"Do the Things That Make for Unity"
#92-23Presented on The Lutheran Hour on February 2, 2025
By Rev. Dr. Michael Zeigler, Lutheran Hour Speaker
Copyright 2025 Lutheran Hour Ministries
No bonus material MP3
Text: John 4:9
Almost half of the chairs in the living room were empty. But the meeting had started 15 minutes ago.
"Why hadn't they come?" she wondered. Didn't they care about their children? About the school? Maybe they were too busy to pray.
The meeting's organizer—we'll call her Julie—Julie had spread the word about the prayer meeting she hosted in her home every Thursday morning at 10 o'clock. She wanted to get together with other Christian moms from the school so that they could get to know each other better and also pray for their children, for the other students, for the teachers, for the staff, for the school.
Julie had sent out fliers, texts, she'd even contacted the local Hispanic churches to tell them about the prayer meeting. But so far, not a single Hispanic mother had come. But half of the students in school were Hispanic. It was a public school that sat in the middle of two neighborhoods—one was upper-middle-class (predominantly white), and the other working-class (predominantly Hispanic). And Julie wanted so badly to bring these two groups together. But so far, only other white moms had come. And seeing the empty chairs in the living room that Thursday morning, she wondered if she was fooling herself. Didn't someone famous say, after all, that the hour of prayer is the "most segregated hour" in America.i Maybe that's just how it is, and how it always will be. Maybe she should set out fewer chairs next time.
We'll come back to Julie in a moment. But first, let me take you back to the summer of 1954 when social scientists studying group dynamics orchestrated an elaborate experiment that almost certainly would have never been approved today. It came to be known as "The Robbers Cave Experiment."ii It took place at a Boy Scout camp near Robbers Cave State Park, a hilly woodland in southeast Oklahoma. There, the subjects of the study (a group of 11-year-old boys, 12 of them), were bonding through typical summer camp activities. They had hiked to the swimming hole together; they'd run from a rattlesnake together; they built a diving platform out of rocks together; they made improvements to their hideout together.
Now, the camp staff had been instructed to stand back and let the boys be almost entirely self-directed. Left mostly to themselves, these 12 boys, who'd been strangers to each other before the camp but culturally similar—all from working-class, white, Protestant, Oklahoma City households—these boys gelled into a tight-knit group through these activities. Without adult guidance, without official discussion, no formal election, spontaneously, a clear leader arose within the group, and each one of the other boys settled into his role, either as one of the leader's lieutenants, or the group clown, the quiet one, the bossy one, the whiny one, and so on. They also adopted a group name—the "Rattlers" they called themselves, inspired by the rattlesnake, I suppose. And they established group standards: rattlers are tough; rattlers are not crybabies; rattlers never get homesick; and they cuss like sailors and take their baseball seriously.
Six days into the experiment, the Rattlers, who assumed they were alone at the camp, thought they noticed another group of boys playing on their baseball field. That afternoon, the camp confirmed their suspicion. There was, in fact, another group. Unbeknownst to them, on the other side of the camp, a second group of boys had been bonding. Culturally, the two groups were practically identical: all 11-year-old-boys, white, Protestant, working class from mostly happy, healthy Oklahoma City households. This other group has also recognized their own leader and established their own group norms. And they, too, had encountered a snake during the week, but instead of running from it, they killed it, and called themselves "The Eagles." And Eagles, they said, Eagles never quit and never cuss and are always good sportsmen and only get homesick sometimes.
So, on day seven, the camp staff tells the Rattlers that there's another group at the camp and that they wanted to challenge them. But the Rattlers replied, "They can't challenge us because we challenge them!" It was announced that there would be a five-day tournament between the two groups. It would include three baseball games, three football games, three tent-pitching competitions, three cabin inspections, skits and songs, topped off by the ultimate test: a tug-of-war battle between the boys, a battle that ended up lasting an incredible 48 minutes!
A 48-minute tug-of-war match? Are you kidding me? No! Because these boys were all in, and the winning group would receive a trophy and new pocketknives and a cash prize of five dollars, a veritable fortune in 1954, apparently. The camp was electrified by the competition. Everything became a competition. Boys who had previously whined about cleaning up the cabin attacked their chores with newfound enthusiasm. Group pride soared to a feverish pitch. They even made flags and declared: "Our flag shall never touch the ground."
