Posted by stpauls on June 21, 2009 under Sermons | 
[This sermon was written and delivered by Presiding Priest Ruth Monette.]
Jesus, as you calmed the storm, calm our hearts so that we may open them wide and feel the Holy Spirit moving within us. Amen.
If you heard in this morning’s Gospel passage the promise that Jesus can calm storms – “Peace. Be still.” – and thought, “I SO needed to hear that this morning,” – well, I understand. Who hasn’t had a time when life felt like rough seas? When life feels that way, it can be spiritually strengthening to imagine Jesus speaking into the howling wind of our unemployment or the pounding waves of our marital discord or the drenching rain of a chronic illness: Peace. Be still. Imagining the calm Jesus offers us may be exactly what you need to hold on to while the storms rage around you.
And if that is where you feel yourself right now — I suggest you stop listening. Go ahead. Take a little nap. I won’t mind. In fact, I have to admit it would have been okay with me if we could have stopped reading from the Gospel of Mark at the 39th verse of chapter 4. That would be where it says, “He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm.” Then we could have celebrated the promise of that calmness – that with Jesus all our storms could be calmed and that we could anticipate smooth sailing.
But. There is as much falsehood as there is truth in that. The Gospel of Mark doesn’t leave the story there. No, this story of Jesus and his disciples in a boat on the sea in a storm continues. As we heard it this morning in the Gospel of Mark and in Luke and Matthew where this story appears as well. The story continues with Jesus chiding the disciples (Have you still no faith?) and their amazement.
You know what? That’s not the right word. Amazement doesn’t quite cut it. As the Gospel tells it they are dumbstruck. Gobsmacked. They are completely freaked out. They just watched this prophet that they’ve been following do the impossible. As far as they know it is impossible for human beings to make it stop raining. And let’s face: despite what the Chinese might be up to trying to manipulate the weather – if human beings could make it stop raining by speaking “Peace. Be still.” we’d have a completely different climate in Vancouver. So, we, like the disciples, tend to believe that weather is just one of those things you are stuck with. And then Jesus does the impossible: he speaks and the rain stops, the wind dies down, and waves subside. The disciples aren’t awed and amazed in the sense of being impressed. They are awed and amazed in the sense of being TERRIFIED.
The Gospel accounts, not here in Mark or in Matthew or Luke, do not tell us the answer the disciples gave when Jesus asked “Why are you afraid?” But I can guess. It’s a long list. For starters, drowning. If I were one of the disciples with Jesus, being tossed about in a storm on the sea, I’d be afraid of drowning. And of having the boat be smashed to bits – because, you know, that boat belonged to someone and whoever that was wouldn’t been too pleased to have their boat destroyed. And how about the fact that these disciples had given up their lives to follow Jesus? Was it all a mistake? Was he not a holy man, but a magician, an evil sorcerer? Had they abandoned their families, their livelihoods, the respect of their communities for this man and been wrong? Or, are they right? Is he the greatest prophet they’ve ever seen? Is he the Messiah? If he’s the Messiah what were they – fishermen, a tax collector, ordinary people – doing as his inner circle? Had they gotten themselves in too deep?
I wonder if when they hit dry land, if any of the disciples started walking as far and as fast away from Jesus as they could? Was it just too much for any of them?
As much as we want this story to be a story that begins in fear and ends in calm, peaceful surety, it is not. This is a story that starts and ends in fear. The panicked fear of a boat being tossed and battered in a storm. And the pit of the stomach anxiety of worry – are we doing the right thing? what if we’re wrong? what will happen next?
Even in their fear, or maybe especially in their fears, it is hard not to see ourselves in the disciples. We too are following Jesus, or trying to, or maybe just thinking about it. And maybe we too are sometimes caught off guard by the power and magnitude of what it means to follow Jesus. We too find ourselves wondering if we’re doing the right thing, worrying that we’re wrong. We too wonder “who is this Jesus we follow?”
