Unity in Conflict: A Counter-Cultural Approach
Week 1: Conflict: Inevitable, Yet Positive
The Illusion of a Conflict-Free Life
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to always be right and to always get what you want? If you pause and imagine it for a moment, it sounds like that would simplify almost everything. There would be no disagreements to work through, no awkward conversations where you have to backtrack or admit you were wrong, no tension over decisions—where to go out for dinner, what to do on vacation, how to spend your time or order your life together. Everything would simply fall into place, and at first, that almost sounds like perfect peace.
In The Stepford Wives, a woman named Joanna moves to a suburban town where everything seems almost perfect. Maybe too perfect. The women are kind, attentive, agreeable, endlessly accommodating, and always romantically available to their husbands. Yet as the story unfolds, Joanna discovers that the reason is that the men in the town have replaced their wives with robots! What initially appears to be harmony is revealed to be something far more unsettling. Conflict has been eliminated, but so has the reality of a real relationship. And while that mystery-thriller story is extreme, the instinct behind it is not. Perhaps in more subtle ways, we are inclined to diminish the personhood of others around us. When conflict arises, we want to resolve it quickly, to win the argument, or move past the tension without truly engaging the person in front of us. But the person you are in conflict with is not merely a position to correct or a problem to solve. They are someone created in the image of God. Which means that if conflict is inevitable—and it is—the deeper question is not whether we will face it, but who we will become in the midst of conflict?
The Image of God and the Layers of the Self
When we turn to Genesis 1, we are stepping into a world as God intended it to be. At the climax of creation, we read, “So God created mankind in his own image… and God saw all that he had made, and it was very good” (Genesis 1:26, 31, NIV). This is not only a statement about where we come from, but about who we are. To be made in the image of God is to carry a God-given dignity, to reflect something of His character into the world, and to bear a worth that is not earned but God-given. And yet, as foundational as that truth is, it is remarkably easy to forget that if I am made in the image of God, then so is every other person as well—including the one I find myself in conflict with. But conflict has a way of narrowing our vision until we are no longer engaging a person but reacting to a position. We begin to flatten the other person, reducing them to something more manageable in our own minds.
Betty Pries, in her book The Space Between Us, offers a helpful way of understanding what is happening beneath the surface of those reactions. She suggests that we tend to live out of three layers of the self. The descriptive self names what is simply true about us—our story, our background, our identity—without judgment or distortion. The defended self develops over time as we learn to protect what matters to us; it manages our image, avoids pain, and reacts when we feel threatened. And then there is the deeper self, the place where we are most grounded and most aligned with who God created us to be, less driven by fear and more open to grace, curiosity, and generosity.
When Paul the Apostle writes that “the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh” (Galatians 5:17, NIV), we begin to see a clear parallel. What Pries calls the defended self aligns closely with what Scripture calls the flesh—that inward pull toward self-protection, control, and self-assertion. Whereas the deeper self reflects life in the Spirit, where we are no longer governed by fear but are freed to live in openness and love.
In the midst of conflict, we instinctively lean into that defended self. We tell ourselves the most generous possible story about our own motives, while telling a far less generous story about the other person. We inflate ourselves and deflate them, creating a dividing line between “us” and “them.” The good guys and the bad guys. And in doing so, we begin to lose sight of the image of God—not only in the other person, but even in ourselves.
A Unity Centred on Christ & The Recognition That I Am Not
Jesus never prayed that His followers would always agree, but He did pray that they would be one. As Ronald J. Kraybill observes, “Jesus’ desire that his followers become one suggests that he knew we would struggle with division. He did not pray that we would always agree, but that we would stay together in the same love that bound Jesus to the Father. We stay together so that the world may know.”
This is the kind of community we are called to be. Not a community without conflict, but a community that remains in love in the midst of conflict. And this is where the confession of John the Baptist becomes so significant. In the Gospel of John, when he is asked whether he is the chosen one, the people have been waiting for, John the Baptist responds simply: “I am not the Christ” (John 1:20, NIV). This confession that “I am not the Christ” has the power to de-centre us from ourselves and to instead re-centre on Jesus. Because in moments of tension, we are often tempted to place ourselves at the center—to defend and justify ourselves and our own perspective. But when we say, “I am not the Christ,” we step out of that false center of the defended self. We are reminded that we do not need to control the outcome, that we do not need to win, and that we are not the ones holding everything together. Rather, Christ is. And when Christ becomes the center, our conflicts do not disappear, but they are no longer ultimate. We are holding onto something greater, something that allows us to remain in relationship even when we do not always agree.
