If unity is defined only by surface-level agreement and outward harmony, what happens to truth? What happens to conscience?
Psalm 78 paints a beautiful, generational picture of truth being passed down: the fathers were to tell their children the works of God—so the next generation might set their hope in Him. In a similar way, Titus 2 calls godly women to be “teachers of good things,” encouraging and guiding those who come after them. At the center of that calling is Christ Himself—the Living Word, the source of all truth and grace.
Because Christ had saved her from sin, Lena cherished God’s Word—not as mere instruction, but as life-giving truth. It was, as Hebrews 4:12 says, “sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow,” and “a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.” That’s why the changes around her troubled her so deeply. The women spoke warmly of how they had once found things here new and challenging, but had gradually adjusted and learned to “fit in.” Their stories seemed sincere, yet something was missing: there was little reference to Scripture—no call to examine the Word or to grow in Christ. Instead, unity was described in terms of shared experience and outward conformity. Lena didn’t believe they were doing this intentionally. In fact, that was part of what concerned her. They didn’t seem to realize the shift that had taken place—the subtle but steady replacement of biblical persuasion with the pressure to conform.
And when unity is built on fitting in rather than on truth, something essential is lost. The very power that can transform hearts and draw the next generation to Christ is quietly pushed aside. What remains may look like unity, but it lacks the depth of fellowship that comes from walking in the light with Christ. True unity begins with the Word—not with blending into a group.
Lena deeply valued esteeming others in love. She desired to honor leadership and walk in humility. But as the pressures from a leader who had begun to redefine unity surfaced, she found herself slowly bending—not out of grace, but out of fear. The unspoken expectation to “fit in” grew stronger. More than once, she was advised to “get over her conscience,” as though conviction was something to be dismissed for the sake of peace. But Lena knew that wasn’t biblical unity. It wasn’t humility either. It was compromise—quietly cloaked in the language of harmony.
Still, she held her questions back. Though concerns stirred within her, she kept them quietly tucked away. The man in leadership had already cautioned her husband about the potential consequences of raising questions. He was the spiritual authority, yes—but he also spoke of himself as anointed, which, in practice, made it difficult to ask even sincere questions. Whether seeking clarification or a deeper understanding, such inquiries were often viewed not as part of healthy dialogue, but as signs of resistance.
It all unfolded slowly. Over time, subtle shifts in language and emphasis began to reshape how the church functioned. One quiet but significant change stood out to Lena: the understanding of church no longer seemed rooted in Scripture or in the presence of Christ among His people—“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20). Instead, it increasingly reflected the perspective of the pastor himself. The true Head of the church—“which is his body, the fulness of him that filleth all in all” (Ephesians 1:22–23)—appeared, in practice, to be gently eclipsed by the influence of one man.
That quiet redefinition began to shift the church’s direction over time. Lena first noticed it during a church business meeting, when the pastor reinterpreted the process of church discipline. His version bypassed the steps of Matthew 18 and replaced them with his own judgment. It made her uneasy—especially for those who might come under such correction without the voice of the church, but rather, under the weight of one man’s opinion.
Lena hadn’t wanted to violate her conscience, but the pressure to conform was real. The pastor had assured them that a letter of transfer—something she and her husband had requested after recognizing growing concerns about biblical clarity in the church—would be provided soon. Wanting to avoid unnecessary tension in the meantime, Lena chose not to press the issue. Hoping to maintain peace and avoid disruption, she agreed to accompany a song that clearly troubled her spirit. Though it went against her convictions, she remained quiet, telling herself it was only temporary and that keeping the peace was worth it. But the peace she hoped for never came. A few months later, the very consequences she had quietly feared unfolded—not toward her, but toward her husband. The leader, reminiscent of Diotrephes in 3 John 9–10, took steps to remove him from the church, issuing a list of accusations that seemed less rooted in careful discernment and more aimed at distancing anyone who did not fully conform to his definition of unity.
Lena watched with growing sorrow as group think seemed to settle over the leadership. The groundwork had been laid gradually—subtle shifts in language and structure had begun to redefine the word church as conformity to a single voice. The pastor’s word, though perhaps not intentionally elevated, was treated by many as unquestionable. Questions were discouraged. Cautionary voices grew quiet. “Touch not the Lord’s anointed,” he had said. And so the idea of unity—once meant to bind the body of Christ in love and truth—had become something else entirely: a tool to silence dissent and suppress sincere concerns.
In the end, Lena saw it clearly: fitting in is not the same as thinking biblically. And group think is not the same as godly unity. Where truth is absent, unity is a mirage. Where conscience is denied, harmony becomes hollow. Unity must be defined by Scripture, not by the comfort of the crowd or the commands of a controlling leader.
This realization left Lena with a deep ache—but also a renewed hunger for truth. It stirred her to ask:
Where have I quietly chosen comfort over conviction?
Have I confused niceness with love?
Have I kept silent in moments when the next generation needed courage?
Do I know the difference between peacekeeping and peacemaking?
These were not just questions for Lena—they are questions for all of us. If we are called, as Psalm 78 says, “to shew to the generation to come the praises of the Lord, and his strength, and his wonderful works that he hath done,” and if, as Titus 2 instructs, “the aged women [are to] teach the young women… [to be] teachers of good things,” then we must be willing to discern between appearances and substance—between true biblical unity and the counterfeit comfort of group think. That comfort often overtakes when it slips in quietly—when people don’t realize what’s happening or fail to see how a leader is slowly redefining words, priorities, or practices. Without careful discernment, the shift can go unnoticed—until unity is no longer grounded in truth, but in silent agreement.
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