Perhaps, like the disciples, you have taken a risk or two in following Jesus. Was it risky to paint a labyrinth on the floor and to invite the city of Vancouver to a spiritual experience, not in your sanctuary, but in your church hall? After the first week the Advocacy Office was open, did you look at each other and wonder “what have we done?” Did it seem like a risk when you told your friends you couldn’t meet for brunch on Sunday morning because you’d be at church? Or when you confronted a coworker who said all Christians were hypocrites or Bible-thumping jerks or pie-in-the-sky dreamers or worse? Have you changed careers because you could no longer square your life at work with what you thought it meant to be Christian? Have you felt the pull towards mission work, spent your vacation building homes for hurricane survivors or tried to figure out how you could take a year off to work with the poor?
Part of taking risks is knowing when to act – when to stop collecting evidence, weighing your options, building your plan and move. The way the Gospels tell it, when people, including the disciples, encountered Jesus they just moved. They leapt.
And maybe that is why Jesus seems annoyed or puzzled or saddened at their lack of faith. Maybe it is because he thought when they leaped into following him they had handled all their fears. But they hadn’t. The fear crept back in or rushed back in. I think the disciples were afraid of Jesus being who he really was.
If Jesus is really God… If the Resurrection is for real… If God really loves us… well, then things might have to change. We might have to give up the family business like James and John. We might have to face some things about our lives we would rather ignore. Because, let’s face it: change can be scary. Sometimes the storm we know feels better than the calm we have never experienced before.
I’m pretty convinced actually that a whole of Christianity is holding on tight to our boats about to sink in the storm because we’re too afraid to wake Jesus up. Too afraid to find out if Jesus is really who we think he is. Too afraid that this time, Jesus can’t or won’t calm the storm. And I think we’re not sure which would be worse.
It is into that mess of fear that Paul’s words to the Corinthians are spoken:
Now is the acceptable time.
Now is the day of salvation.
Open wide your hearts.
We can do that, right? I know you all can. Your hearts are wide open. I had not come to church here more than a dozen times or so before I realized this about you all. Every time Markus says “whoever you are and wherever you are on the journey, you are welcome here” you take the risk of making that real. And you do a pretty good job of it. That’s what I noticed. Because I can tell you, lots of churches say that everyone is welcome. And lots of churches are giving their visitors the hairy eyeball which says clearly that they are not so sure they mean it. But here at St. Paul’s you don’t just say it. You are working on living it. Could you do more? Sure. But your hearts are wide open.
I wish I could tell you that because your hearts are wide open, your seas will always be calm. But, as I said before, you and I know that life doesn’t work that way. There will always be storms. There will always be fears. The trick is knowing when to take the risk anyway.
So go forth today knowing these things to be true: You have been in the storm. You have felt the calm of Jesus’ “peace. be still.” And you know: now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation. Open wide your hearts.
Amen.
2 Corinthians 6:1-13
Mark 4:35-41
[The Presiding Priest Ruth Monette delivered this sermon on the Sunday, June 21, 2009.]
Posted by stpauls on under Bible Readings, Webmaster Blog |
Mark 4:35-41 ~ Gospel reading for June 21, 2009
On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to them, ‘Let us go across to the other side.’ And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great gale arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, ‘Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?’ And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, ‘Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?’
Posted by Webmaster on June 14, 2009 under Sermons |
[This sermon was written and delivered by Preacher Alex Wilson.]
Oh dear…
Oh my…
This isn’t good… You know, I knew this would happen.
Oh NO!
I think I’ve misplaced, perhaps lost something…
I think I lost God. I just had him here, just a second ago!
Good gosh, this is what happens when you turn your back for just a second!
Oh geeze, I had just found him, too!
When someone finds him, can you please put a bell on him so I can see where he’s going please! Thanks!
Life can make it so easy to lose the still point of our lives, leaving us feeling alone and vulnerable- often at the worst possible times. The season after Easter brings us to a time when we traditionally celebrate confirmations, a time when we invoke the Spirit to empower young and old for the work of God’s Kingdom in the world.
