Trinity Sunday

 

Recently I went for a walk in the park. There, I passed a mother and daughter, sitting by the duckpond. The daughter was sitting on a bench; the mother, in a motorised wheelchair. The daughter was feeding her mother puréed food from a plastic spoon.

If I stepped into a TARDIS and travelled back in time half a century and more, I might meet the same mother and daughter in the same place. The mother sitting on the bench; the daughter in a stroller. The mother feeding her daughter puréed food from a plastic spoon.

In the present, love has come full circle.

My eyes and the daughter’s met, a moment of recognition: one human being bearing witness to the love of another human being for another human being.

Chances are, you believe in God. That even if you consider yourself to be an agnostic or an atheist (and certainly if you consider yourself to be a bad Christian) you will have an image of the God you are unsure of or reject. And I wonder how that image compares to how Paul describes God to the church in Rome. (Romans 5.1-5)

Paul claims that God is the source of wellbeing (peace) and dignity (glory) and affection (love).

Every time we find ourselves seated in wellbeing and dignity and affection, we find ourselves close to God — whether we realise it or not. And whenever we fall away from wellbeing or dignity or affection, we fall away from nearness to God.

To live in wellbeing and dignity and affection requires connection to others. We cannot fully bear ourselves with dignity without extending dignity to others, even if they do not reciprocate. The Church is called to be the community described by wellbeing, dignity, and affection. And the truth is that we fall away from this time and time again, which is why we acknowledge and face up to this whenever we gather together.

A couple of weeks ago, I baptised Hudson, whose family are part of our local church community. At every Baptism, I remind us all that “We all wander far from God and lose our way. In Christ, God comes to find us and bring us home.” This is the reality: not that we do not fall away from wellbeing, dignity, and affection, but that Christ comes to find us — again and again — and brings us home.

Paul describes this as assurance (faith) of the living-kindness (grace) that is Jesus, the reality that grounds us: the One who finds us and brings us home. This is the loving-kindness of God, that searches us out when we are lost far from wellbeing, dignity, and affection, and makes a Way back to these, our home.

(Faith is assurance: I have faith that on the morning after I die, the sun will rise, even though I won’t be here to see it.)

Paul goes on to speak of anticipation (hope) of dignity and affection. To anticipate something is not simply to expect that it will happen at some future point, but to participate in a future reality in the present. Today I published Glenn and Heather’s banns of marriage for the third and final time of asking. They are anticipating their wedding day, and all the days that will lie beyond it. That anticipation is something they experience now. Likewise, to anticipate (hope in) the dignity of God is to experience that dignity now.

Paul goes on to say something deeply shocking to our society. He speaks of rejoicing (boasting) in our constraints (sufferings) because constraints produce endurance, which in turn evidences proof of character, which in turn renews anticipation.

We live in a society that rails against any form of constraint. The very thought of a woman held in a motorised wheelchair, being fed puréed food from a plastic spoon appals us. We might concede that it happens, but we don’t want to see it in the park. We don’t want to be confronted by it: there is nothing but tragedy in constraints, and all we can do is thank God it isn’t us. But the park is exactly where daughters should feed their mothers, free from any shame, attending to — participating in — wellbeing, dignity, and affection.

We are finite, born with certain constraints and having to take on additional constraints as we get older. Paul says that God does not shield us from constraints but uses them to strengthen — to make perfect — our participation in affection: the deepest form of love, that remains between parent and child long after the child was dependent on the parent, between husband and wife long after romance has worn thin.

Paul describes this renewable participation in affection as evidence of God’s Holy Spirit constantly poured out on our lives.

This, then, is how Paul speaks of God. The Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, source of the wellbeing, dignity, and affection we can know. Jesus, the loving-kindness of God that grounds us, bringing us back again and again. The Holy Spirit, the affection we participate in.

