Trinity Sunday – Bill Harkins
John 3:1-17
3:1 Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews.
3:2 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.” 3:3 Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” 3:4 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?” 3:5 Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. 3:6 What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. 3:7 Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ 3:8 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.” 3:9 Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” 3:10 Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? 3:11 “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. 3:12 If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? 3:13 No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. 3:14 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, 3:15 that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. 3:16 “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. 3:17 “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.
Grace to you and peace, and welcome to Holy Family on this Trinity Sunday in this season of Pentecost, and on a morning when we hear a Gospel text providing us with nothing less than a template for transformation. 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, with the comforting assurance of the Spirit as our advocate and comforter.
Indeed, as advances in neuroscience are now showing us, it’s 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! A few years ago at the Cathedral, a family with three teen-aged children approached me in the Narthex after one of the services, and said that one of the children, a bright and inquisitive young theologian of 14-15 years, had a question about the Trinity. I desperately looked around for a colleague to whom I might suggest she speak, and seeing none, asked the young lady what her question was. She promptly, confidently asked: “How is it possible for God be God, and at the same time be the Son, and the Spirit? In the Garden of Gethsemane, was Jesus praying to himself?” Then she looked at me imploringly, and with utter earnestness, confident that one of her priests could answer her question. I was momentarily silenced, but then, out of nowhere, I said, “Think of the Trinity as being like water. Water can take on three forms: solid, and liquid, and steam, and yet it is the same element. By analogy, God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit also take on three forms, yet are one in the same.” I waited for what seemed an eternity, holding my breath, and she said “OK…now I understand. Thank you.” And she turned away satisfied. I kept waiting for her to come back to tell me that this analogy only goes so far—that it breaks down because temperature produces only one of these at any given time, actually leading to a false doctrine of the Trinity, suggesting that it’s only one person taking on one of three forms at any given time….and, well, you get the idea. This can be really tough.
Often in this season, including the Feast of the Holy Trinity, we are reminded that we are called by our vocation to let the same mind be in us that was in Christ, who emptied and humbled himself on the cross. This emptying, we imagine, might even result in our being born again, like Nicodemus. The Greek word for emptying is kenosis, and means relinquishing our ego control and our ultimate authority. As a psychologist, I can tell you that from a clinical perspective this is not easily done. When we mark ourselves with the symbol of powerless submission I need to be reminded what this really means. I’d rather not give up control, and yet it is precisely the vulnerability that comes with doing so that leads to humility, and grace. And giving up control, as we know from the deep wisdom to be found in any 12-step process, is a form of suffering. After many years of benefitting from Al-Anon support for those with addicted family members, I have reduced the 12 steps to four: show up, pay attention, speak my truth, and let go of attachment to outcomes we cannot control. That fourth step creates an emptiness that can be life-giving, if we allow the Holy Spirit in Her wisdom to be poured into that space. And, this can lead to endurance, and character, and hope. And hope, as we know, is a good thing…indeed it may be the best of things.
And, my friends, we may need to walk for a time in darkness to fully understand what this means. Yet, this is exactly where Jesus would have us be – emptying ourselves, coming out of darkness into light, and promising that he will be with us regardless. Like everything else about him, the way Jesus died—the cross we observe—represents the paradoxical way he asks us to live. Marked as Christ’s own forever, we are marked with the real suffering of a broken world and we are called to heal it from our own vulnerable places, with compassion. Sometimes this can be scary, because vulnerability is the road to compassion, it is often accompanied by the shadow of defensiveness, and this compromises our self awareness.
When I was a freshman at Rhodes College I was befriended by a track teammate who was a year ahead of me. I was scared, and lonely, and I had left far behind my high-school sweetheart and football teammates—most of whom were at local schools back in my home state—for a small liberal arts college 8 hours away. My new friend Mark sensed my isolation, and during our training runs that fall he was a steadfast and reliable companion. He had a lively and delightful sense of humor. We were both there because we wanted to learn in an academically rigorous context, and we loved to run. Both of us had given up the gridiron for track, and he was a wonderful distance runner who would go on to run a 2:38 marathon at Boston in April of 1992. In February of that year a cancerous lymph node was removed, and still he qualified for the Boston marathon. In early summer the cancer returned, and after a clinical trial at NIH, by December he was gone. In typical care-giver fashion, I responded to the loss of my friend by over-functioning in relation to our beloved running community. After giving Mark’s eulogy at Calvary Episcopal Church in Memphis, I drove home and went back to work. Over-functioning in this way is one of my golden calves, so cleverly disguised in various professional roles—and often connected to my need for control. In my pain I withdrew, and I would not let anyone in. I needed to allow my grief to do its own good grief work—to begin to let suffering lead to endurance, but I would not acknowledge this to myself, or to anyone else.