Reality has shown me that it tends to be, at least for those who have been confirmed, the great exit interview. Most people we confirm never return until later in life or sometimes not at all. What happens on our confirmation day might not make sense right away, we might not feel anything, or see anything differently; however, we are forever changed – we have chosen to make God our guide in our lives. No matter where we go, or where we turn – God is always journeying with us, next to us, behind us, in front of us. What our confirmation teaches is how to stop and listen. However, most only hear the stop – and forget to listen. It is not very surprising that those we confirm often stop coming, since after such a big event in our communal lives, there can be a very dark night, a time when God appears to go silent, where the sense of spiritual solitude can be overwhelming. We are often too afraid or ashamed to ask, so just where is God?
One question I never dared to ask pre- or post-confirmation was “where is God?” It almost seemed like heresy. Of course I should know where God is; however, I find more and more God is not where I thought he was – or better yet, where I put him. It is easy to get lost in the summer season we call ordinary time. We lose some of the festive celebrations that make life exciting, our liturgical color goes to green – for a very LONG time – perhaps just when we feel the necessity for some pomp and heavenly splendor, the church goes into recess. More and more, as the weather gets warmer we spend further time outside encountering the natural beauty of our city, looking for the reassuring voice of the divine in the midst of the quiet shady paths, and tall tree-lined parks.
The enchanting splendors of the verdant paths that meander across Stanley Park often captivate my attention during the long summer months. It is easy to stand and stare up at the tall cedars and majestic pines in our own backyards and wonder, is this where God is? It can be hard to conceptualize the kingdom of God through the lens of today’s Gospel- as a mustard seed. It’s sooo small that the mustard seed is the second smallest seed in the near east next to the orchid seed. My mind demands that God’s kingdom be big, my senses beg God to be as big and protective as the cedars I stare at and revere. But God’s kingdom will never be the Cedar; it is always the seed.
Have you seen My God? He is bigger than the imagination can fathom, all-powerful, yet as tender and gentle as a lover. The train of his robe fills the courts of the skies to capacity, the choirs of angels sing of his eternal glory and still he is small enough to fit into my human heart. Opening the newspaper or turning on the TV, it can be a real challenge to find God in the world right now. People blowing people up in the name of God, jets disappearing from our skies, nuclear weapons testing, the pain, anguish and hopelessness in the faces of those I serve at work, so broke they can’t pay their rents, let alone feed themselves. Suddenly, the God of splendor, the God of power who overcame death on the cross, shattering the grave as he leapt from the earth on Easter morning is suddenly so silent.
God’s kingdom is like a mustard seed, just doesn’t fit – just doesn’t work for me. There seems to be a functional disconnect between its message and the world we live in. Or maybe the disconnect is in our own inability to admit our unknowing, and unawareness, perhaps the disconnect is in our own overcomplication of the power of God’s fertile presence. No matter how hard we try to believe otherwise, nature germinates, grows and renews itself without our help. We try so hard to be in total control of our environments, packaging them, sanitizing them, commercializing them, claiming them, spending $200,000 to preserve them well beyond their natural life cycle – when really nature does what it needs to because of what it is, not because of who we pretend it to be. God works the same way within our lives, and it is in this fertile season of Pentecost that the seeds take root and grow – with or without our knowledge.