This is the God in whom we are invited to have assurance, in whose life we are invited to participate, as our lives are lifted into union with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

This is a faith and hope fit for the world we find ourselves in. This is our faith.

 

speaking of God

 

This coming Sunday is Trinity Sunday, when, perennially, those who preach in Christian churches feel pressure to explain how God can be both three and one.

I think this pressure should be resisted. It is not the job of the preacher to provide simple (or in this case simplistic) answers to questions, but to lead people deeper into mystery, believing that we have a spiritual need for mystery, for that which is greater than we can contain by way of reason.

The various authors of the various volumes that make up the library we know as the Bible makes no such attempt to explain God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. They simply write about the experience of encountering God in combinations of these terms.

One of the texts we will hear read on Sunday is Romans 5.1-5. Here, Paul describes God—the god Jesus calls our Father in the heavens—as the source of wellbeing (peace), dignity (glory), and affection (love)—all of which, we can be assured, God shares with us.

Expanding on wellbeing, Paul describes Jesus, the one who unifies divinity and humanity in his person, as the ground of loving-kindness in which our lives are located.

Expanding on affection, Paul describes the Holy Spirit as the one through whom God’s being and your and my personal humanity are joined, in a connection of continual and constant affection.

But it is dignity that is at the heart of Paul’s reflections here. The shared dignity made possible by the wellbeing that experiencing loving-kindness creates and constant affection.

It is dignity—which elsewhere Paul describes as something we experience in increasing degrees—that is the focus of anticipation (hope). Created in the likeness of a God who possesses dignity, the human is made for dignity, and our spirit knows this even if it is not our daily experience, even if dignity is withheld from us, because of our age, or gender, or different abilities, or ethnicity, or sexuality, or religious tradition, or, or.

And here Paul introduces the idea of being constrained. This is not an abstract idea. It is something we experience in our bodies. In particular, as we grow older, our body takes on—willingly or unwillingly—more and more constraints. We are finite creatures, with limitations. But Paul rejoices in these: perceiving that it is our constraints that bring about endurance; and endurance that reveals proof of character; and character that produces anticipation—that is, sustains the secure knowledge of our God-given dignity—guaranteed to us by the affection of which God is source.

What is more, because Jesus is the human god, God who has taken constraint upon himself, this reveals endurance, or the constancy of God; reveals proof of God’s character, as loving; and reveals God’s anticipation, of our sharing in that affection, that wellbeing, that dignity.

Professor John Swinton, writing about memory and dementia, notes that the Latin root of the English word to remember means to pass time through the mind, in a sequential ordering; whereas the root meaning of the Spanish word to remember—recordar—is to pass time through the heart.

This is true also of theology, or the love of God. We can say something about God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit with our minds—the Creeds do this, as well as is needed—but we experience God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit in the assurance of wellbeing, grounded in loving-kindness; in the anticipation of dignity; in the mysterious ways by which constraints bring about endurance, and endurance proof of character, and proof of character anticipation; testified to by affection.

This is what we (the Church) have to proclaim about God. Chances are, you believe in god; that even if you would describe yourself as an agnostic or an atheist, you can describe the god you cannot be sure exists or are convinced does not exist. But this is what we (the Church) proclaim (and must proclaim to ourselves as much as to anyone else).

This is the God to trust our lives to, or to not yet be sure of, or to reject.

 

Trinity

 

The God whom Jesus called our Father is the Creator of all things, speaking everything into being with an authoritative word. God spoke, releasing the energy of life: matter coalesced and expanded outward. In response to a series of equally joyful declarations, stars and planets, including our own, formed; simple plant life evolved on earth, and when, responding to radiation from beyond, photosynthesis had changed the planet’s atmosphere enough, the sun and other celestial bodies became visible from earth (not that there were any physical eyes to see them yet); animals evolved to spread through every habitat; responding with such vigour that even mass extensions could not prevail, life always triumphed over destruction. Last of all, God, having created hominids, chose one to share God’s own breath: the homo sapien, or wise human, endowed with the very wisdom of God.

