Trinity Sunday

John 16:12-15


"There's so much left I want to tell you," Jesus says, "but you can't handle it right now." You see, Jesus is going away. And before he goes, there are things he wants to tell his friends. But looking into their faces, seeing their eyes, he knows that to say all the things that he wants to say would crush them beneath the weight of the words.


Originally, when reading this week's selection from John's Gospel, I thought that these words were very appropriate for Trinity Sunday. Most of us cannot bear the difficult concept of this mysterious God who is one but at the same time is three. That Jesus was this one but was also in relationship with the one. Indeed, we say, we can't bear that right now especially during a holiday weekend.


But as I thought about it, I began to think about this statement in the context of Jesus' goodbye. I've so often thought of these words as implying some teaching or point of faith or revelation of the mystery of the Divine that Jesus knew would blow the disciples' (and probably our) minds. However, listening to those words while I am in the midst of saying my own goodbyes to the people and places that have made up this chapter in my life, I hear them differently.


I think about the moments of late when I have stood face to face with a friend who, for reasons of geography, I may never see again. Standing there, usually with some chaos going on around, I find myself wanting to cram in months and years worth of words. I want to say how much they've meant to my journey, to my life. I want to tell them that they've been important to me and been a part of the changes I've undertaken during my time here. I want to say how hard it is to imagine that between here and the next world I may not see them again. I want to tell them that they are loved.


Yet, as I begin to say some of these things I can see in their eyes and written upon their face perhaps the same thing that Jesus saw in his friends. I see shoulders that cannot bear the weight. I see tears on the edge of falling. I see a heart fragile enough to break. And, out of caution, I know that though there are things that I want to say they cannot handle them right now.


Perhaps Jesus still holds back the words sometimes. Maybe those moments when it seems the Heavens respond only with silence are like those moments I've experienced of late. Rather than there being nothing to say, Christ has too much to tell us. And no matter how much Our Beloved longs to tell us, Jesus knows that we are not ready, at that moment, to hear how wonderfully we are loved.


One God who is also three, teach us to live in communion as you live amongst yourself. And help us to love as we are loved.

Day of Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21


One of the cable movie channels has been running Master and Commander these past few weeks. I've not yet read the Patrick O'Brien books this movie was (loosely) based upon, but they're on my list of things-to-pick-up-and-check-out-when-there's-time. I suspect they, like the Horatio Hornblower books, will awaken my desire to be out on the ocean with nothing more driving me along than the wild and unpredictable wind.


The movie, for those who aren't familiar with it, depicts the life of a crew on a British ship of war during the era of Napoleon. There is beauty in the wooden beams that creak and groan as they sail across the waters. There is tragedy when conflict with another vessel takes lives. And, constantly, there is a mass of humanity traveling together in a too-small space amidst storm, heat, and pleasant weather.


Boats are an important symbol to Christianity. Churches, for many thousands of years, have been built to resemble them. The high wooden ceiling is meant to resemble the hold of a ship, where people lived, ate, and rested. The idea is that we within their walls are on a journey. Like the crew of a ship, we must live together, work together, and support one another.


It's a pretty metaphor, but one that isn't often stretched. Does the fact that we are on a ship mean that we must take care when we decide to pull up alongside another vessel—be it another congregation, denomination, or even religion? Should we remember, when the gunners are ready to deliver a verbal broadside, that we are opening ourselves to damage that can kill our companions, and sink our ship?


Sitting, as the church is designed, in the hold of the ship should mean something too. One, we are not at the helm that controls the boat. Nor are we standing with our instruments and navigating—determining what course is to be run. We aren't even a deckhand, at least able to pitch in and capture the wind whenever it changes direction, blows stronger, or else is against us. In the belly of the ship, we are not in charge of controlling where we're headed. We have to trust that the captain—rarely seen, but whose voice is always there—knows the sea on which we sail.


This does not mean that we have nothing to do. We are each responsible for our fellow travelers. When trouble comes, every hand is needed and everyone must depend upon each other. We all must attend to someone on board who is hungry, sick, or injured in any way.


And all of us know that no matter how well laid our course, how diligent the hands hold the wheel, sometimes that wild and unpredictable wind blows from a completely unanticipated direction. But unlike the sailors in Master and Commander, afterwards our calculations show we are now much closer to finding our way home.


Wild One who blows through our hearts and our lives, melt away the cold parts of me with fire and give me breath to share with all who want to be alive.