Admitting failure is a hard thing to do. Saying sorry is not often our first choice of words. Socially, we are trained to judge those who have failed as weak, worthless, less than ideal and awkward, so instead we build up elaborate walls, defenses and protections against failure. “I am perfect – I never fail, it was a change in plans, we are going in a new direction with our corporate strategy.” It is all about saving face. When we fail, it is natural to want to run away- it is our ego’s working at damage control. It is often easier, when God is so silent, to just simply slip away into the malaise of society, to go back into the main stream where we can create our own self-image rather than continue to swim against the stream for someone who is not even bothered to listen to us anymore. If God’s going to give up on me, I’m giving up on God -I’m taking my toys and going home! There is no necessity for religion anyway; it’s just the old boys’ club of an imperial state long dead. The bible is full of anti-feminist, anti-Semitic, homophobic stories about old men in a time long gone. There is nothing in this “God” that gives me anything; I am my own power; I make my own choices – or so we tell ourselves. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Journey with me if you will to Stanley park. Enter with me into the cool shade of the grand old trees. Sit with me as we listen for the voice of our beloved calling to us from the fertile roots of new life.
Bring to the forefront of your mind an image of a tree, young or old, tall or short, large or small. Study its exterior; drink in its refreshing mystery. In the silence of the next few moments, let your mind’s eye be attentive to the shape of the tree, notice its curves, its imperfections, its knots, its branches, buds, leaves and roots. Drink deeply of the aged mystery of this tree, and allow your own life story to be read on the trunk of that majestic creation.
Trees germinate where they will, even when we “landscape” them into a defined area – they bend, maneuver and choose where they will go. Like our lives, a tree grows and matures in many different ways – growing in directions that enhance its own journey in search of the transcendent golden splendor of the skies. As it grows, it always remains firmly rooted in the foundation of new life found in the dust of the earth, the seed, following the call of the spirit in its growth and development. If it reaches a challenge on its road to mature growth, it redirects its path – always with the same outcome and direction in mind. The tree never forgets its history, that journey will forever be mapped in the core of who and what it is. Even in the depths and silence of winter the tree never dies away, never stops growing. Come spring, when new growth appears, it doesn’t start again from scratch, it doesn’t give up its identity for something newer and easier: a new layer of wisdom, a new layer of loving, care and sacred intent enfolds it on its quest for the golden splendor of the skies. For our tree, there is no failure, only growth, even growth in the most barren of places.
While on retreat in January, I met a young woman about to be ordained later that week to the priesthood. She shared a breakthrough she had while reflecting in the monastery. She had come to finally realize that God had dirt under his fingernails. This blew me away. Of course God had dirt under his fingernails, God has never been a passive participant in my life, I thought. I could not have missed her intended meaning more profoundly.
This morning, that reflection takes on a whole new reality. God indeed has dirt under his fingernails, not because it’s necessary, but because he is always going on before us tilling the ground of new life. God has his hands deep in the fertile soil of our lives filling it with the rich nutrients of scripture, community, light, and Eucharistic fellowship so that even when we feel the most alone, like God has left and moved on without us, God becomes the most present. God is with us, in the roots, in the trunk, in the branches, and in the fruits of our lives. We can feel alone at times, simply because God, although still holding us tightly to his chest, delights in watching us walk our own paths, allowing God to be five steps ahead of us, spreading the seeds of new life from the branches of our own trees, bearing them up on the winds of the spirit to places we never thought possible. God delights in the movement of our lives towards him, and yet God speaks and works in the silence of our hearts. It is in the silence of our hearts that the germination of God’s intention becomes known, bears fruit, and finds its life in our lives. The seeds of the mustard plant can grow anywhere – even in the cold hard concrete of our everyday lives – and grow to a mighty hearty plant. God never leaves us, God never abandons us, God meets us on the journey, where we are, and as who we are created to be, not who we try to be. God lifts the veil of his presence from our eyes, always dancing, always spreading the seeds of new life five steps ahead of us so that as we grow and move into a deeper wisdom, love and relationship with God, God can grow more deeply in us.
The Church has been given this great season ahead of us to delve deeply into the humanity that is God and the creation that is who we are – so that we can encounter the mystery of our lives not as failure and challenge, but as growth and love. The trees of our cities and our lives carry millenniums of history holding the wisdom of generations. It is in the layers of our lives that God chooses to live, not because he has to – but because we are bearers of his image – each and every one of us. God is love, we are God’s children, and God germinates within us as a small seed, not a mighty cedar. Since it within this small seed that God can become firmly rooted as the center and source of our lives – allowing us to grow, journey and live into the reality of God’s Kingdom already present among us. God dwells with us, holding us along the path, feeding us on the journey, because no matter where we go, God can never imagine being in any other place.