Time, as we measure it, does not exist in nature. (Indeed, time as we measure it did not exist until the Industrial Revolution.) As Einstein pointed out, time is experienced relative to the position of the beholder. Or, to put it another way, time is the attention paid by love. From our perspective, looking behind us – as Einstein put it, trying to think God’s thoughts after him – the stages of creation each took unimaginable aeons, each successive period roughly half as long as the one before. But from God’s perspective — the flow state of hyperfocus – each was but a day. Time flies, when you are having fun.

That authoritative word by which creation was authored is so one with the character of God as to be indivisible; and yet possesses such life within it as to be considered to possess its own personhood: capital W word. And God so loved creation that in time – the attention paid by love – that Word was spoken into human form: spoken over the as-yet un-cohered potential of Mary’s womb, becoming human – the crown of all creation, the most-beloved of all that is loved – taking the name Jesus, ‘God saves.’

God becomes human not because only God could save us from some great catastrophe that had befallen creation – not necessitated – but because it is the very nature of the human to be one who saves – delivers, brings aid to – his or her fellow human, and, together, all life on earth, from the frequent assaults of envious angels. God becomes human so as to be Ezer, helper. God becomes human because God becomes what God loves. The friend of humans, long spoken of anthropomorphically – the arm of the Lord, etc. – becomes one of us, actually one of us.

The fully human god Jesus – the Word from the beginning, now called the Son: faithful to, and faithful image of, the Father – lived among us and showed us what it looks like to be fully human, animated by the breath – the Spirit – of God. He loved in tangible acts of affection, in kindness. A way of being so strange to those long traumatised and retraumatised by violence against God’s good creation that we sought to remove love, put love to death. Yet – not for the first time – death could not prevail against the Word that spoke life into being. This Jesus embraced death and at the right time – the attention paid by love – he rose again. Forty days later, he ascended, returning to the Father, a human in the spiritual realm, to be the channel for peace to flow, from God to humans and from humans to God.

Ten days later, this Jesus sent the Holy Spirit. The breath of God. In our creation, we have all been given one breath breathed out by God, one breath we will in turn breath out to return to him. Our own spirit. Again, what we call time is relative to the perspective of the beholder. From God’s perspective, one breath; from ours, this breath lasts a lifetime. Yet now the Holy Spirit is poured out, incessantly.

Like the Word, the Spirit is indivisible from God; yet, like the Word, possesses such vitality as to be considered its own personhood. God waiting; Love with intention, attending to the beloved; Life breaking out, animating life. Jesus returns to the Father that the Spirit might be poured out, to dwell with our spirit, that we might not hold our breath but learn to breath in time with – that is, learning to pay attention in love – God. To trust. To give. To empower others.

Life always finds a way, makes a Way. Love always prevails, though it must struggle, though it prevails by laying down its life, only to have it given back again.

We believe in one God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

 

neurodivergent Nicodemus

 

The Gospel text set for this Sunday (John 3.1-17) recounts a conversation between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. The name Nicodemus combines the word for ‘victory’ and the word for ‘the common people’ and can mean victory of the people, or victory over the people, or victor among the people. Perhaps Nicodemus had overcome the expectations of his society to get where he was, to achieve what he had achieved in life. In recent years we have seen growing awareness of neurodivergence, though there is a long way to go. Some people argue that autism and other examples of neurodivergence are new conditions or simply excuses for unacceptable behaviour. But neurodiversity has always existed, even if we have known it by different names, calling those who diverge from the average savant geniuses or village idiots. Nicodemus displays several characteristics that would resonate with neurodivergence (see Ann Memmott).