On the first day of the tournament, on the way to the baseball game, one the Eagles (Eagles remember prided themselves in sportsmanship) suggested to his team, "Maybe we could make friends with those guys." Ideals, however, succumbed to cold realities when the game started. From the Rattler's dugout came shouts: "Our pitcher is better than yours!" Followed by, "Oh yeah, our catcher is better!" And then, "You're not Eagles, you're pigeons." And the Eagle who had suggested earlier that they be friends was heard shouting, "You Dirty Shirt," which unleashed a steady stream of curses, insults, and invectives. You know, standard stuff: "sissies," "crybabies," "yellow-bellies," "communists"—at least those were the ones the scientific observers felt appropriate to record.
So, the Rattlers won that first baseball game. And the Eagles—they stole the Rattlers' flag and burned it. The next day the Rattlers ambushed them: "Who burned our flag?" they demanded. "We all did!" they replied.
At mealtimes, each group continued their practice of saying Grace—praying. If fact, they prayed more often now, and more fervently. After the ballgame, the Rattlers prayed, "Dear Lord, thank You for this food and for the cooks that cooked it and for our victory over the Eagles. Amen."
But it was the Eagles' petitions that seemed to find favor on high because they came back and won the second baseball game. Afterward, they theologized about how the Rattlers must have lost the game because they cussed so much. And one Eagle said to his fellows, "Hey, you guys, let's not do any more cussing, and I'm serious, too." And they declared that Rattlers are bad sports and bad cussers, and Eagles should not even talk to them anymore. And the Rattlers, still fuming over the flag burning, retaliated with a cabin raid. They flipped over mattresses, tore mosquito nets, scattered dirt, and stole a little Eagle's blue jeans and made it into their new flag, painting it orange with the words, "The Last of the Eagles."
The scientific report indicates that relations between the subjects deteriorated quickly. A fist fight broke out between the leaders' lieutenants, a food fight in the mess hall, another raid on a cabin. And then each group entrenched in their hideouts to prepare weapons, arming themselves with sticks, bats, and socks filled with rocks. And that's when the experimenters got a little frightened. They had wanted to study group dynamics but had peered into the cavernous darkness of the 11-year-old human heart.
We'll return to the boys in a moment. But first let me take you back 25 centuries, when another set of social experimenters stumbled upon a similar result. Like modern-day social reformers, the ancient Babylonians aimed to bring peace and order to the world. The Babylonian experiment was to conquer small countries and kill anybody who was a threat. Those they didn't kill, they deported, leaving mostly working-class folks behind. Then they re-settled the land with some foreign-born working-class folk to mix with the natives and told them all to "just get along." Which typically didn't work out so well. Groups still mostly kept to themselves and were generally suspicious or hostile toward outsiders.
Hundreds of years after the Babylonian experiment failed, the Romans attempted a 2.0 version over the same territory, over the same subjects. But by then, two of these formerly subjugated groups (Jews and Samaritans) had become entrenched like Eagles and Rattlers. Jews and Samaritans were culturally and ethnically similar, but they hated each other. To the Jews, the Samaritans were snakes, half-breeds, and bad sports. They claimed kinship with the Jews when it served them but distanced themselves when it didn't. To the Samaritans, the Jews were pompous, self-righteous liberals who had added books to the Bible (the Samaritan Bible had only the first five books, the books of Moses). And by the time the Romans had come to power, just before the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, the conflict between these two groups had reached a feverish pitch.
One source of contention was that Jewish neighborhoods were divided between north and south, and the Samaritans were in the middle. So, the Jews had to travel through Samaria regularly. Three times a year, in fact, Jews in the north had to travel south to Jerusalem for their holy days. Now they could take the long way around Samaria, but that added days to the trip and took them into unclean Gentile territory to the east. So, according to the Jewish historian Josephus, many Jews took the direct route through Samaria. Well, some Samaritans got fed up with those trespassing Jews and they ambushed their camp, raided their tents, murdered their people. The northern Jews appealed to the Roman governor for revenge, but the Samaritans bribed him and convinced him to stay out of it. So, the Jews took matters into their own hands and raided and burned Samaritan villages. Then the Roman emperor got involved. Several Jews got crucified. Samaritans were slain. And one of the ringleaders was drug through the streets and slaughtered in the town square.iii
And like at that Oklahoma summer camp, all this was done with the utmost piety, with each group claiming that God was on their side. And just so we don't blame this on belief in God, let's remember that it was the atheist authoritarian social engineers of the 20th century who slaughtered, deported, starved, and tortured more humans than at any other time in history.