[The Preacher Alex Wilson delivered this sermon on Sunday, June 14, 2009.]
Posted by Webmaster on under Bible Readings, Webmaster Blog |
Mark 4:26-34 ~ Gospel reading for June 14, 2009
He also said, ‘The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.’
The Parable of the Mustard Seed
He also said, ‘With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.’
The Use of Parables
With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.
Posted by Webmaster on June 11, 2009 under Labyrinth, Webmaster Blog |
Our portable labyrinth can be rented for use by your group for workshops, retreats, observing an important anniversary, or for many other occasions. We believe that the labyrinth is a powerful mediation tool that can enhance both team-building and community-building.
Our portable labyrinth is the classical design on a 28 ft. (8 metre) square canvas. The canvas
is divided into three pieces, which are then fitted together with Velcro. It comes in two luggage cases with wheels and can be fitted into the trunk of most cars for transportation.
The rental fee is $100 for each day of use, plus a $50 deposit that will be returned to you when the labyrinth is brought back on time. There is no fee charged for the day of pick-up and the day of return.
If you are interested in borrowing our portable labyrinth or would like more information, please phone the Labyrinth Office: 604-685-6832 (x17) or email Labyrinth at St. Paul’s Anglican Church.
Need a labyrinth fix when St. Paul’s Labyrinth is not open?
The new labyrinth at St. Philip’s Anglican Church is open from April through June:
Sunday Afternoons: 3:00 p.m. – 5:00 p.m.
Friday Mornings: 9:30 a.m. – 11:30 a.m.
St. Philip’s Anglican Church, 3737 West 27 Avenue, 604-224-3238
Posted by Webmaster on under Contributors, Labyrinth, Webmaster Blog |
Article by Alison Beaumont, member of St. Paul’s Labyrinth Guild
On two dark evenings this past winter, a dozen people gathered at St. Paul’s Labyrinth to listen to storyteller Kira Van Deusen tell tales from Tuva, an ancient land north of Mongolia. Both evenings, after Kira had finished the story, we walked the candlelit labyrinth painted on the floor of the church hall, following its winding path into the centre and out again.
Labyrinths have been walked as a celebratory and spiritual practice since 2000 BC. Typically, when one walks the labyrinth, the body and mind relax. Unable to analyse and anticipate the many twists and turns of the path ahead, the logical left brain gives way to the creative and intuitive processes of the right brain. Many speak of experiencing an increased sense of personal depth and a connection to things spiritual when they walk the labyrinth.
Kira’s stories drew us into a world of vast steppes, dense forests, mighty warriors, exquisite women, and loyalty and revenge. In this world a plant turns into a little girl and a talking horse guides and advises its human friends. An evil spirit embodied in a hideous female form easily tears off the face of a beautiful young woman and wears it. A misguided arrow wounds an eagle and precipitates its transformation into a handsome young man, and the rolling head of a decapitated enemy becomes a sly red fox.
We believed all of this. We desperately wanted Kang-Kys to slay the evil Shoi-Togus. We yearned for old woman Beiberiken to find and heal her injured daughter and for Ezir-Mergen to be reunited with his beloved wife. We were spellbound.
Already then, as we entered the labyrinth, we were dwelling in the world of the imagination. The labyrinth in its spiralling way drew me down into a quiet place inside. It came to me that the stories were about us, fearful, raging, fighting for what we need to live our lives, defending what we believe to be noble, loving, grieving and living life from inside it but longing to see from above as the eagle does. The stories became hallowed.
It was a while before anyone spoke as we sat together after the walk on the second evening. Then, why didn’t the talking horse speak up and rescue the girl sooner, asked one woman. How often do we not speak when we should, answered another. The labyrinth with the high ceilings above became the steppes, said someone and another spoke of feeling embraced and safe as she walked the labyrinth.
