A Unity the World Resists

Before the coming of this faith, we were held in custody under the law, locked up until the faith that was to come would be revealed. So the law was our guardian [Greek: paidagōgós] until Christ came that we might be justified by faith. Now that this faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian [Galatians 3:23-26].

There are seasons in the life of faith when it feels as though we live under strict supervision. The rules are clear, the boundaries set. Right and wrong are carefully marked, and our spiritual world is fenced by expectations. These seasons can feel confining. But they can also be safe. There is comfort in structure, in knowing where the lines are. Even in the restrictions, there is a kind of protection.

In the Epistle lesson appointed for this upcoming Sunday, Galatians 3:23-29 [the Second Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year C], Paul uses a metaphor to describe this phase of spiritual life: the law was our paidagōgós—our guardian—until Christ came.

The paidagōgós was not quite a teacher, not quite a parent. In the ancient household, the paidagōgós was often a household servant charged with escorting children to their lessons, overseeing their behavior, and ensuring their safety. The paidagōgós held authority, but it was temporary. His role was not to instruct but to prepare; not to rule, but to guide; not to define the child’s destiny, but to ensure the child reached it unharmed.

Paul sees the law in this light. It served its purpose. It guarded, it pointed, it even restrained—but it was never the end of the story.

Many of us know this stage. There are times when our walk with God is defined more by guardrails than by freedom. We are not yet ready for freedom. We need the structure, the repetition, the discipline that shapes us. We might chafe at the rules, but in their own way, they keep us on the path. The rules are not the destination; they are the escort that leads us toward something better.

But then Christ comes.

And with Christ comes something entirely different: sonship, adoption, inheritance, belonging. The child no longer walks under the escort’s supervision, but stands in the full dignity of a son or daughter, heir according to the promise.

Paul presses the image further. Not only have we reached maturity, but we have put on new clothing. The garment changes. The old identity is covered. And it is not simply that we wear a new uniform, like a servant changing livery. The language suggests something closer to being wrapped, enveloped, immersed in Christ Himself. What people now see when they look at us is not merely our own person, but Christ’s life covering and shaping us.

And with this new garment comes the great leveling of verse 28: There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all are one in Christ Jesus.

Ethnic identity, social status, gender—Paul touches not peripheral differences, but rather the very axes around which ancient identity revolved. These were not minor distinctions in his world. They were decisive.

We must recognize that in his words to the Galatians, Paul is not erasing all human difference. He is not imagining a world of bland sameness. Elsewhere, he will speak of varied gifts, differing roles, diverse functions within the body. But here, he speaks more deeply. In Christ, the distinctions that divide, that rank, that diminish some and exalt others—these no longer hold sway.

We might well ask what our version of Paul’s list would sound like today. There is no longer Republican or Democrat. No longer citizen or immigrant. No longer white collar or blue collar. No longer Black or White. No longer suburban or rural. No longer insider or outsider. No longer married or single, parent or childless. All these may still describe us. But they no longer define who stands closer to God’s favor. The ground is leveled.

In Christ, we are brought together not because we become alike, but because we belong alike.

And yet, how hard it remains to live this. Churches fracture over these very distinctions. We make our private lists of who belongs and who doesn’t, who is acceptable and who isn’t. We elevate some as voices worth hearing and dismiss others as suspect or unsophisticated. Sometimes the old dividing lines simply wear new clothes.

I think that this is why Paul’s words still sound so fresh, so disruptive. They call to something we are forever tempted to resist: a belonging not earned, a unity not negotiated, a family not curated by human standards.

And yet, standing on ancient ground while on a two-week pilgrimage to Asia Minor, I was reminded how fragile that unity can seem.

One day, our group of pilgrims visited İznik—ancient Nicaea—where two great councils of the early Church were held. The site of the First Council of Nicaea, convened in AD 325—from which we have the Nicean Creed—now lies beneath shallow waters at the edge of a lake. But on dry land nearby stands the Hagia Sophia of Nicaea, the church where the Seventh Ecumenical Council gathered in AD 787 to address the fierce controversy over icons.

Today, that church has been converted into a mosque.

Our group gathered quietly just outside the building to say the Daily Office. But before long, a man—part of the mosque “police”—approached briskly, waving his arms and declaring, “No Mass! No Mass!” Our guide tried to reason with him, but we knew the moment was over. We disassembled and quietly returned to the bus.

In that moment, Paul’s words echoed oddly in my mind: “There is no longer Jew or Greek…,” no longer Muslim or Christian…? [Galatians 3:28].

In Christ, it is so. But on that particular morning, the powers of this world drew their lines sharply. The unity Paul declares still waits for its full appearing.

If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise.

Abraham’s family was always meant to be larger than any one nation. God told him so from the beginning: “In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” [Genesis 12:3]. Paul sees in Christ the opening of that promise to its full, astonishing breadth. What began as a covenant with one man has become a table long enough for every nation.

And so we return, finally, to the tutor. His work was real. His supervision was needed. But his task is done.

We no longer walk behind the paidagōgós. We walk as sons and daughters, as heirs, as those clothed in Christ.

Even now, though, some days we slip back into the tutor’s world. We prefer rules to freedom. We cling to boundary lines that feel safe. We sort people by categories that flatter our own standing.

But the invitation remains: to put on Christ again, to wear His life as our covering, to walk as those who know themselves as children, and to see others as equally clothed.