Sermon for May 26, 2024 - Trinity Sunday

Here we are again…Trinity Sunday. It comes around every year on our liturgical calendar, and every year, clergy around the world, including yours truly, wring their hands in angst about what to preach about. It is the one Sunday of fifty-two when we do not commemorate an event in Jesus' life, or even an account of God’s intervention in the salvation story of ancient Israel, but a Sunday dedicated purely to a theological doctrine; especially since the doctrine of the Trinity is not explicitly spelled out in scripture.

Sure, we do have hints, and whispers on the nature of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, like in our scriptures today. We see God at work with the calling of Isaiah. We hear Paul speak of being adopted as children of God through our baptism in water and Spirit. And of course, we hear Jesus speak of being born again in the Spirit, while also describing his relationship as Son with God as Father. While the Bible is filled with these hints, the formal definition of the relationship within the Trinity doesn’t come until hundreds of years later in 351CE in Nicaea when the different pieces of this theological puzzle were first put in place. This puzzle doesn’t find its full completion until 451CE with the Council of Chalcedon. Even then, we can still get bogged down trying to parse out the meanings of single words like substance and person. So, we preachers are stuck with the unenviable task of preaching on this doctrine in a way that doesn’t further confuse you or put you to sleep.

We often spend much of this Sunday focused on the relations of God in the three persons, which in fancy seminary terms is called the imminent Trinity. So, perhaps instead of trying to do the mental gymnastics to intellectually understand the Trinity, we move from the head to the heart, and reflect on how we might “know” through our experiences in the world and with each other, or in another fancy seminary term, the economic Trinity.

Much anxiety stems from what we don’t know and can’t know, especially what will happen. Fearing uncertainty, we often focus on what knowledge we have as something to grasp.

Nicodemus, a religious leader, comes to Jesus sounding confident. “We know who you are. We know what is possible and impossible. No one can do the signs you are doing apart from God, so we know that you are a teacher from God.”

Jesus replies, “No one can see the kingdom without being born from above.”
“How is that possible?” Nicodemus asks. “Can one enter the womb again?”
Jesus says, “One must be born of water and spirit, must be born from above.”
“How is that possible?” Nicodemus asks. Now he clearly doesn’t understand.

Jesus is neither direct nor clear. There are still many ideas for what “of water and spirit” means. Perhaps the language confuses Nicodemus. Perhaps it’s the radical reversal. Nicodemus was born in the established, assumed way, from a Jewish mother. Part of his trouble may be from being an insider. That others can enter God’s family from outside the established and traditional way is bewildering.

Nicodemus comes confident in his knowledge, thinks he knows who Jesus is, what is possible, what makes sense, therefore what must be true. Nicodemus comes at night, a sign that he’s in the dark, that he cannot see, that he does not know.

Such certainty traps. Holding so tight to tradition and reason restricts hearing God. The Spirit moves like wind, blowing where it will. We cannot predict nor contain. When we think we’ve grasped God, we are overly confident in our knowledge. God is always more. As religious people we can be too certain about our religious knowledge and not hear the news, good and often disturbing news of Jesus.

What do we not see or know because of containers we’ve constructed? It may not be new, yet we have forgotten. As descendants of Abraham, we are blessed so that all people may be blessed. Reading the Gospel of John, we hear from chapter one Jesus comes expanding God’s family to all people: “To all who received him, who called on his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.” No matter lineage or background, all can be born of the Spirit. Everyone is invited to be children of God.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life.” We also heard it in the Letter to the Romans: “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.”

To those already inside, this may be disturbing that others will join. To those on the margins, this is especially good news of welcome and belonging. Insiders may not realize their own position, their own need. Everyone is welcome, at home, belonging as God’s children.

As adults, we may be uncomfortable hearing ourselves called children. We still have much to learn. Perhaps “born from above” is Jesus’ invitation to “not knowing,” to taking a childlike perspective.  Countering serious adults who strive for certainty, Jesus invites a childlike playfulness, a way of becoming. Grownups get trapped in reasoning, in quests for certainty, right and wrong, and social acceptance. Like Nicodemus, we think we know. If we’re not sure, we may ask in secret to not be seen by others.

A childlike perspective is playful. Open to questions. Exploring possibilities widely. To play is to gaze in wonder. To do something simply because it delights. Act with freedom and inhibition, unconcerned about what others may think. Get down low and get up close to look. Try it out. Take risks. Be vulnerable.

A playful perspective faces the unknown with courage to discover, with risk to behold. In play, we let down our guard. We need play in our relationships to show up as we are. There is more to relating than behaviours in which we feel familiar and confident. Risking the new takes us further. A childlike playfulness ushers in becoming more.

A childlike prayerfulness opens us to more. Pray as you can, as you already do. And take a risk, try something new. There are endless ways to pray. In the face of anxiety and uncertainty, play with your prayer, going beyond seeming proficiency. Try a medium with which you’re not familiar and discover what unfolds.

One spiritual practice that Lauren loves is returning to crayons or trying pastels or paints or even play-dough or clay—something hands on. She particularly loves the complex coloring pages from coloring books. I like to build large, complicated Lego sets. It engages a side of us that doesn’t have to make choices for the day, week or month ahead, but like a child, we are able to let go to be in the now. It is colouring in a way we long haven’t, even doing so down on the floor, helps prompt a childlike perspective. Put colour on the page and play. Be simple and gentle with yourself. Rather than seeking to know, just be. Surprisingly, it’s then that we see.

Playfulness goes beyond knowledge, beyond definitions or grasping. A playful perspective is open to mystery. Today we celebrate the Trinity, one God in three persons. The divine nature as a community of persons is not logical, so perhaps it is not meant to be grasped as an intellectual exercise, but experienced. How might you let go, become childlike and experience God the Father this week? How might you experience God the Son? How might you experience God the Holy Spirit? Rather than knowing, join our brothers and sisters, all the children of the world, playfully praying with God who is ultimately mystery.