Wonder and Awe of Relationship

As doctrines go, the doctrine of the Trinity is a pretty important church doctrine.

Doctrine simply means a teaching, instruction or principle of the church. The Trinity is the doctrine that God is in essence one, but three persons, historically described as Father, Son and Holy Ghost, but now often described in other terms like Creator, Christ and Spirit.

The word “trinity” doesn’t appear in the Bible and you won’t find any explicit statement of the idea there, either. The doctrine comes from the early days of the church when Christians were trying to figure out a way to explain the relationship between God, Jesus and the Spirit, a relationship that arises from scripture, but is not named there. The discussion was a long and involved one and still is. There’ve been many thick books, many centuries of debate and many heretics as a result. Inevitably, not everyone agreed and, well, we know what happens to people who don’t agree, don’t we? Yes, they go and form their own church with their own followers. 

Or worse, of course. But I want to look at it positively. People find their way to God the way they find. And there are many ways to God, truly, and if it brings you to God and all the love, goodness and grace that is God, then travel that journey.

For me, the thing about the Trinity isn’t knowing the correct definition or following the proper doctrine of my faith tradition to the letter. For me, the Trinity is like light. Sure, you can explain it with all the science and demonstrate it with all the right lenses and equipment, but the really important thing is what it illuminates. (And the shadows it does, and doesn’t, make, but that’s a different story.) We are enlightened, and our attention is drawn to what is illuminated by the light.

The Trinity illuminates two contrasting things for me. The first is that God, the source and energy of life, is present in all creation and is constantly seeking relationship with us and through us. That is the “oneness” of which we are a part, though that oneness is still present with our individuality and in our living, both as individuals and as one. That’s pretty Trinitarian right there, but more important, perhaps, than the “three” is the connectedness. I believe that all living things are built for relationship and true relationship isn’t built on uniformity, but unity: true relationship is built on both the common ground and the respect and appreciation of our differences, together. 

That leads me to the second thing the Trinity illuminates for me: how broken our relationships can be. When we focus on our differences without an appreciation and respect for their value, we aren’t seeking relationship, we’re seeking uniformity and that’s not the same thing. Uniformity rejects diversity for sameness, which is easy and comfortable, but ultimately not as rewarding, or as life-giving, or as essential to life as trying to find a path to unity. It’s also invariably built on control, on power over others in order to ensure that they conform.

Maybe that’s why we so often refer to the Trinity as a mystery. Not that it’s a puzzle to be solved, but that it’s a source of wonder and awe. It can draw us together and into the sense of oneness that is God when we fully embrace true relationship. And yet, we so often choose sameness, fearing diversity as if we might somehow lose ourselves, rather than enrich our own lives. Choose the wonder and awe of relationship.

What Can You Say?

You might be surprised to hear that I often feel like I don't know what to say.

I know, right? Isn’t that what you do, you might think: talk? And aren't pastors supposed to always know what to say?

Hmm. Well, no, I hope it’s not just what I do, and I've always felt that it isn't so much a question of knowing what to say as knowing when there isn't anything to say.

The Bible’s full of stories of Jesus with always just the right thing to say. Well, of course, you might think, it's Jesus. Yes, but don't you think it’s possible that, for every time Jesus had just the right thing to say to someone, there was probably a time when Jesus knew there was nothing to say. Perhaps it was just a moment to spend some time quietly with someone who simply needed some company because no one else would be seen with them, or to cry with someone who just needed to share their tears, or to wonder at a sunset with someone who could see for the first time or even just to rest in green pastures or walk by still waters.

I often wonder why there aren't more stories like that, but then I also realize that very ordinary, very human people wrote these stories down. Of course the most meaningful stories would be the ones that provided those words of wisdom, that instruction on living they wanted people to know.

But Jesus isn't always about words. Jesus does. Jesus, I bet, would go to where people are grieving and cry with them. He'd share lots of hugs and he'd encourage them to put up pictures on a wall and write their thoughts there, too, even if it was as simple as "I miss you." He might do a sharing circle or share a meaningful tradition of his faith or lift up some thoughts in prayer. Or maybe plant some flowers or mow the lawn or do some things that would be helpful, without being asked. Maybe he even made a casserole and dropped it off.

And maybe it wasn't only a question of quiet time. I bet Jesus was a good listener. For all the teaching and the preaching and the words of wisdom, for all the acts of kindness and compassion, I think Jesus listened. A lot. I think people shared their stories with Jesus, their feelings and their thoughts, maybe even their wonder - and anger - at what God was or wasn’t doing.

