Trinity Sunday A – Bill Harkins
The Collect of the Day
Almighty and everlasting God, you have given to us your servants grace, by the confession of a true faith, to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity, and in the power of your divine Majesty to worship the Unity: Keep us steadfast in this faith and worship, and bring us at last to see you in your one and eternal glory, O Father; who with the Son and the Holy Spirit live and reign, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
The Gospel: Matthew 28:16-20
The eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Good morning, friends, and welcome to Holy Family on this First Sunday after Pentecost. If you are visiting today, please let us know, and regardless, we are so very glad you are here. Today we observe Trinity Sunday, a day set apart in the life of our church to reflect on the nature of God, and on our experience of being in relationship with God, with ourselves, and with others. Although the history of the great doctrinal councils of the fourth and fifth centuries regarding the Trinity is rich and interesting in its own way—as much for contentious debates as for the conclusions reached—it all comes down to this truth: the Trinity reveals that the essence of God is found in relationship, and we are created by God to be in relationship with God, and with one another. And we are called to go forth in love.
Indeed, as advances in neuroscience are now showing us, it is written in our very DNA that we are creatures of relationship—and maybe even of compassion. But to explain the trinity is not now nor has it ever been easy. Indeed, it strikes fear in the hearts of preachers, and with good reason. St. Augustine once said that anyone who denies the trinity is in danger of losing his salvation, and anyone who tries to explain it is in danger of losing his mind. I don’t agree with the first proposition, but I can relate to the second!
In the Gospel text for today, Jesus reminds us that he will be among with us always, and we recall that on Pentecost, which long green season of ordinary time we now observe, the Spirit came in order to be an advocate for them, and by extension for us all. The Spirit—pneumas in the Greek and ruach in Hebrew, is the breath of life, the Divine Spark contained in each of us that gives us our authentic, true self. I had a track coach in college who was fond of saying, in Latin, “Esse Quam Videri”: meaning, don’t be a phony. Be who God intended you to be. This has to do with imagination, and resilience, and passion for life. The Spirit is what empowers our Great Commission, the call that we are to live out the Gospel in our daily lives. In his wonderful online essays this week, Richard Rohr reminds us that from this more spacious and grounded place, one naturally connects, empathizes, forgives, and loves just about everything. We were made in love, for love, and unto love. This deep inner “yes” is God in us, already loving God through us.
In Celtic lore the Wild Goose is considered to be a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The idea is that rather than a dove, the Holy Spirit is more like one of those big, gray geese—wild, unruly, coming and going as it pleases, announcing its arrival with honking, bluster, and ample attitude. Rather than the gentle dove, this ancient Celtic image of the Holy Spirit is raucous—as uncaged as the wind that lifts its muscular wings. As an amateur bird-watcher, who often encounters geese and raptors on my wilderness adventures, I find this deeply compelling. It’s not geese, however, but another bird that for me best represents my experience of the Holy Spirit.
One day not too long ago I was paddling my sea kayak on Lake Jocassee, tucked in the northwest corner of upstate South Carolina, near the border with Georgia and North Carolina. Along with a friend, I set out on a lovely early spring day, paddling north. Approaching the dramatic escarpment of the Blue Ridge, we made our way northwest across Lake Jocassee. A light March wind and bright sun greeted us in this liminal, transitional space between the Carolina piedmont and the mountains. Paddling steadily, we headed toward the Horsepasture River gorge. Gradually, the open water gave way to the crenellated canyons of the Fours Rivers Area. Soon we found ourselves in the wilderness river gorge and the former river channel. Mountains rose precipitously on either side. Forests of hemlocks and white pines sheltered us. We paused, letting our boats drift amid the scent of evergreens. My heart beat from exertion, and my skin felt alive in the cool spring air. Waterfalls tumbled into the lake, full from spring rains. We pushed on through the morning. The river canyon narrowed and I saw a pair of large birds, black and white, swimming ahead of my boat. As I approached, they dove underwater, only to reappear upstream. Mysterious, lovely birds, I could not place them in my categories of local residents. “They must be Loons!” my racing heart told me, recalling canoe trips to Minnesota’s boundary waters with friends during graduate school. But my head disagreed, reason prevailed: loons would not be in upstate South Carolina in March…so far from the Minnesota and the Canadian border. I did not trust my own voice—my own heart. Still, the birds seemed to lure me upriver, until they disappeared.