We marvelled at the extraordinary power of storytelling: one voice and a whole world in our heads. They too, the people in the stories, knew its power, added a woman and quoted: “They sat before the fire far into the night, telling each other the stories of their lives.”
As I left the labyrinth, a dark Tuvan sky with high winds and scudding clouds arched overhead, the steppes stretched endlessly before me and a sense of kinship across centuries connected me with timelessness and with life itself.
The talking horse and the labyrinth had taken us far indeed.
[This story was previously published in Le Raconteur, the magazine of the Storytellers of Canada/Conteurs du Canada.]
Posted by stpauls on under Labyrinth, Webmaster Blog |
As spiritual practices, the Labyrinth and Creativity are particularly helpful for those of us who struggle with stillness. This summer, April Stanley and June Slakov will be teaching a course at the Vancouver School of Theology focused on working with the labyrinth and creativity as spiritual practices.
This five-day course will be very experiential and be useful to people interested in working on their own spiritual path, as well as to people interested in using these resources in their work. July 6-10, 1:00-5:00 p.m.
April Stanley, DMin, has been leading workshops since 1996, using the labyrinth and creativity to release the imagination and open the door to transformation. Her doctoral thesis was focused on the labyrinth and creativity. April will be assisted by June Slakov, DVATI, RCAT, artist and art therapist, who has used the labyrinth in her work at the BC Cancer Agency.
For more information, contact the Vancouver School of Theology.
Posted by Webmaster on under Contributors, Labyrinth, Webmaster Blog |
Article by Jo Anne Tharalson
“The unexamined life is not worth living.”
(Socrates, Greek philosopher)
“One thing about an unexamined life is it doesn’t give you a lot of grief!”
(Burt Bradley, Atlanta psychiatrist)
When I first read the Burt Bradley quote in a 1993 Vancouver Sun article on diaries, I snorted with amusement.
But, alas, even as I wrote the quote down in my commonplace book, I knew it wasn’t true. It was funny, but it definitely wasn’t true. An unexamined life can give you a whole lot of grief.
How many times have I failed to take the time to identify my true feelings about a situation, tried to ignore what was happening and why. “There’s something I really need to do right now; but this evening I’ll think this through,” I tell myself. Come evening, other possibilities shove my promised self-examination aside. And so the unresolved situation continues, hidden but casting its shadow over the inner life, influencing behaviour and state of mind.
That is one of the great uses of the labyrinth. Walking the labyrinth regularly becomes an appointment with oneself. It is a time set aside for the care, feeding and house cleaning of the inner world. Open the windows and let light shine into the cluttered dark corners.
Sometimes the unacknowledged fear, the suppressed anger, the hidden pain and denied sadness pop to the surface as if they had only been waiting to be seen. At other times we may sense at last what truly gives us joy and pleasure instead of merely distracting us or occupying our time.
Then we can move … in a better direction.
Posted by stpauls on June 7, 2009 under Bible Readings, Webmaster Blog |
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’
Jesus answered him, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.’
Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?’
Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.” The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’
Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can these things be?’
Jesus answered him, ‘Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.’
Posted by stpauls on under Sermons, Webmaster Blog |
[This sermon was written and delivered by Presiding Priest Ruth Monette.]
In the five years since I graduated from seminary, I think I’ve preached on Trinity Sunday four times. That’s not remarkable except that I spent the last five years either in multi-staff parishes where I was not the only preacher or in secular employment. I’m not sure how or why Trinity Sunday has kept coming up in my life, but I do know that it has given me more than one opportunity to think about why we stop in the church year to celebrate the Trinity.