I doubt Jesus told them to get over it or move on. I doubt Jesus told people how they should feel and think. And when they were angry at God, I think he said that's okay, God can take it and the anger will pass someday because you should know this: God loves you and is always with you. God loves us so much that God doesn't control our journey, but God goes with us every step of the way, a companion to celebrate with and to cry with and to live with. God loves all of us, in whatever way we know God or don't, and that, in the deepest, darkest hurt, can be the beginning of light. In the coldest moment of loneliness it can be the hand that warms ours. Life can be full of grief and joy, but there is always love.

Jesus teaches us to live that out. When it's hardest to find the words, love calls first for our presence. Love calls for us to listen and to respond with love.

If not now, when?

How much longer do we wait for something to happen?

We pray, we talk, we think, but we don’t really do anything more. We don’t act, we just wait, wait as if for something magical to happen. Is that what we do?

I didn’t give that any context, but I bet you’ve already given it some. It could be any number of things in the world today: the unspeakable tragedy of gun violence in schools and communities, racism, hate, war, climate change, inflation, poverty, housing, healthcare - the list is seemingly endless. And the few I mentioned are certainly not in any order of priority because that can change with our experience.

I want to talk about the disciples of Jesus for just a minute, though, and where they found themselves in the story when Jesus leaves them for the last time, ascending to heaven. They’d lived with Jesus for a few years, traveled and wondered and learned with him, experienced him and got to know him. Then he’s arrested, dies, is alive again and now says he’s leaving - again - and tells them that they will soon receive the power of the Holy Spirit. Then he ascends to heaven.

I imagine them, after all that, wondering exactly when that spirit thing will happen. It’s just a few days on our calendar, but what were they doing? Were they just sitting and waiting for the spirit to happen to them?

All that time they’d been with Jesus, learning to be Jesus, the times Jesus sent them out, told them they were to be Jesus to others, to share all that Jesus was about, not just in words, but in action. “As God has sent me, so I send you,” he’d say, and “love each other as I showed you to love.” He’d breathed the breath of life to them, offered them peace (the peace of God, not just a worldly peace) and said “receive the Holy Spirit.” And now, they should just sit around and wait to be empowered?

I’ve always felt that the story of Pentecost, of the disciples “receiving” the Holy Spirit and suddenly being able to communicate to people in their own language (metaphorically, I think, as well as linguistically), wasn’t really about something being done to them, but something finding its way out of them. We’re made in the image of God and of the earth: the divine spirit is already in us, equal with our earthliness, we’ve just not been very good at letting it out. It’s all part of our factory setting being love, not sin.

So why wait?

What if they were already at it, already living what they’d learned, being Jesus to each other and the world? What if they were already following Jesus’ instructions to love as he showed them, to live as he showed them, to be what he showed them? What if the Pentecost story is simply the moment of that being revealed to the wider community?

Let’s give that a different context. Imagine how different the world would be if we didn’t wait for some magical moment of inspiration to solve a problem that could have been avoided if we’d put love, creativity and life before hate, destruction and death - right now. What if we didn’t wait for some outside force to move us or some public opportunity to make a difference, but, instead, loved right now. What if we didn’t let apathy or fear, shyness or cowardice guide us, but instead broke out all the love that is in us and poured it into every moment of our living, overwhelming the culture of power, control, greed and selfishness that seems determined to make our world?

What did you say?

“I hate it when that happens.”

Do you, though? I know it might seem like a little thing to some, just a casual expression and all. But it seems like there’s already so much hate in the world. Maybe we could pause for a moment and think about how easily, how casually and how readily we throw that word around. Maybe we could even spare a moment to wonder at what hate really is.

It’s being so vividly and graphically displayed in the world, that slipping it into casual conversation seems, at least, disingenuous. I hope. We’re becoming more and more accustomed to throwing around incredibly volatile language, employing rhetoric that encourages conflict, not relationship. It seems so pervasive.

Our language, like our world, has become incredibly complex. And misunderstood. And inappropriate. But hate, that's something that's still as simple as it's always been.

Hate isn't about personal taste, opinion, dislike or disagreement. It’s just not. The roots of hate are in fear, ignorance, power and rejection.

It was just a few weeks back that we celebrated Easter. Jesus is alive, we shout, and we say it’s a good time to look around and see how Jesus is alive in the world today. (By the way: anytime is a good time to do that.) I remember saying that Jesus is alive in each of us, in the love and caring we show for each other, how we share things, how we respect each other, how we live as Jesus taught us to live. Together.