No, the problem's not God, it's us. It's in how we humans use our beliefs about God or whatever else we put in God's place and worship in the dark caverns of our hearts. The problem's with us, where it's always been—in the human heart. And just so we don't point fingers, can you and I admit that it's in us, too? That darkness. And somewhere in the dark down there, underneath our pious, posturing, vindictive nature that invents invectives and crucifixions and fills socks with rocks, there's a homesick child, who's just worried about not fitting in, or not measuring up, or why more people aren't coming to her prayer meeting. So, God intervenes.
The Gospel of John chapter four records an episode in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. Nazareth, incidentally, is in that northern Jewish neighborhood. So, Jesus, like other northern Jews of His day, had to travel through Samaria on His way to and from Jerusalem for the holy days. But on this trip, Jesus takes a risk (humanly speaking), stops in Samaria, and lingers at a well. It was a famous well dug over a thousand years ago by the Jewish patriarch Jacob—Jacob who received the promise of God from his father's father, Abraham, that all the families of the earth would be blessed—all of them, Jews and Samaritans, Eagles and Rattlers, Hispanic moms and upper-middle-class white moms—all would be blessed through the Messiah, who'd come from Jacob's descendants.
So Jesus, tired from the journey, sits down by the well in the heat of the day. And a Samaritan, a woman, comes to draw water from the well. And Jesus says to her, "Would you give me a drink?" (His disciples had gone into town to buy food.)
She says to Him, "How is it that you—a Jew, and me, a Samaritan woman—how can you ask me for a drink?"
Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that's saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water."
She says, "Sir, you don't have a bucket. And the well is deep. Where do you have this living water? Are you greater than our father, Jacob, who gave us this well?"
Jesus answered her, "Everyone who drinks from this water will get thirsty again. But whoever drinks from the water I give them will never be thirsty—into the age to come. But rather, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life."
She says to Him, "Sir, give me some of this water, so I won't get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water."
And I don't know whether her tone was snarky or sincere, but I do know that Jesus sees her. And He sees you, underneath the posturing. He sees through the darkness and the fear and the hurt. He sees a homesick child. The conversation with the woman continues, uncomfortably, as Jesus confronts the darkness in her heart. She can tell He's someone special, and they theologize a bit about old arguments on where and how to worship.
Then she says, "I know that the Messiah is coming (who is called Christ). And when He comes, He will declare to us all things." And Jesus says to her, "I am He—the One speaking with you."
They're interrupted by the disciples returning with food, but she's already convinced and enlisted in His border-crossing mission. She tells everyone in her town about Him. And over the next two days, Jews and Samaritans are united in Jesus. And He shows them just how big the harvest will be. And they know that He really is the Savior of the world.
Jesus crossed a line that day. Perhaps the point of no return, because relations deteriorated quickly. Next, the Jews in Jerusalem were hurling invectives at Him. They called Him "a Samaritan." And then they crucified Him. But Jesus keeps going because He is the Savior of the world—the world—not just some people, not just our people, but all people—all who trust in Him.
So He keeps crossing borders, violating man-made divisions, even breaks down the barrier of death to unite us with God His Father and lead us in His resurrection power to do the things that make for unity: shared worship, shared mission, shared harvest. Sharing in this way can give us glimpses of this unity even in lesser things, like with those boys at summer camp.
The staff in that Oklahoma experiment knew that if there would be any hope of saving these boys from eating each other alive, they needed to intervene. But they had to do it subtly. They couldn't just mandate unity for unity's sake, just tell them all to get along. No, the boys themselves had built up this animosity, and they needed to participate in dismantling it. But how could they? Didn't they love the competition? Didn't they practically worship it? Maybe, on the surface, but really it was their insecurities that fed on the competition. What they loved was the challenge, the adventure, the camaraderie. So, the experimenters had the idea to give them a shared challenge: a mission so big that it would require all of them.
