Day 98

Joshua 7–8 | Acts 2:1–13

They didn’t know what to expect.

The disciples had been waiting—obedient, uncertain, but hopeful. Jesus had promised something life-changing. But how do you prepare for something you can’t imagine?

Then it hit.

Loud. Chaotic. Borderline unhinged.

Men and women poured into the streets, speaking in languages they shouldn’t know. Bold. Unfiltered. Unashamed.

People from every nation under heaven—Parthians, Medes, Egyptians, Romans—hearing their own words spoken by Galileans who had never left their homeland.

It looked like madness. Some thought they were drunk. But there was no mistake about it.

God was on the move. The Spirit had come. And the world would never be the same.

When Unity Feels Impossible

Sometimes I look at the Church today and wonder why it feels so fractured. Different denominations. Different preferences. Different convictions. It feels like we’re constantly splitting hairs—worship styles, theological nuances, social stances—each drawing a line that divides us further.

Worship wars. Social media battles. Churches splitting over things that feel small in light of the cross. And it’s easy to feel cynical—like the unity Jesus prayed for in John 17 was just a lofty ideal that never quite took hold.

But then I remember Pentecost.

Unity wasn’t something the disciples manufactured. It wasn’t a strategy they devised. It wasn’t a product of their determination or a well-crafted vision statement.

It was a gift. A miracle. God moving.

They didn’t make unity happen. The Spirit did. All they had to do was be there—waiting, praying, surrendering. And when He came, the barriers fell. Language barriers. Cultural barriers. Religious barriers. All shattered in an instant when God showed up.

When Unity Feels Like a Memory

Sometimes the deepest wounds come from inside the church. The place where we expect to find love and acceptance can end up being where we feel the most hurt. People who are always there but don’t know Jesus. People who hurt others in the name of faith. People who show up to church but leave Christ out of it.

It’s not lost on me that sometimes the church itself causes more harm than good. And then there are those who walked away. Who got tired of the politics, the drama, the disillusionment. Who just couldn’t find a church that felt like home anymore.

I saw it firsthand last week in a group of friends I used to serve with two decades ago. We gathered for a reunion—a chance to catch up and remember what was. We talked about old times, about ministry and life. But so many of them joked about being “pajama Christians” today—sitting on their couches, watching online services. Not because they don’t love God. But because no church now will ever be as good as the one we all were part of twenty years ago.

I get it. We shared something special back then. We were on mission together. We served, prayed, grew, and leaned on each other. And now, they’re waiting for a church that feels like that again. Waiting for the perfect mix of passion and purpose. Waiting for a place that feels like home.

But that’s not how the Spirit works. He doesn’t call us to nostalgia. He calls us to His presence. To lean into the imperfect community He’s placed around us right now. Unity isn’t about finding the ideal church. It’s about surrendering to the Spirit who makes imperfect people one.

When Unity Costs Something

Unity doesn’t come cheap. It cost Jesus His life. And it costs me my pride. My comfort. My desire to have it my way.

Sometimes it means forgiving when I’d rather stay mad. Sometimes it means laying down my preferences so someone else can feel at home. Sometimes it means serving when I’d rather sit.

And honestly? Sometimes I don’t want to. I’d rather protect my comfort than sacrifice for the sake of unity. Like when someone’s words sting, and every part of me wants to hold a grudge instead of extending grace.

I’d rather be right than reconciled.

But that’s the paradox of following Christ.

Unity requires death to self. Because without surrender, I’m just building my own kingdom. And in that death, the Spirit breathes new life—life that looks more like Christ and less like me.

It’s not about forcing people to think like me. It’s about remembering that we belong to something bigger than ourselves. One Spirit. One body. One mission.

One Spirit, One Purpose

Pentecost wasn’t just a language miracle. It was a declaration. The gospel is for everyone. Not just Jews. Not just those who look like us. But Parthians and Medes, Egyptians and Cretans. You and me.

The message was clear: God speaks to people exactly where they are.

He didn’t make them all sound the same. He didn’t create uniformity. He honored their differences—revealed His power through diversity.

And that’s the beauty of Pentecost. Unity doesn’t erase individuality. It embraces it. It shows that God’s glory shines through our differences, not in spite of them.

When I Think About Unity

I think about how often I try to force it. Expecting people to think like me. Worship like me. Agree with me. And when they don’t, I get frustrated. I want people to see it my way, because I’m convinced my way is the right way.

But God doesn’t call me to uniformity. He calls me to unity. To lay down my preferences for the sake of the gospel. To recognize that the Spirit works through all kinds of people in all kinds of ways.

Unity isn’t just a miracle we witness. It’s a gift we live out—one that shows the world a love that crosses every line and breaks every barrier.

⸻

Lord, make me a person who seeks unity through Your Spirit. Not by demanding sameness, but by celebrating the differences You created. Help me be humble enough to listen. Gracious enough to forgive. Bold enough to love those who see things differently. Let Your Spirit move through me to build unity in Your Church, even when it costs me something.

Amen.