Firstly, he comes to Jesus at nighttime. Before the advent of electric light, people slept twice, a short sleep to rest from the activities of the day, followed by a rising to meet with friends, meditate on life, or—as in monasteries—to pray, before returning to bed. So, a nighttime conversation is not unusual, but it is more conducive to someone who withdraws from the sensory overstimulation of the daytime—its crowds and noise and smells. It is often suggested that he came at night because he was afraid of what other people might think of him, and of being rejected: I’m unsure—Jesus had supporters as well as detractors among the Pharisees—but in any case, such social anxiety is common among neurodivergent people. When you have had to work hard to belong, you do not lightly risk losing that.

Secondly, we are told that Nicodemus is preeminent in his authority, and an instructor acknowledged as possessing mastery in the field of interpretation and application of the Law. In other words, he had a special interest, which he pursued to the highest level.

Thirdly, Nicodemus thinks in very literal terms, struggling to understand Jesus’ use of metaphor and analogy.

Fourthly, we will meet Nicodemus again, when he accompanies Jospeh of Arimathea to prepare Jesus’ body for burial. Nicodemus comes bearing a ridiculous, over-the-top amount of myrrh and aloes—a hundred pounds (John 19.39); a hundred times as much as what Mary anointed Jesus with (John 12.3)—desperately wanting to get it right but getting it brilliantly wrong.

None of these things are exclusive to neurodivergent people but taken together they build a strong case. We can’t say categorically that Nicodemus was neurodivergent, but we can say that he demonstrates neurodivergent characteristics. It is important to me to see Nicodemus as possibly being neurodivergent because I am neurodivergent. It is important that we should be able to see ourselves reflected back in the scriptures: to be able to say, ah, here is Jesus reaching out to someone like me; and if someone like me, then perhaps me also.

This Sunday is Trinity Sunday. The Church affirms the Oneness and Threeness of God. The trap is to think that this is something we can break down into its parts, to understand how they fit together. As if God was a radio transistor, and we were tinkering with a screwdriver. But that would be to miss the point. Our Gospel passage illustrates this brilliantly. It starts with a Pharisee: that is, a separatist, from the action of dividing and separating, of remaining pure by being separated from sin. (There are many separatists, of one tribe or another, within the Church of England today, which I find tragically sad.) It ends with Jesus stating that God did not send the Son into the world as judge—as one who separates—but as the one who will rescue us from separation into wholeness.

Twice, Jesus calls himself the Son of Man. ‘Son’ means ‘having the same nature as,’ and ‘Man’ means ‘humankind.’ Not (here) son of Mary (family) or Son of David (ethnicity) (though he is both these things) but one with every human.

God sends the Son—who fully identifies with human nature—to reveal what God is like—the nature of God—and to draw us into the life of God—which is, to be Spirit-filled.

God is not to be understood, but, rather, to be encountered, and known.

Trinity is the best language we have for that, but it is, nonetheless, inadequate.

But in this Gospel passage Nicodemus encounters Jesus, in whom the God who sends us and who is with us (‘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.’) is revealed.

The nature of God, revealed to us, is that God prefers ‘kosmos’—an ordered system of life in all its wonderful diversity—over destruction, over reduction and conformity. That God both generates and sustains such life.

This Jesus is the one who unites heaven and earth—two distinct realms, indivisible—as divine nature come, in love, to us; and human nature, raised, in love, to God.

The nature of God, revealed to us, resists separation. It does not divide between flesh and sprit—between the life given us by our parents, with its unique combination of genes and culture, the colour of our eyes and skin, the fault in our heart—and the life given us by God, that can’t be analysed, only lived. Jesus says, these two go together; both are necessary. One does not rule out the other: and so, the family of God is as diverse as human beings are.

God sends the Son—who fully identifies with human nature—to reveal what God is like—the nature of God—and to draw us into the life of God—which is, to be Spirit-filled.