In fact, I’ve come to see Trinity Sunday as one of the pivotal Sundays in the church year. Remember that the Christian calendar begins not on January 1, but on the First Sunday of Advent in late November or early December. And from that moment until now, until Trinity Sunday, we move from one major feast to another. In Advent, we wait expectantly for the coming of our Saviour at Christmas. After Christmas, we celebrate the Epiphany. Fairly quickly after Epiphany is Ash Wednesday and then we are into the season of Lent, where we remember the brokenness in the world and in ourselves in preparation for Holy Week. And then Easter and our focus on the promise of the resurrection. The Easter season ends with the celebration of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. All these big festivals and important holy days mark things God has done. From, as the Gospel of John puts it, “For God so loved the world, he sent his only Son,” to the resurrection of Jesus to the sending of the Holy Spirit – we move through the first half of the church year celebrating the big events in the life of Jesus and the early Church.
After today, we begin a period the Church calls by various names: Ordinary Time, the Sundays after Pentecost or, in some places, the Sundays after Trinity. Marked with green as the liturgical colour, these Sundays stretch on to Christ the King Sunday just before Advent with few interruptions. There are a few saints days that sometimes fall on or are transferred to Sundays (such as Saints Peter and Paul, which we’ll celebrate in July). The same is also often done for the feast of the Transfiguration on August 6, but other than that – it is pretty much one long run of Sundays after Pentecost. And in those Sundays, we listen to story after story of what God has done for our ancestors, for God’s people. These aren’t just the big moments in the life of Jesus and the church, but the small and large events in the life of the people of Israel. We listen to the teachings of Jesus and we hear how God might be speaking to us, acting in our lives.
Today, Trinity Sunday, we celebrate a doctrine about God. This isn’t a celebration about what God has done. This isn’t a celebration about something that God has done for us. It’s a celebration about who God is.
How often do we stop to praise God for being God? Not for answering our prayers, not for the salvation offered us through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, but for being God. This weekend, I listened to some “praise and worship” music (for record, church music is not exactly what normally plays in my iPod and how I ended up with it playing this weekend isn’t really important…) and I was struck by how both the reinterpreted classic hymns and the “contemporary choruses” focused on what God does for us. Listen to a few lyrics:
He came to live, live again in us,
He came to be our conquering King and friend.
He came to heal and show the lost ones His love,
He came to go prepare a place for us.
And that’s why we praise Him,
That’s why we sing.1
and this one:
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!2
Even when we say things like God is love or God is mercy, we often mean God loves you or God shows mercy to me. And that’s true. Scripture’s central theme is God’s love for us and the ways in which that love and God’s mercy is beyond our comprehension.
How far beyond our comprehension God is fuels our tendency to focus on doing rather than being. It can be easier to talk about what God has done in our lives or Scripture than it can be to focus on who God is. And that’s why I think Trinity Sunday is pivotal. It’s the one Sunday where we focus not on what God is doing or has done or what we wish God would do, but on who God is.
Trinity Sunday works so well for this because at its heart, the doctrine of the Trinity says God is beyond human reasoning. The doctrine of the Trinity is the understanding of God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – singular and of the same substance but in Three-Persons or three aspects, co-equal and co-eternal. Co-equal because the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are equally God, one is not more God than the others; one is not higher or greater than the others. Co-eternal because God has always existed as this Three-in-One.
On the one hand, the Trinity is very simple and easy to understand. Most of us run around in our own lives functioning as at least three people—hockey fan, marathon runner, and BBQ master, or daughter, sister, and mother. Three identities that may or may not overlap, but just one you. I can be an Anglican priest, a fan of science fiction, and a terrible driver, but still me. Many of us may live lives so full and so fragmented that we feel like we have multiple personalities, so to suggest that God can be Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer maybe doesn’t feel impossible. We know we can be one person with many aspects, many elements.
At the same time, Christians who think too long and too hard about the Trinity tend to tie themselves up into knots. If the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are co-equal and co-eternal, why describe God as Three-Persons? What does it mean for God to be both Father and Son? What makes the three distinct? What unifies them? How exactly do the three fit together as one?