To be honest, it can sometimes feel hard to say that convincingly when the world seems determined to show something different.

And what we say and what we do are intrinsically linked, aren't they?  One of the fairest criticisms levelled at the church - and governments and institutions and societies - is that we don't live what we say. We don't "walk the talk."

We should. There isn’t an excuse for that. We should. But we should also be as sure and sincere and authentic as we can be about our talk before we walk it out. How much of the bad that happens in the world today is inspired by words that are essentially hate born from ignorance and fear?

Jesus' answer to hate is love. Hope-filled, determined, life-giving love. The love that's at the heart of Jesus' teaching is about compassion and justice, it's about sharing in relationship, it's about being open to the new and different in order to know it and understand it, it's about bringing people together to share life, not just behave the same. Jesus' love is about respect and dignity for all. Jesus' love is God's love, and God's love is for all.

You cannot say that God loves everyone and then say “except those people.” Nor can you say God's grace is for everyone - but I don't have to forgive. Or that at the end of this life, only God judges us - but I can tell you where you're going.

Wholeness can't be achieved just by doing, it must be in what we say, too. And we should think about that first, and share it with God.

How Are You Known?

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)

On a sunny spring Sunday in May, sitting on a comfortably padded pew, surrounded by people you know in a brightly lit church with the smell of coffee waiting to be shared, these words can sound like some real warm fuzzies. A blissful paradise of community in which everyone gets along, everyone shares, everyone, well, loves. It feels good to hear it.

But Jesus says these words to the disciples on their last night together before his arrest. This little piece of the story begins back at John 13:1 with “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” It includes supper with the disciples, a diverse group that probably didn’t always get along and who, now at least, seem pretty confused and upset about what’s happening. It includes dinner with Judas, who, the story says, betrayed him, and Peter, the one who promises to follow, but who will deny him. As night falls, the threat of arrest looms and the violence of the cross is coming.

That’s the context of Jesus’ words. I don’t think they were meant to be words of comfort and reassurance, but a call to action, a challenge to live “just as I have loved you.” The command to love wasn’t new, those words had been round for awhile. What made it new was the example Jesus gives in living it. Jesus didn’t love when convenient, nor was he selective about who should be loved or how they should be loved. He didn’t judge worthiness but loved all, especially the broken, the sick, the outcasts and the enemies. In Jesus, love becomes the all encompassing manner in which we engage the world to create positive, living, life-giving relationships. Right now.

It sounds great to say “love one another” but let’s just acknowledge right here that it’s hard. We fail often, sometimes spectacularly. History’s full of evidence to suggest that, often as not, people should know that we are disciples of Jesus - Christians - by our hypocrisy, our insularity, our selfishness, our judging of others and our own sense of self-righteousness. But that’s not who we are if we are disciples of Jesus. What would it take to change that perception? That people might know we are Christians by our sincerity, our care and respect for others just as they are, our kindness, our grace, our humble recognition of mistakes that have been made, our repentance - real repentance - for less-than-loving behaviour. What would it take? It would take love.

Yes, it would take love when it’s easiest, with people who look, sound, think and believe like us, when there’s no temptation to be selfish or vengeful or see anything but equality or when our love is welcomed and love is returned. Of course it would. And it would take love when it’s hardest, when we’re afraid of difference and change, when we’re afraid of hurt, when we’re tempted to be selfish and unforgiving, when it’s easier to withhold ourselves and refuse to engage others. It would take love in moments when hate is easier, separation is more appealing and aggression and power seems to make us feel strong. It would take love when we’re most vulnerable and when we’re feeling most powerful. It would take love.

How Wool You Know God?

Come in the front door of our church and one of the first things you’ll see is sheep. A lot of sheep. Of all different shapes and sizes. Cuddly ones, ones big enough to sit on, funny looking ones, cute ones, fluffy ones and shaggy ones, and one which even has a real identification tag on their ear. I should probably also mention that they’re stuffed.

You can’t miss them. They live above the coat rack in the lobby. If you’re an adult, they might not be the first thing you see - that might be the stained glass or the rainbows, but children, they like to grab a sheep as they go by or scope out which one they’ll grab later.

It all started a few Easters back with a couple of big fluffy ones used in a story. They were just the right size for the littlest people to hug and sit on (and occasionally ride around on). Then there were a couple more. And each year after that there were more, different shapes and sizes and styles, all brought by adults in the congregation.

 

Some children have their favourites and some like to pick a different one each time. They hold on to them in church, or lie on the bigger ones. They're great companions for a movie night and a friend to play with when there's not much going on.

