“That they may be one, as we are one”

This title comes from Jesus' words in John 17. It’s part of a lengthy prayer (the whole of chapter 17) immediately before his arrest in the garden of Gethsemane. Let’s start by placing those words in their immediate context of verses 20–24, and then consider what Jesus had in mind.

20 “I ask not only on behalf of these but also on behalf of those who believe in me through their word, 21 that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. 22 The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, 23 I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. 24 Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world.  

It seems clear that these words are directed at Christian unity in some way. But it doesn’t take long before a stream of questions comes to mind. What did Jesus mean by that? What, exactly, would it look like in practice? How do we make it happen? Surely it “takes two to tango,” so how does it work when some Christians or groups decide they are unwilling to “be one” with others? On what grounds do they make that decision? How can they be sure that God is happy to endorse the exemption from being “one” that they have granted themselves? Did Jesus have in mind only a purely “spiritual” oneness (“one in spirit”) that allows us to disassociate from other Christians in practice? So many questions!

It would be rather too easy to quietly write off this passage as ideal but impractical (aka, personally inconvenient). Rather like Jesus saying to the rich young man, “Go, sell everything you have and give it to the poor.” Thanks for that, Jesus; a lovely aspirational idea, but obviously not something that’s ever going to happen in reality. This fits with settling for it being no more than a “spiritual” oneness, which requires no action or effort on our part; no messy relational nitty-gritty to deal with.       

We could speculate further, but let’s look a little more closely at the passage to see if there are some potential clues—assuming, of course, that we’re interested in pursuing Christian unity in the first place. (I’m fairly sure that not all Christians are, except on their own terms, which really is missing the point.)

The first thing we see is that this is a prayer of Jesus, asking the Father for it to be so. It’s not a command to us. I’m not suggesting that “gets us off the hook” in any way; there’s no reason to think that the distinction dilutes its importance in God’s eyes. That said—and back to the “ideal, but impractical” verdict—why would Jesus’ prayer not have been answered? Unless, once again, the whole thing is all about a technical “spiritual” oneness that is fulfilled without any of us having to get our hands dirty: true in the spiritual realm, which is under God’s control.    

The second thing we see is that we can’t write this off as directed only to Jesus’ immediate disciples at the time. He is explicitly asking “also on behalf” of those who will subsequently believe in Jesus, which includes Christians today.   

The third thing is the nature of the unity Jesus is seeking: modelled on the manner in which the Trinity is one. I guess it’s possible to get angels dancing on pinheads by suggesting that since God is spirit (John 4:24) rather than in physical form, the unity Jesus is desiring must itself be (merely) spiritual. But again, that seems more designed to get us off the hook of actually having to get involved in the prayer’s fulfilment than a required reading from the text.

Let’s be blunt: (a) there could hardly be any closer model of real, actual oneness than the Trinity, and (b) if this is something Jesus desires (as it clearly is), then we surely ought to be active, rather than passive, in cooperating with God and each other to help bring it about.

The fourth thing we see is the objective—not necessarily the only objective, but certainly an important one—“so that the world may believe . . . so that the world may know.” Believe and know what? According to the passage, that the Father sent Jesus, and that he loves us in the same way he loves his Son. Hmm, those are pretty significant divine objectives for Christian unity, aren't they?

If we flip this, might there be the implication that the absence of Christian oneness will be damaging or diminishing the world believing in Jesus and the Father’s love for them? Probably, yes.     

So much, perhaps, for the exegetical side. Like any good sermon, we have to move on to the application. Christian faith is not simply about believing the right things cognitively and adding to our personal store of facts and information about God. It’s a doing-something-about-it faith as well.

Faith is, as I have often said, a “doing” word, not a “thinking” or “believing” word (or at least, without the “doing,” the others are irrelevant—likely to mislead us about faith’s meaning).    

The application is where the rubber hits the road here, or perhaps, when the car runs off the road. And down a cliff. The most reliable estimates I can find suggest there are in the region of 50,000 different Christian denominations. That’s a lot more than one. Obviously, the data is limited and requires some interrogation, but any figure even remotely approaching that would seem to make the point. And that’s before we include so-called “independent” churches.