And Nicodemus is drawn to this beautiful light of life that shines in the darkness and is not overwhelmed. Does he understand everything that Jesus says? No (and thank you, Nicodemus, for your honesty, for giving us permission to be honest, too). But he came to Jesus, as Jesus came from God; and is sent by Jesus into the world, just as Jesus was sent into the world by God. Sent, not to be understood, but to be a sign of the Spirit. A sign that doesn’t make sense (One hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes, Nicodemus? Really!? What were you thinking?) but—like the wind—might just sweep up others (Joseph of Arimathea?) into the life of God that cannot be destroyed, that cannot perish.

I see in the Gospel—the good news—that someone like me is caught up by the life of God. And if someone like me, then, why not me too?

 

Trinity

 

This afternoon I have spent two hours with Y4 (children aged 8/9), one hour each back-to-back with two classes, helping them to learn about the Trinity, the Christian belief in One God who exists eternally as three persons. This is part of their wide-ranging RE curriculum. The classes were made up of pupils from a wide range of ir/religious families. I was bombarded by questions—I’ve never seen so many hands raised so quickly and persistently—and the quality of their questions and their own observations was of an exceptionally high standard, ranging over many related issues and exploring similarities/differences between Christianity and Islam with sensitivity and respect. I was seriously impressed by them, really enjoyed their welcome, engagement and company, and look forward to visiting them again in future. Right now, I am exhausted. Apparently some adults spend the whole day, every school day, with these furious balls of energy!?

We explored the Trinity: God, King of the Universe and Father of all; Jesus, the Word of God through whom all things were created, speaking itself into creation as a human, to be with us; and the Holy Spirit, the life-giving, life-sustaining power of God in the world.

I had woven a friendship bracelet of three differently coloured threads as a visual representation; we talked about what colours we might choose to represent Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and the children chose to work on their own friendship bracelets as they continue to explore this theme.

We recalled Jesus’ baptism—of which they had leant previously—and I brought the silver bowl and mother-of-pearl seashell I use to baptise people “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” pouring water on their heads in three actions. We discussed what Christians do and don’t mean by the terms Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (e.g. Christians don’t believe that God was married to Mary, or is Jesus’ father in a biological sense; and while we believe that Jesus is the second person of the trinity from eternity, ‘Son’ of God was also a term used for the Davidic kings in Jerusalem; we talked about other names for God in the Bible—and Koran—and various ways of describing the Holy Spirit, such as breath, wind, flame, dove).

Thinking about how the Trinity is important to Christian practice, I explained that whenever we gather together for worship, I make the sign of the cross and say “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” and that as we depart, I make the sign of the cross and say “the blessing of almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be with you and remain with you always. Amen.”

And I showed them how Christians can make the sign of the cross, by pressing our thumb, index finger and middle finger together—representing the Trinity—and resting our ring finger and little finger on our palm—reminding us that Jesus is fully-God and fully-human—and then moving our hand from our forehead to our heart (sternum) to our left shoulder to our right shoulder (and then back to the middle of our chest) when we gather or receive Communion or depart with God’s blessing or when we pray.

But their questions! So many! And so deep! About God, yes, and especially about Jesus. Also, about life and death, and life beyond death, and angels, and the devil, and (non-human) animals, and inter-faith marriage and children, and friendship, and betrayal, and doing wrong because you are frightened of other people, and how all shall be well.

 

Visual storytelling

Today at the lunchtime Eucharist, I employed some visual storytelling to retell the Gospel reading, Luke 11:5-13. With apologies for the poor quality of the images, taken on my phone immediately before the service.

In Fig. 1, the chalice represents Jesus.

In Fig. 2, the silver cruet represents the disciples, who come to Jesus, through the dark night of the world, journeying on the Way (also Jesus, here represented by the lavabo towel).

Fig. 3, the chalice is empty, for Jesus has emptied himself, making himself entirely dependent on the Father, and on the Holy Spirit as testimony to their relationship.

In Fig. 4, the lidded silver cruet represents the Father—the disciples and the Father both being the trusted confidants and dearly-loved friends of Jesus. Jesus goes to the Father to ask for the gift of the Holy Spirit, to be shared between them.