One day, late in the fall of the following year, I drove to the mountains, alone, and set out running on a trail near Amicalola Falls, near the beginning—or end—of the Appalachian Trail, and just around the corner from Holy Family as the crow flies. Mark and I had run the same trails together often over the years, and we loved the freedom from urban streets, and the gift of God’s presence, the sheer wildness of the southern Appalachians. Although the day had dawned cool and clear, a fierce low pressure system churned up the east coast while cold air poured in from the west. It began to grow cloudy, and the wind began to blow through the high passes beneath Springer Mountain. As today’s Gospel reminds us, “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.” Soon, it began to rain. Running on, I reached a spot called Nimblewill Gap where 5 trails intersect, like spokes in a mountainous wheel spinning off in different directions. There, the wind blew through the gap, driving the now steady rain. My map—in those days prior to GPS, now useless, dissolved in my hands, and in my confusion I took the wrong trail. Hypothermia was beginning to set in as the temperature fell and the wind and rain made that declination all the worse. I realized I was completely lost, and that darkness would be upon me in due course. Where am I going? I wondered, and how did I get here?
Suddenly, around the bend on the rutted forest service road an old, battered pick-up truck appeared. I waved it down, and inside sat a farmer and Deacon at lovely High Shoals Baptist Church, which I had passed miles, and what by now had been hours, before. He was as worn and weathered as his truck, looked as old as Abraham, and extended his hand…”Name of J.R. Chester,” he said. I told him I was lost. “Climb in, son” he instructed, opening the passenger side door. Inside, the truck smelled of leather, and wool, and oil, and it was blessedly warm and brought back dear memories of my paternal grandfather’s hardware store. He asked me, “Son, what are you doing so far from home on such a miserable day.” And my story came pouring out: the death of my friend, the unremitting grief, and the isolation that led me to run alone on mountain trails. I was sad, and I was angry with God, and I missed my friend. The old man just listened. And, somehow, there in the warmth of that old truck and in the care of a compassionate stranger, I began to feel something shift in my soul—it was almost like…I would say it was exactly like an emptying out—a kenosis. As we made our way over the muddy roads, in the growing darkness, and the wind, and the pouring rain, down the mountain and back to my car many miles away, I began to come back to life, and to feel some sense of healing and restoration, and with it, some sense of courage, and resilience, and hope. This chance encounter with a fellow sojourner—a shepherd of sorts, offered me hospitality. In so doing, he allowed me to name my lament out loud, to become reconciled to myself, and to those whom I had cut off, including God, and return to relationship, to express and experience gratitude.
In so doing I began to embark on a journey into a new country, a journey less Odyssean than Abrahamic, the outcome of which was uncertain, but was, to be sure, no longer one of despair. We finally arrived at my car, and as he let me out of the truck, the old man said “Well, son, it looks like we’ve gotten you back home.” “Yes sir,” I said, “In more ways than you know. Thank you.” And, it was a home to which I arrived, as TS Eliot said so well, only to know it for the first time.
There is a lovely African American spiritual, the words of which go something like this: Deep River, My home is over Jordan. Deep river, Lord. I want to cross over into campground. As I drove back to Atlanta, to my wife and sons, to that precious linen on the altar in the world woven of the grace-filled threads of relationships I had almost lost, I remembered a last conversation with Mark, weeks before he died. I told him how much I would miss him. “Keep running the Peachtree Road Race for us both, “he said. And I promised I would. And so I have. God willing this July will be my 48th consecutive PRR. And then he said something I will never forget. “God put us here to learn, and to love, and to be thankful. I have had so much love,” he said. “Yes, there are so many who love you,” I replied, “and I am among them my brother.” “What I mean,” he said, “is that I have had so much love to give, to so many. And that is how we are fully alive. And I am so grateful. “Gratitude, that’s the word. And that is what my friend Mark knew and tried to teach me as he emptied himself, and came into the light. Now, I run primarily for relationships. Campground is that home to which we come, and know for the first time, and where we are willing to risk the vulnerability that comes with being reconciled, with not cutting ourselves off from God’s Creation when our hearts are broken. It is that broken place from which we extend compassion…for others, and for ourselves. Rabbi and family therapist Ed Friedman once said that grief that is not transformed is transmitted. I had been transmitting my grief, and I am so grateful for the gift of relationships with Mark, and Mr. JR Chester, a stranger, and shepherd, who taught me something about how to transform my grief. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit, who guides our journey as we allow the same mind be in us that was in Christ Jesus, even if we have to walk for a time in darkness to become children of light. On that journey we may find some measure of suffering, endurance, character, and hope. Thanks, be to God. Amen.