Comforter, friend, companion, protector. They’re whatever a creative spirit needs them to be.

The 23rd Psalm is one of the most familiar and most loved passages of scripture. “The Lord is my shepherd,” it begins. God makes sure that I want for nothing that I need and God is with me wherever I find myself in life - green pastures, gentle streams, even the shadowy valley and at table with my enemies. God comforts, cares, accompanies and protects me all the days of my life, just like a shepherd. And when this life is done, I will be at home with God.

I love the 23rd psalm. Like so many others, it’s one of my favourites and a “go to” for comfort, strength and support. God is with me always: what more could I need. I’ll be honest, though, it’s not the shepherd image that does that, it’s everything else.

Since Sunday school as a kid, through many a bible study, sermons and seminary classes, I understand the point of the shepherd image in this context. I also understand that the author wrote from the perspective of a sheep to this shepherd. I also understand that, as intimately meaningful to the author as it might have been then, it isn’t to me now. With all due respect to shepherds, sheep farmers, keepers of sheep and sheep themselves (not to mention 10th century BCE authors of psalms), I don’t have the same personal relationship with shepherds that they did. And isn’t that the point: the intimate relationship of love and care, a presence that brings peace and grace to every step of our life's journey: a comforter, friend, companion and protector.

Perhaps the shepherd and sheep is a meaningful metaphor for you. Perhaps not. If it's not, how about imagining your own 23rd Psalm. What image of relationship brings that meaning to you? Maybe it's a child with a treasured stuffed animal. Or an elderly person in their last days holding a stuffed bear, the gift of a child. Perhaps it's a farmer and their land, a teacher, a mentor, a partner, a lover, a home. How do you imagine your relationship with God?

A Flash of Light

“I was blind, but now I see,” John Newton famously wrote in Amazing Grace. It’s an inspiring story, how Newton had been a slave ship captain but “saw the light” and became a priest, an abolitionist and an ally of William Wilberforce, the British politician who led the movement to abolish the slave trade. Ironically, Newton went physically blind, but was spiritually enlightened.

Saul saw the light, too. Saul was a devout Jew who pursued the earliest followers of Jesus in the years after the first Pentecost. They were called people of The Way, then, and Saul, like many others, saw the new sect as a threat to his faith. He was on his way to Damascus to arrest more and “bring them bound to Jerusalem” (Acts 9:2) when it happened to him.  There was a flash of light “from heaven” that knocked him down and he hears the voice of Jesus asking him why he’s persecuting him (Jesus) and telling him to go into the city where he’ll be told what to do. Saul’s blinded for three days until a disciple named Ananias, told by God to visit him, comes to him and says “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 9:17). His sight returns and he’s a changed man. He later adopts the name Paul and becomes the great builder of the earliest church communities.

The thing is, I think, we often portray these “see the light” moments as just that, a moment. A sudden flash, a light bulb goes on and everything’s changed.

If only it were that simple.

John Newton marks a moment in which he called out to God during a storm at sea in March of 1748 as the beginning of his spiritual conversion. He continued working in the slave trade until a stroke forced him to retire in 1754, though he continued to invest in it for a few more years. He became a priest in 1764. Amazing Grace (and other hymns) appeared in 1779. It wasn’t until 1788 that he began to speak forcefully against the slave trade and he lived to see the Abolition Act passed in 1807, dying shortly afterwards. He would acknowledge, late in life, that it took him many years from that moment at sea to find his way.

Saul’s moment was a beginning, too, and not just three days of blindness. I think it took him a while to really get into that conversion moment. Conversion, by the way, comes form a latin word meaning simply to turn about. He certainly did that. He stopped what he was doing, but he needed to learn things, he needed to experience things, he needed to find his way from being a good Jew to a good follower of Jesus. He needed to understand what was happening. And that was a challenge at first because the very community he wanted to join was afraid of him: they didn’t believe that he had changed (Acts 9:21-30). It took some time.

Conversions begin with a change - a change of heart - but it takes work to live into the change and make transformation happen. We begin to see more clearly and hear more deeply, we learn and experience, we taste life and we live it with all our senses, not just sight. That’s what leads us to what is true.

It takes time and, of course, that means uniquely our own time. Finding love, grace, respect, compassion, truth - these aren’t new things. They’re already in us. This isn’t about religious dogma or tradition or culture, it’s about finding what’s true in each of us and following that path. We are each unique individuals, but we are one in being created in the image of God and God is love. There are many paths to God.

These conversion experiences don’t make something new out of nothing. They make something truly you out of everything you are.