The Trinity is a mystery of faith. Faith is not science. Exactly how it is that God exists as Three-in-One is not provable in the same way we can prove that water exists as water, ice, and vapor. And that’s fine. In fact, it’s important for us as Christians to be reminded that the full nature of God remains just outside our grasp of knowing. The mystery of the Trinity invites us, not to solve its puzzle, but to live in its reality without trying to pin down the nature of God with tidy diagrams or cleanly argued logic.
Maybe this sounds easy, but I am willing to bet that you or someone you know has tried to make God seem less mysterious — perhaps they’ve drawn you a tidy diagram or used solid logic to argue for or against the very existence of God. Perhaps you have begged God for an explanation — demanded a “why” – why me? why this situation? Or, why not that one? We are, forever, trying to human-size God, to make God fit into our boxes, our categories. We seem sure that if we could just take away some of the mystery, we would be happier.
You can see Nicodemus having the same battle in the Gospel of John this morning. Jesus offers a paradox, a mysterious statement that Nicodemus doesn’t understand. And when he asks for a better explanation, a less mysterious one — Jesus chastises him. Like Nicodemus, we have to learn to live with the mystery. We have to learn to live with a God who is just outside our grasp of knowing.
There is a slim, little paperback entitled Your God is Too Small. It’s a classic written in 1952 by JB Phillips, an Anglican priest and youth worker in the UK who produced a paraphrase of the New Testament, a project he completed in bomb shelters during World War II. Your God is Too Small reflects on the attitudes, ideas, and imaginations we have about God and how frequently we try to limit God. We might see God as nothing but a kind of Santa Claus, magically distributing presents to us, or as a heavenly being lounging on a cloud in heaven, or as a wrathful judge with no mercy. But all our images, all of our imaginations are too small. God will always be bigger than we think or imagine. Nothing we can say or think will ever begin to be adequate. It will always be small and fumbling and human. [Note by Webmaster: You can read Your God is Too Small on the internet.]
A God that is bigger than we can imagine is a God who is big enough. As in: big enough to hold paradox together, big enough to contain mystery. Big enough for us to be born of water and spirit. Big enough to blot out our sins. Big enough to be three persons in one substance.
One of the points JB Phillips makes is that when we keep God small, we distort God. Instead of seeing the vastness of God, we see only a tiny portion of God. Instead of trusting the wisdom of God being worked out in complex ways, we try to rationalize what we see happening in the world with cliches about God’s higher purposes. Instead of holding on to a vision of God that is inclusive and merciful, we begin to suggest who God’s mercy couldn’t possibly extend to and who should therefore be excluded. A too-small God doesn’t have enough love to embrace Palestinians and Jews, abortion providers and anti-choice activists, the victims of violence and the perpetrators.
When we keep God too small, we also keep ourselves too small. For if we are made in the image of God and we hold to a distorted image of God then we distort our image of ourselves as well. We believe ourselves to be unworthy of God’s love. We fail to trust in the promise of the resurrection. We become small and petty. The theme song of our relationship with God becomes “what have you done for me lately?”
Our annual celebration of the triune God on Trinity Sunday is an antidote to our tendency to shrink God down, to remove the mystery. We have come through a period of intensity in the church year and we are moving into “ordinary time.” We will continue to hear the story of the great and small things God has done. But today, for right now, we offer God praise, not for what we have received, not for what God has done, not for what we hope God will do – but because God is. We celebrate God for being God. For being bigger than we can imagine. We celebrate a God whose mystery we do not need to solve. We celebrate the Great I Am – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Three-in-One, Blessed Trinity.
Amen.
1 “That’s Why We Praise Him,” words and music by Tommy Walker, 1999
2 “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” words by Thomas O. Chisholm, music by William Runyan, 1923. This phrase is a paraphrase of a line from one of Madeleine L’Engle’s works of non-fiction.
[The Presiding Priest Ruth Monette delivered this sermon on the Sunday, June 7, 2009.]