The Practice of Presence
This leads us into a different way of being in the midst of conflict, one that is grounded not in avoidance or control, but in presence. We are invited to be present with God, present with ourselves, and present with one another. This kind of presence requires growing in self-awareness, learning to notice what is happening within us when tension arises. When anger surfaces, or offence takes hold, it is often a signal that something deeper is at stake, that some part of our defended self feels threatened. Rather than reacting immediately, we are invited to become attentive. We begin to ask what is happening beneath the surface, whether we are experiencing a loss of security, identity, or place? These are not easy questions, but they are essential if we are to remain present in conflict. Because when we bring that awareness into the presence of God, something begins to shift. We create space to slow down, to listen, and to respond with intentionality from the deeper self and respond to the leading of the Spirit, rather than react out of instinct from the defended self and the flesh. And in that space, a different kind of community begins to take shape. Not one without conflict, but one marked by a commitment to remain in love, a community that is not centred on always being right, but centred on Christ. And as we learn to live from that Jesus-centred paradigm, we begin to embody the unity of the Spirit that Jesus prayed for—a unity that is formed even in the very midst of our differences.
Dwelling in Dissonance: Standing Up and Standing Back
John 18:12–27
Introduction: The Tension Within Us
Have you ever found yourself caught in that uncomfortable space between what you know is right and what feels safe? Where part of you wants to stand up with courage and conviction, while another part of you wants to step back, remain quiet, and avoid whatever cost might come from being seen or identified?
John 18 brings us directly into that tension. Jesus has just been arrested and taken to the house of the high priest, while Peter lingers outside in the courtyard, standing close enough to see what is happening, yet far enough away to remain unnoticed and it is in that in-between space—neither fully fleeing nor fully standing with Jesus—that we begin to recognize something deeply familiar about our own experience of discipleship. As this passage unfolds and Peter denies Christ three times, it exposes three tensions that continue to shape the life of faith: the tension between fear and courage, the tension between winning and losing, and the tension between trauma and compassion.
- Fear and Courage: The Quiet Compromise
The contrast between Jesus and Peter in this passage is striking, because while Jesus stands before the high priest and speaks openly about his teaching, declaring that he has said nothing in secret, Peter stands outside responding to simple questions with repeated denials, insisting that he does not know the very one he had so recently vowed to follow.
What makes this moment particularly revealing is that Peter had already demonstrated courage earlier in the evening when he drew his sword in the garden, acting boldly—if misguidedly—in defence of Jesus, and yet now, in a situation where the danger is no longer hypothetical but immediate, his courage begins to dissolve into fear.
And what Peter does next is something many of us recognize, because he does not run away entirely, but instead chooses to remain near while quietly distancing himself, attempting to stay connected without being identified, which reveals how fear often works in subtle ways, not always leading us to abandon our faith outright, but gently reshaping our posture so that we remain present but uncommitted, nearby but not visible.
In those moments, the rooster’s crow becomes more than a narrative detail; it becomes a mirror reminding us of the times when fear has quietly influenced our choices in ways we did not fully recognize until later.
- Winning and Losing: Rethinking Faithfulness
The second tension emerges as we consider how quickly Peter’s expectations collapse, because only hours earlier, he had every reason to believe that he was on the side of victory, having witnessed Jesus’ authority over sickness, nature, and even death, and likely assuming that this story would culminate in triumph over Israel’s enemies.
But the arrest of Jesus shatters that expectation, as the one who seemed unstoppable now allows himself to be bound, questioned, and struck, appearing, by every outward measure, to be losing. And it is in that moment that Peter’s denial begins to make sense, because courage is much easier to sustain when we believe we are on the winning side, when the future appears secure, and success seems inevitable, but when circumstances suggest that following Jesus may lead not to victory but to vulnerability, the temptation to distance ourselves becomes far stronger.
