I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought. I Corinthians 1:10
Grandmom!” I shrieked, in the dramatic tone only a seven‑year‑old can achieve. “Duke’s tearing my doll apart!”
My grandmother emerged from the kitchen, wielding a rolled‑up newspaper like she was about to swat a fly the size of Goliath. She waved it at her Boxer, who was enthusiastically shaking poor Maryann as if auditioning for a canine remake of Jaws. Bits of stuffing floated through the air like tragic confetti.
“I’m so sorry, Linda,” Grandmom said, gathering the remains of my beloved rag doll. “I don’t think I can fix her. She’s too torn apart.”
I clutched a few limp scraps of Maryann’s skirt and burst into tears. “He’s a bad dog,” I declared, sentencing Duke to eternal shame.
Grandmom patted my arm. “No, he’s a good dog. But he sometimes does foolish things.”
Reader, I was unconvinced.
But Grandmom was right — and not just about Duke. Humans, it turns out, also do foolish things.
Exhibit A: the church at Corinth.
In this week’s reading, 1 Corinthians 1:1–18, Paul watches the Corinthians do to the unity of the church exactly what Duke did to Maryann — tugging at seams that were meant to hold them together.
“I follow Paul!”
“I follow Apollos!”
“I follow Cephas!”
“I follow Christ!”
It was the first-century version of “My pastor could beat up your pastor,” and it tore the church apart.
Schisms followed — not just disagreements, but full-on “I’m taking my toys and going home” moments. And yet, as John Chrysostom reminds us, “The name of the Church is not one of separation but of unity and harmony.”
In other words: the Church is supposed to be a quilt, not a tug‑of‑war rope.
United, as Pastor Brandon reminded us, doesn’t mean uniform. We don’t all have to like the same worship style, the same preaching cadence, or the same brand of potluck casserole. (Though if you bring Jell‑O salad, we may need to talk.)
Choosing a church that fits your calling is fine. But following a person the way the Corinthians did? That’s where trouble starts. It leads to spiritual elitism — pride, exclusivity, and the kind of “holier-than-thou” posture that makes even the angels roll their eyes.
We shouldn’t follow the baptizer; we should seek the power of the baptism. We are all united under one Cross.
And let’s be honest: every church has “rag‑doll moments.”
We tussle over pastors.
We debate worship styles.
We form factions on social media.
We define ourselves by what we’re against instead of what we’re for.
We may not cause the rip in the seam, but we don’t always pick up a needle either.
Grandmom couldn’t repair my original rag doll, but she made me a new one. As I watched her stitch together Maryann Junior, I realized she was right: Duke was a good dog — he had simply done a foolish thing.
And so do we.
Sometimes we tug at threads without realizing what we’re unraveling. Sometimes we pull at seams that were meant to hold us together. Sometimes we forget that unity isn’t sameness — it’s shared belonging under the Cross.
So here’s the question I’m asking myself this week:
Where am I tugging instead of stitching?
Where is Christ inviting me into the mending?
Closing Prayer
Lord, You are the One who knits Your people together. Teach us to release what divides, to mend what is torn, and to walk in the unity of Your Spirit. Amen.
Reflection
What thread have you been tugging on lately—maybe without even noticing? A relationship, a church conversation, a preference you’ve dug your heels into? What would it look like to pause, breathe, and pick up a needle instead of pulling at a seam?