So, the Rattlers had won the tournament—the pocketknives and the five-dollar prize. Afterward, the staff told both groups that they were going to go on a campout together. At first, non-competitive contact did not help; they still hated each other. But when the boys were dropped off at a remote campsite with their gear, the driver said he had to take the bus back to the main camp to get their food. The boys watched as the bus started to drive away, but then the engine sputtered and died and wouldn't start again (all of which was planned). So they are: stranded, no food, no water, no ride. Now, it was an old 1940's bus with a manual transmission. And one boy suggests that they try a push-start, a bump start. They could push and get the bus rolling, and the staff member could pop the clutch and start the engine. So all the boys from both groups put their shoulders into it and pushed, but they couldn't get it rolling.
Then they discovered that someone had brought the tug of war rope. "Let's have a tug of war with the bus!" they shouted. So, they loop the rope around the bumper, lined up in two rows, Rattlers on one side, Eagles on the other, shoulder to shoulder, shouting, "Heave! Heave! Heave!" And the old bus creaks, rolls, gathers speed, and roars to life amid cheers from the boys. Took a few more challenges like this, a mission that required all of them, and in a little while, the division disappeared.
After it was over, on the ride back to Oklahoma City, they stopped for lunch. One of the Rattlers said, "Hey don't we still have our five-dollar prize money." They did. And in 1954, five dollars would have been enough to buy every Rattler a chocolate malt and a sandwich. But instead, the Rattlers opted to buy everyone a malt, Eagles included. And every boy had to buy his own sandwich. And if anyone didn't have enough, someone in the group covered him. And before they ate, they said Grace, praying together this time. And I'm told that on the ride home, the boys were crowded in the front of the bus, some sitting, some standing, nobody wearing seatbelts, but everybody singing camp songs. And all the seats in the back were empty.
Julie, though, still didn't know what to do about the empty seats in her prayer meeting. She called up a friend, Christena. Christena Cleveland was a teacher at a local university. She also was a Christian and consulted churches and wrote books on how to do cross-cultural ministry. It was Christena's book, titled Disunity in Christ, that introduced me to the Robbers Cave Experiment.
So, Christena tells Julie that she's encouraged by her desire for cross-cultural unity. And she helps Julie talk through some reasons why the working-class Hispanic moms might not be able to make it to a Thursday mid-morning meeting. And maybe there weren't any bus stops close to Julie's gated subdivision? After that, Julie befriended a Hispanic mom from the school, who was also a Christian. And getting to know her, discovered that she, too, was passionate about praying for the school. From then on, they co-led the prayer meeting, hosting it in the other neighborhood, in the home of another Hispanic mom on Thursday evenings at 9:30 p.m., attended by both white and Hispanic moms. The living room was smaller, but all the seats were filled. Because they had a bigger mission, and a bigger harvest, and a bigger God to worship, who will take all of us.
As Christena says, "Not only is Jesus serious about crossing boundaries to pursue us ... He's equally serious about our crossing boundaries to pursue others."iv And He shows us how.
i The quote is attributed to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (1963), cited in Hall D., Matz D., & Wood W., "Why Don't We Practice What We Preach? A Meta-Analytic Review of Religious Racism," Personality and Social Psychology Review, 14 (2010). Accessed on Dec 12, 2024 at https://web.augsburg.edu/~matz/hall-et-al.-2010.pdf
ii Muzafer Sherif, et al., Intergroup Conflict and Cooperation: The Robbers Cave Experiment. Norman, OK, University of Oklahoma (1961).
iii Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews, Book XX, Chapter 6. Accessed Dec 12, 2024 at https://ccel.org/ccel/josephus/complete/complete.ii.xxi.vi.html
iv Christena Cleaveland, Disunity in Christ: Uncovering the Hidden Forces That Keep Us Apart (Downers Grove, IL, IVP Books: 2013), 191.
Reflections for February 2, 2025
Title: Do the Things That Make for Unity
No reflection segment this week.
Music Selections for this program:
"A Mighty Fortress" arr. Peter Prochnow. Used by permission.
"Songs of Thankfulness and Praise" arr. Henry Gerike. Used by permission.
"Crucifer" by Sydney H. Nicholson, arr. Peter Prochnow. Used by permission.
"In His Temple Now Behold Him" From The Concordia Organist (© 2009 Concordia Publishing House) Used by permission.