Yet John’s Gospel invites us to see that what appears to be defeat is actually the unfolding of God’s glory, because the cross is not the failure of Jesus’ mission but the very means through which God’s redeeming love is revealed. This challenges our assumptions about success, reminding us that the kingdom of God does not advance through the preservation of power or the avoidance of suffering, but through the costly, self-giving love that Jesus embodies, a love that may at times look, from the outside, very much like losing.
- Trauma and Compassion: Understanding Peter’s Failure
The third tension invites us to look more closely at Peter’s denial, not simply as a moral failure to be judged, but as a deeply human response to fear and perceived danger, because Peter is standing in an environment where his teacher has just been arrested, and the authorities who have taken Jesus are close enough to question him directly.
In moments like this, the human instinct is to move toward self-preservation, whether through fighting, fleeing, freezing, or attempting to blend in, and Peter’s denial reflects that instinct at work as he seeks to avoid the consequences of being identified with Jesus.
Recognizing this does not excuse his actions, but it does invite us to see him with compassion, because the same story that reveals Peter’s failure also reveals the grace that will later restore him, as the one who denies Jesus three times becomes the one who boldly proclaims him in the early church. Peter’s story reminds us that our moments of fear do not have the final word, because the faithfulness of Jesus is greater than the fragility of his followers.
Gospel Invitation: The Faithfulness of Jesus
At the heart of this passage, the deepest contrast is not simply between Peter’s fear and Jesus’ courage, but between Peter’s instinct to protect himself and Jesus’ willingness to give himself, because while Peter seeks safety through denial, Jesus speaks openly, even though it leads him toward suffering and the cross. This is where the gospel becomes clear, because the good news is not that we must somehow find the strength to be as courageous as Jesus in every moment, but that Jesus remained faithful even when his disciples faltered, and that the salvation of the world rests not on us, but on Christ’s obedience. The cross becomes the place where our failures meet the mercy of God, where the one who never stood back gives himself fully for those who so often do, and where grace proves itself stronger than fear.
Conclusion: Returning to Grace
The story of Peter in the courtyard confronts us with a tension we all recognize, because there are moments when we find ourselves caught between standing up and standing back, between courage and fear, between faithfulness and self-protection. Yet the final word of this passage does not belong to Peter’s denial, but to Jesus’ faithfulness, because the same Lord who stood firm before the high priest is the one who walks willingly toward the cross in order to redeem fearful disciples. And so the sound of the rooster’s crow is not only a reminder of failure, but an invitation, an invitation to return to the grace of Christ, who meets us not in our strength, but in our weakness, and who patiently forms in us a courage that is not rooted in our own strength, but in his unfailing love.
Amen.
Dwelling in Dissonance: The Towel and the Basin
John 13:1–17
Introduction: Lent and the Practices That Reveal Our Hearts
As we come to the second Sunday of Lent, we enter a season that invites us not simply to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus as a past event, but to reflect more deeply on its meaning and to consider how we ourselves participate in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ through faith, not only in what we believe, but in how we live.
For me, this season has taken on a very practical expression over the past couple of years, as I have chosen to fast both pop and Frappuccinos during Lent, which may sound like a small thing, but it has become a meaningful spiritual discipline, because fasting has a way of disrupting our normal rhythms and exposing what is going on beneath the surface of our lives in ways we might otherwise overlook. What I have noticed is that there are moments when I instinctively reach for those comforts not out of hunger, but out of anxiety or a desire to relieve stress, and those moments have become invitations to pause and ask a deeper question, namely, why am I not bringing those same needs to Jesus, and what might it look like to re-center my life around Jesus in those very places of tension where I am most tempted not to?
- Jesus Knew—and Still Chose Love
Reading the Gospels, people often wonder, did Jesus know he was going to die? As John introduces this scene, he makes it unmistakably clear that Jesus was not caught off guard by what was about to happen, but that “Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father” (John 13:1, NIV), and that everything that followed unfolded within the context of that awareness and intentionality.