In Fig. 5, the three ‘loaves’ of bread, or wafers on the paten, represent the gift of the Holy Spirit, who gives evidence of the covenant relationship established between the disciples and the Father, in and through Jesus. This evidence remains, after Jesus is no longer physically present with his disciples, or, for all those who will become his disciples through the good news story carried by them.

Bread of testimony

The Gospel set for Holy Communion today is Luke 11:5-13.

On one occasion, Jesus told a story involving three friends. B turns up at A’s door at midnight; but A has nothing to offer B. So, A wakes C and asks for bread; and C is reluctant to help, at first, but eventually A’s perseverance prevails.

It is a strange story to our ears, and C’s reluctance to be a good neighbour feels churlish. How hard is it to fetch a loaf of bread from the cupboard, and go back to bed?

As always, there is more going on than meets the eye.

The Greek word used here for ‘friend’ conveys more than we might mean, especially on Facebook: a trusted confidant, a dearly-loved friend. Both B and C, then, are closest-of-friends to A.

B has arrived, having journeyed to A on the way (or, the Way).

The Greek for ‘to set before’ means to commit to [something] in a very personal way; and carries the sense of to entrust, and to give evidence. But A has nothing to set before B.

Friend C responds by pleading with A not to cause him laborious toil, extreme weariness. The request is greater than we imagine. It would require kneading flour, water, oil, and yeast to make dough; and, while it proved, setting a fire and letting it burn down to charcoal. Effort, and time.

So, here is a man who has two trusted confidants, two dearly-loved friends—but nothing to testify to that being so. And what he wants is three loaves, or, one for each of the three friends. This is not primarily about hospitality towards B, or borrowing from C, but about relationship being established between B and C, with A as the intermediary.

The principle point Jesus is making here concerns the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is the bread, the evidence that testifies to the deep friendship between Jesus’ disciples, B, who have come to him, and the heavenly Father, C, as brokered by Jesus, A.

While I do not want to press the analogy too far, A’s lack of resources is suggestive of Jesus’ self-emptying; and the laborious toil asked of C (presumably with A’s active involvement) is suggestive of the cost to the heavenly Father in this endeavour.

Jesus goes on, inviting his disciples to continue to be B, journeying on the Way, through the dark night, until they arrive at his door...but also inviting them to step into the role he occupies (A) and to intercede on behalf of the world (an extended B), asking that others might come to experience the Holy Spirit, who testifies to our friendship with God. Though they are ‘evil’—not in essential character, but in that they act in ways that cause pain; as A causes pain to C—they know how to give good gifts; and the heavenly Father all the more so.

This, then, is a story about the dynamic between Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the Church, and the peoples; a story in which we participate in physical and spiritual nourishment.

It is the simplest of stories imaginable. And yet, it is bigger on the inside.

Trinity Sunday : Part 2

Where Is God?

For over six months now, I have been actively looking for a new posting. My current post, in Liverpool Diocese, comes to an end (at least on paper) next month. Today I received the latest in a growing pile of correspondence informing me that I had not been offered a post I had applied for. This in itself is alright – my prayer is not, ‘Let me get this job’ but, ‘Your will be done’ – but there is only so many times you can stomach being told that you will be outstanding...somewhere else.

We had hoped that we would know by now. Indeed, originally we had hoped that we would have been able to move next week. For several good reasons, that was our preferred timing. We’re not living in a war zone, or with cancer, but we have been living – and continue to live – with a protracted season of uncertainty: and while we can’t put life on hold, neither are we able to make firm plans. This takes its toll, in many ways, some bigger than others.

The situation we find ourselves in is further complicated by the various expectations of others, most of which, however well-meant, are fairly unhelpful.

Where is God in all this? And how might Trinity Sunday resource our continued watching and waiting?