Our sojourn ended at the Foothills Trail Bridge, across the Horsepasture River. We could go no farther. The river upstream was now a roaring whitewater torrent at the end of its 2000-foot plunge into Lake Jocassee. We ate lunch on the bridge, as mist from the waterfall surrounded and enveloped us in its cool, ethereal embrace. In this deep river gorge sunlight was scarce, and I noticed that it had gotten colder. Clouds were moving in, announcing a spring cold front on the escarpment of the Blue Ridge. Shivering, aching, and stiff, we climbed back into our kayaks for the long trip back. I glanced up at the lovely, high waterfalls behind us. I felt somehow disorientated and momentarily anxious. The country we were in was dramatically different from the calm, sunny lake on which our journey began. And what were those birds? Their mystery seemed to add to my disorientation. Even as I felt more alive, I also grew more vigilant. We were in suspect terrain, and on a journey perhaps less Odyssean than Abrahamic. I suspected I would not return home by the way I came… Soon, a cold drizzle began and I picked up the pace, paddling steadily across the water. I came to a fork in the river, and paused, uncertain which direction to take, my colleague, a more efficient paddler, with the GPS, somewhere up ahead in the rain. Suddenly, the birds were swimming in front of my kayak. They dove underwater, and reappeared downriver, in the watery fork to the right and, uncertain, but calmed by their presence, I took the right fork as well. Soon, the birds disappeared altogether. Hours later, we reached the put-in, wet, weary, yet enlivened by the journey. That night, warm and dry, I pulled up the DNR website for the Jocassee Gorges area, click on “wildlife” and read: “The Common Loon is an occasional winter resident at Lake Jocassee. They return north to their summer breeding grounds in April. Their numbers are growing.” So, you see, my heart had known what my head would not allow. In my weariness and fear I had forgotten to listen to my inner voice—to pay attention to my heart. Carl Jung once wrote, “The soul rejoices in hearing spoken out loud what it has known all along.” Indeed.
How many times in my life have been at a crossroads, and felt the gentle nudge of the Holy Spirit, and not trusted that still small voice? It is the Holy Spirit—our advocate—who can provide the necessary strength, courage, and faith needed to navigate seasons of transitions—like approaching cold fronts in new terrain. Does this sound familiar? Even as Jesus acknowledged the fear and anxiety of the disciples, he gave them the greatest gift of love: the freedom to become who in God’s eye they were meant to be. And it was the Holy Spirit who enabled this relationship with Jesus to shift from an external, temporal relationship to an internalized, embodied reality. In short, Jesus became, through the power of the Holy Spirit, a part of them—of their work, their ministry, and their lives—a part of their very being. So it is with us. The essence of God, my sisters and brothers, is relationship. As Mary Oliver has written:
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, / the world offers itself to your imagination, / calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting / over and over announcing your place / in the family of things. Public health officials at the CDC and elsewhere tell us we are in an epidemic of loneliness in this post-pandemic era. I wonder how the spirit might have us respond to this? How might we reach out, widen the circle of care, and cultivate relationships of compassion? Whether your symbol for the Spirit is the Wild Goose, the dove, or a loon on a chilly mountain lake, we are called to relationship. This is what the Trinity is all about. So, when you have a chance, pause for a moment, close your eyes, breathe deeply, and invoke the gift of the Spirit to enliven, nurture, and sustain you on the journey to which we each have been called. And in so doing, find your place in the family of things, and participate in the unfolding, incarnational relationship that is your distinctive ministry in this wonderful long, green season of Pentecost. Amen.