“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity.” Psalm 133:1

I see this verse a lot. Heard it read before potlucks and prayer meetings. Seen it in bulletins, cross-stitched into beautiful art pieces, printed on poster-sized banners. And I’ve nodded and smiled at it, thinking I understood what it meant. As if I knew what unity was.

Here lately I’m wondering, have I missed it? Have I confused unity with something easier? Agreement. Sameness. Getting along to maintain the status quo. Not fighting in public.

I don’t have it figured out. That’s why I’m writing about it.

Two stories came out of my thinking recently, and I think they uncovered something I’ve been avoiding—not because I’m hiding, but because it’s uncomfortable.

In White Paint, a woman named Margaret sits in church and hears the pastor read “whitewashed tombs.” The phrase lands on her like an anvil. Her church family tells her she needs to look right, act right, hold it together. Margaret knows what that’s like. Beautiful on the outside. But inside? Everything is falling apart. The passage doesn’t accuse her. It’s worse. She feels that God sees her. Broken and worthless.

In The Weight of the Keys, a man named Warren hears the same sermon, sitting a few rows away from Margaret. He’s on the advisory committee. He carries the keys of the church on his belt. So when Warren hears the same passage, he thinks about how people take Scripture too personally. He notices Margaret flinch, assumes she’s the problem in the equation, and is glad he’s not like her.

Same sanctuary. Same Scripture. Two people experiencing completely different realities.

I want to say I’m Margaret in this story, feeling convicted about how pretty I look on the outside while inside I feel terrible, wondering how God could use me.

Unfortunately, most days I’m Warren.

Not the villain. Not corrupt or abusive. Just confident I understand the context. Quick to notice when someone else flinches. Slow to ask what they might be carrying, instead of assuming I already know.

I’ve been the guy with the keys. Literally and metaphorically. The guy who shows up early, stays late, knows how things work. And somewhere in that familiarity, I stopped noticing who might be standing on the other side of the door.

That’s a hard thing to admit.

Unity asks something of me I’m not always willing to give. It asks me to sit with people who hear the same passage and walk away with a completely different weight on their shoulders. It asks me to stop assuming the hard words are for someone else.

It asks me to wonder if I’m standing guard over something meant to be open.

I think about people outside the church watching us. They don’t see our theology. They don’t hear our doctrine. They see how we treat each other. They see the person holding the keys. They notice the person who flinches. They’re watching to see whether we make room or rules.

If we can’t figure out how to sit in the same room and really see each other, not just tolerate each other, what kind of example are we setting?

I don’t have an answer.

I’m not sure I’m even asking the right question yet.

But I’m trying to notice where I’m standing.

And who’s standing next to me.

This reflection accompanies two short stories: White Paint and The Weight of the Keys. They’re meant to be read together, though not explained. Sometimes fiction says what essays can’t.