Perhaps institutions are not what the prayer had in mind. Maybe Jesus and the Father were thinking of oneness only spanning denominational boundaries, between individuals. Like someone in a Baptist church being friends with someone in an Anglican church—and they avoid discussing politics or religion.     

The traditional definition of who is a “proper” Christian is actually very minimalist in scope: essentially, it’s affirming the Apostles’ Creed (or the very similar but slightly longer Nicene Creed). Arguably, therefore, there is an automatic oneness at that level. But given the lack of oneness in practice within the Christian world, which is clearly evident to the outside world, there is little to suggest the “so that” of the prayer is being achieved: “so that the world may believe . . . so that the world may know.”

It seems deeply ironic that although the historic definition of a Christian is framed in these minimalist terms (no doubt intentionally so on the part of those who produced those first Creeds), our lack of oneness—our disunity—emanates from things that Christians have subsequently added to the list: “I can’t be one with you, I can’t identify with you, because you don’t agree with what I believe about such-and-such.” The implication? “God agrees with me on that . . . this one is a clear exception.”

In other words, “This belief of mine” (maybe it’s a set of beliefs) “is so important in God’s eyes that he is perfectly happy for me to disassociate from you because of it. Indeed, he’s proud of you taking a stand for him.”

Now, to be clear, I am not seeking to imply that “anything goes” in terms of beliefs and practices. For example, I appreciate the difficulties in knowing what to do with this passage when it comes to what we might call Christian-like groups, such as Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses (albeit, since they do not subscribe to creedal Christianity, perhaps it’s not so difficult).

Closer to home, can Pentecostal and charismatic Christians easily “be one” with cessationists who, not to put too fine a point on it, consider claims to the present-day gifts of the Spirit to be counterfeit—fake? To what extent can we achieve—should we want to achieve—"agreeing to disagree” while maintaining a genuine and respectful oneness? Disagreeing without being disagreeable.            

Perhaps the most headline-grabbing example for all these questions is the ongoing dispute concerning same-sex unions. An Anglican group, the Church of England Evangelical Council (CEEC), has set up the “Ephesian Fund,” the objective of which is to divert funding exclusively towards evangelical parishes that are against same-sex unions and to deny it to any who disagree with them (which feels rather like besieging a city in olden days until the inhabitants starved to death—effective tactics).

Clearly, the CRRC thinks this issue is so very important (they must think it’s so in God’s eyes, too) that their response—based in established capitalist tactics, likely dreamed up by some Christian businessmen—is proportionate and appropriate. The strategy may win some battles—at the cost of many casualties—but I suspect it may not win many hearts and minds. But perhaps they’re not interested in that. Quashing dissent is the goal, however it comes about; a less physically violent version of the Crusades?

Even more drastic—and again within the Anglican Communion—is the recent decision by the Global Anglican Future Conference (GAFCON) to sever relations with the historic Canterbury-led Anglican Communion, declaring itself the “Global Anglican Communion.” Since it claims to represent some 85% of Anglicans—“My Communion’s bigger than your Communion”—this is no small thing. The headline issue here is, once again, same-sex marriage and also, in this case, the appointment of a woman as Primate (Sarah Mullally).

I guess at the end of the day, each of us—each Christian, each church, each parachurch organisation (where did they come from …?) and each denomination—needs to “work out our salvation with fear and trembling” when it comes to how our attitudes and behaviours align with Jesus’ prayer in John 17. The Father, presumably, desires to answer it affirmatively, but he has to navigate the potential roadblocks of human freewill along the way.

Which suggests it might really be all about us, rather than him.

Here’s the question: Are we, personally, currently advancing God’s desire to see oneness among Christian believers? To the extent we are not, actively or passively, are we absolutely sure that the issues we are claiming as justification are as important to Father, Son, and Spirit as we are making them? That is the acid test. Not least because, in John 17, there’s no textual support for exceptions.  

A fresh, open-minded look at the John 17 passage might prompt us to reconsider.