God is where God has always been: seated on the throne in heaven. As Christians have needed to be reminded ever since the letters that form the New Testament were written, things look very different from a heavenly perspective. Our circumstances are precarious, even when they look secure; but God is at work to bring about his good will, not by coercion or inevitability but by the world-overthrowing power of love.

Christians believe that there is one God, and that this one God exists in the form of a community. As we also believe that we are made in the likeness of this God, that invites us to understand ourselves as persons – existing in indivisible relationship to others – and not, as is prevalent in western culture, as individuals – a sub-human form of life. But the Trinity is a mystery: that is to say, though it can be known, through revelation, it cannot be exhausted by our understanding. Unlike every good gift in creation, it is an infinite resource given us. And at present, I am reflecting on Rublev’s icon as a window into that greater reality.

According to Rublev’s symbolism, the Spirit reaches out to us, drawing us deeper into a life of prayer; from which vantage-point we see a greater revelation of the Son as our peace and as our pilgrim’s shelter on the way to the Father; who, in turn, we experience as the one in whom we find our permanent home. We meet the Spirit in the wilderness at the very edge of the Promised Land; the Son beneath the tree where Abraham camped as one who held the Promise in potential, or the tree where Deborah sat to exercise God’s wise judgements within the Land, or the tree in Micah’s great vision (Micah 4:1-8, which combines mountain and tree and house with watchtower); and the Father as fulfilment of his Promise.

When we are reminded that our home is the Father’s house – that we are a child of God – and that Christ is our peace and that the Spirit draws us into this deeper reality through the unpromising foothills of circumstance [the children enter Narnia because of the Blitz] those circumstances are restored to their rightful perspective: not as trivial (to be dismissed), but as boastful (and passing); not as an illusion (to be denied), but as a place of grace (where death fails to keep its grasp on life).

And so we persevere, allowing the Trinity to come to us, welcoming travellers only to discover that it is they who welcome us in...

Trinity Sunday : Part 1

Last Sunday was Pentecost. Perhaps because last year I incorporated a full-size skeleton and a medical dummy torso (in order to help us engage with Ezekiel’s vision of a valley of dry bones restored to life by the Spirit of God), I wasn’t let anywhere near a Pentecost service this year. But I am orchestrating Trinity, this coming Sunday.

My intention is to set up a live tableau version of Rublev’s most famous icon, which depicts Abraham’s three angelic visitors and represents God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit extending the invitation to the person gazing on – or rather, through – the icon. The 'movement' of the icon is from Father to Son to Spirit to onlooker drawn in back through the Spirit to the Son and so to the Father.

On the table is a dish of roast lamb, a shared meal and a symbol of the Lamb who was slain. But I’m thinking of adding other things, first: a board game (I think God likes to have fun); the Sunday newspapers (I think God is interested in what is going on in the world); a TV remote (I think God likes a good story)...

I’ve prepared three 450mm x 640mm panels to be held up behind the tableau, depicting the background (as well as my take on the full icon, on a panel twice as large, as prompt for the story we will tell...).

The Holy Spirit (dressed in blue and green, symbolising life in sea, sky and on land) is associated with a mountain in the wilderness, for the Spirit teaches us to pray. This is an appropriate prompt for prayer.

The Son (in a brown robe symbolising earth and blue cloak symbolising heaven – for the two are united in him – with a gold sash for authority) is associated with a tree, the Tree of Life (the tree of execution transformed into the Tree of Life), symbol of peace. This is an appropriate prompt for asking ourselves whether we know peace – with God, with ourselves, with others, in our circumstances – and to pray for those known to us who do not experience peace.

The Father (in shimmering ethereal robes, for no one has seen the Father) is associated with his house. The door is always open, and on the roof there is an upper room with an open window, from where the Father looks out to see the prodigal returning home. This is an appropriate prompt for asking ourselves whether we know that we are welcome in our Father’s home, and to pray for those known to us who have wandered far from home.