This is not a story of accidental suffering or unforeseen tragedy, but of deliberate obedience, because Jesus had previously stepped away from danger when the timing was not yet right (cf. John 7:30), yet now, at the appointed time, he moves forward willingly, embracing what lies ahead rather than resisting it. And the reason for that movement is given to us in one of the most profound summaries of the gospel in John’s writing: “having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end” (John 13:1, NIV), which tells us that everything that follows—including the cross—is rooted not in compulsion, but in love that is steadfast and complete. Jesus not only knew that he would die, but he also knew that he would be betrayed, for “the devil had already prompted Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot, to betray Jesus” (John 13:2, NIV), and yet even in that emotional and relational tension, he does not withdraw or harden his heart, but instead chooses to remain present, and loving.
- The Towel and the Basin: A Kingdom Turned Upside Down
It is in that context—knowing what is coming, knowing who will betray him—that Jesus does something deeply unexpected, because “he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist… and began to wash his disciples’ feet” (John 13:4–5, NIV), entering into a task that would have been considered beneath someone of his status. This act would have been startling in its original setting, because foot washing was the work of the lowest servant in the household, and yet here is Jesus, the one whom they rightly call Teacher and Lord, choosing to serve from below rather than assert his position from above. The towel and the basin become, therefore, a powerful symbol of the nature of Christ’s ministry, because they reveal a kingdom that operates according to a completely different logic, one in which greatness is expressed not through status or power, but through humility, self-giving, and a willingness to enter into the needs of others.
When Jesus returns to his place at the table and asks, “Do you understand what I have done for you?” (John 13:12, NIV), the implied answer is that they likely do not fully grasp it yet, and perhaps we do not either, because it is one thing to admire the humility of Jesus from a distance, but another thing entirely to embody it in the ordinary, sometimes inconvenient realities of our own lives. Yet the command is clear and unmistakable, because Jesus tells them, “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet… I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you” (John 13:14–15, NIV), setting a pattern of life that is meant to be lived out in practical, everyday acts of service.
- Doing What Jesus Did: From Inner Work to Relational Action
As I reflected on this passage, I found myself asking where I have truly taken up the towel and the basin in my own life, not in theory, but in practice, particularly in situations where relationships have been strained, complicated, or even painful. I shared last week about a season in my early ministry that involved being let go and then rehired, but although I continued in that same role for five more years, I came to realize later that I was still carrying unresolved hurt from that experience. A few years later, during a time of intentional reflection with a spiritual director, I was invited to name those experiences honestly, to write them down, and then, one by one, to release those things to the Lord, and what I discovered in that process was just how much I had been carrying without even realizing it. But that inner work was only part of the journey, because eventually I also sensed the need to pursue a conversation with that former colleague, not out of anger but from a place of wanting the best for him, and when that opportunity finally came, I was able to speak honestly while also extending forgiveness. What struck me most in that conversation was that the posture of service did not mean ignoring what had happened or pretending that everything was fine, but rather choosing to engage in a way that sought restoration rather than retaliation, echoing the way of Christ who calls us to love even when it is costly.
The Promise: Blessing in the Way of Jesus
Jesus concludes this teaching not only with a command but with a promise, saying, “Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them” (John 13:17, NIV), which reminds us that the way of humble service is not only the right path, but also the path through which God’s blessing flows into our lives and into the life of the community. This blessing is not necessarily found in ease or comfort, but in alignment with the heart of Christ, as we learn to serve one another in both ordinary and unexpected ways, whether through quiet acts of care, courageous moments of reconciliation, or simply choosing to show up faithfully in the lives of others even when it costs us something.
Conclusion: Taking Up the Towel Together
As your pastor, I want you to know that this is the posture I desire to take among you, not to be served, but to serve. And as we move forward together, especially in a season that may feel uncertain or complex, I hope that we would all take up that same posture, recognizing that following Jesus means learning to serve one another with humility, grace, and love, even when it stretches us or calls us beyond what feels comfortable. We are invited not only to reflect on the example of Jesus, but to participate in it, to take up the towel and the basin in whatever ways God places before us, trusting that as we do, he will guide us, shape us, and form us into a community that reflects his heart more fully. Amen.
