When the Civil War in the United States broke out, the Episcopal churches in the seceded states of the South formed the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Confederate States of America. While some historians argue that the split was pragmatic since it would be hard to govern a church across two warring nations, the reality is that the splinter denomination did support the institution of chattel slavery. They tolerated the perverted teaching of “Christian slavery”- claiming care and concern for the enslaved people who were legally, socially, and spiritually considered property.
In 1862, the Episcopal General Convention met in New York City. The war was raging and the states and institutions of the Union were under immense pressure. The leadership of the Northern church made a radical decision to continue with their convention with an eye toward unity in Christ, even knowing that their Southern siblings had broken faith with that unity.
During the roll call of the states, the Secretary of the Convention called out the names of the Southern dioceses (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, etc.) just as he did for the Northern ones. On the floor of the convention, empty chairs were placed for the Southern bishops and deputies. By refusing to remove the chairs, the Northern church was signaling that the South was not "gone" or "excommunicated"—they were simply "absent." The leadership of the 1862 convention held a radical, stubborn hope:: "We are not two churches; we are one church with some members who are currently unable to attend."
The real drama occurred in October 1865, just months after the war ended. The General Convention met in Philadelphia. The atmosphere in the country was toxic and vengeful, yet the Episcopal leadership sent word to the Southern bishops that their "seats were waiting." No one was sure what would happen. No one was entirely sure what should happen.
Here is what did happen on the first day as recounted in a sermon by the Reverend Morgan Dix, delivered just weeks later:
When the Convention assembled in St. Luke's Church, for the opening service, one of the southern Bishops was there. He came alone, and took a seat among the congregation: he looked like a stranger. That was a sight which his brethren in the Apostolic Episcopate could not bear. They saw him; they became uneasy. At last they sent a dignified messenger to tell him that he must come to them. Then he hesitated no longer; he arose, and just as he was, with no vestment or robe of office, passed up to the chancel and went to his brethren. I was told that there was not a dry eye in that august company at that moment. Men felt that GOD was giving answer to the question whether this Church could be one again. (
People remembered the passionate singing of hymns during that convention, giving God the glory. Did the moment of reunion and welcome fix everything? No, there remained historical pain, work to be done, changes to make, but the hope of unity kept the chairs out, kept the names on the rolls, kept the prayers going, kept the invitations ready to be sent. That moment of restoration could never have happened if at least one side had not remained attuned to the Spirit’s urging- even during the bleakest hours.
In today’s reading from 1 Corinthians, Paul writes to a church that is obsessed with "branding." They are divided into fan clubs. "I belong to Paul," says one group. "I belong to Apollos," says another. "I belong to Cephas (Peter)." And then there’s the ultra-spiritual group that says, "I belong to Christ," which is always code for "I’m better than all of you."
Paul does not write a soft prayer for peace. He asks a pointed question: "Has Christ been divided?"
For Paul, the message of the cross is foolishness because its message seems useless to a world that needs to know who is on top, who has the most power, who has the best stuff. And if those are your priorities, says Paul to the divided Corinthians, then you might as well be dying. On the other hand, he writes, if we trust the message of the cross, we are saved by its power. That power is the outstretched arms of Christ, a message of forgiveness, a message of the not being forsaken.
When Jesus invited people to follow him, he called fishermen and people who were mending nets, people who were single and lived with their parents, people who were married, a tax collector employed by the Roman occupation, and at least one zealot who wanted to overthrow the Roman occupation. He was followed by people with questions, women with money, and at least one boy with a hefty lunch.
Each of these people followed the Spirit’s urging, whether they recognized it as such or whether they knew it as curiosity or a desire to follow a crowd or just a need for something different. The choice to follow meant setting aside what was known and familiar for this new thing. It is easy for us to assume we would have done the same, but would you have left the family business or your good paying government job or the comforts of your home to follow an itinerant teacher and healer?
In a world filled with the music of Rome, Rome’s power, idols to Rome’s gods, would you sing the song of Jesus? Would you embrace the foolishness of the cross? Would you set out the chairs and issue invitations to people who had cut themselves off from fellowship and unity and who rejected the full humanity of others?
Things are going to get worse before they get better.
For those of us who considered ourselves “being saved”, for those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, for those of us who want to continue to have hope...
We have to figure out how to keep some chairs out for those we disagree with.
We must be prepared to welcome those who wish to pursue unity, togetherness, and work in community for the sake of others.
We have to be ready to leave our nets—our safety, our tribe, our certainty—to follow a wandering teacher into a future we can't control.
That is the discipleship, the baptism, the faithfulness that heals. And it is possible.
Unity is not a feeling; it is an empty chair maintained in the middle of a war. It is the foolish, stubborn refusal to let the fabric stay torn. Isaiah says the people walked in darkness, but Matthew says they sat in darkness. By Matthew’s time, the sense of oppression, political and spiritual, made it almost impossible to move.
It can feel that way, but in lives shaped by Christ’s cross, movement is always possible. Even in the sitting, there is a way forward.
I have a song to sing in the night, and so do you. I have a little light to shine, and so do you. I have chairs to set out. And so do you. Amen.
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