and rising from the grave? He suffered greatly in order to bring life to mankind, and it is his power that animates this dagger. If you wish for it to heal your infirmity, you must die to what you see by purging your eyes. Only after you have wiped away the vision of death will you receive life.”
The old man had heard of the resurrection, though his faith in it had waned. Trusting that power anew, he took the dagger in his hands. “I will do it,” he said. “Good,” responded the sentry. “You must puncture each eye with a powerful stroke, leaving nothing to sight. The purgation must extend to all that you see.”
Closing his eyes and bracing, the man tightened his grip on the dagger and drove it into his eye. He shrieked and fell forward onto the table. “Again!” cried the visitor. “You must strike the other eye! Resolve to do it and you will see again!” Straightening, the old man gathered his courage and plunged the dagger into the other eye, cutting off his sight entirely. All was dark, and blood poured over his face. “I see nothing!” he burst out to the sentry. “Strike again, and harder!”