Seventh Sunday of Easter

Revelation 22: 12-21


American science fiction and fantasy author Piers Anthony wrote a book several years ago called Bearing an Hourglass. The book is one in a series about the various Incarnations of natural phenomenon (death, nature, war, evil, good). This book focused on a man who was chosen to be the Incarnation of Time. From the moment he was chosen for this role, he began living backwards. His tomorrow was our yesterday, and our yesterday was his tomorrow. The end of his service would be at the beginning of his life. He, thus, lived within something of a complete circle.


Reading the words of Christ in today's selection from Revelation got me thinking about that book and its main character. "I am Alpha and Omega," Jesus declares. I am A and Z. I'm the start of the journey and its ending. I am the beginning and the end. Heavy stuff.


These words did not mean a whole lot to me until my wife and I were dating. During her morning devotional one day, she read these words. She could hardly wait to tell me about them. They were so special she even had them put on the prayer book she gave me. "He's the Alpha and Omega," she declared.


At the time, and for a while afterward, I smiled as I often did when she had some epiphany over some scripture or piece of writing that, to me, either didn't speak to me or else just confused me. But one day, I finally got it. "Oh yeah," I thought, "the beginning and the end." And, from time to time, those words bubble up out of my subconscious or pop up in the strangest places. Not surprisingly, those times are the ones when I most need to hear these words.


"I am the first and the last," Jesus declares. I've been there. I will be there. I am there. For what you call tomorrow, I can call yesterday.


Don't worry about tomorrow, Jesus says to us in the Sermon on the Mount. Tomorrow has enough of its own worries. What he didn't say is, "I know; because, I've seen it." I've not only got a good idea what's there, I'm well acquainted with all its possibilities. So, if you'll trust me, I think we can navigate those waters together.


Of course, the fact that Jesus has already been there and bought the t-shirt doesn't mean there isn't any trouble ahead. There's nothing in that statement about smoothing out the road or calming the seas beforehand. Some days are like bad storms that blow up out of the west. You see them coming and all you can do is hunker down and ride them out.


But Christ is there. Christ inhabits tomorrow before we do. And when midnight turns today into yesterday, we can always know that whatever lies in the hours ahead will not be faced alone.


Alpha and Omega, thanks for getting to this day before me. My only hope is that you've found a way through this particular stretch of the road. Guide me until I reach tomorrow, where I'll find you there waiting again.

Sixth Sunday of Easter

John 5:1-9


Is Jesus serious here? Honestly, what kind of question is that? "Do you desire to become whole?" The guy's been sick for thirty-plus years. We're not told how old he is, but if that's not all his life it's certainly most of it. And day after day after day he sits there by the pool. Week after week, no one lends him a helping hand into the waters since they're all trying to get themselves or their loved one in first. Month after month people step over his struggles. I'd expected the man to say, "Are you kidding?"


When you think about it, though, the man by the pool never answered that question, did he? Jesus asked what he wanted, what he wished, what he desired. This was a big moment. Here's someone asking him for his heart's desire. Say yes, I want to scream, say yes!


But he doesn't say yes. He doesn't even say no. He seems to avoid the question all together. Rather than answering what desire has filled his prayers, he responds with a complaint. What do you want? "Ah, well. You see I've got no one to help me into this pool. And every day when the waters start to bubble, I try really hard to get to the water but no one helps me. They just step over me (and sometimes on me) and I'm left waiting another day."


In mysteries, which I happen to enjoy, you always pay attention when someone dances around a question by changing the subject. "Don't you think it's odd that you didn't notice the missing vase," the detective asks. "Oh, would you like some coffee," the other person answers. Immediately we're tipped off that there's something this person doesn't want to talk about. There's something they're hiding. They probably aren't guilty, but there's some piece of important information to which the questioner got too close.


But that doesn't apply here, does it? What could he possibly have wanted to avoid in Jesus' question? What could have possibly made him uncomfortable? He did want to be made whole. Didn't he?


Of course, I suppose being broken had become a part of this man's identity. We're never told what his illness was. My first thought was that it was physical. But what if it wasn't?


Maybe this man was scared of giving up what kept him from wholeness. Maybe he realized that he'd lose a part of who he thought he was, and he might have to discover who he'd been created to be.


Maybe Jesus asked because the answer to that question isn't as obvious as I first thought. How would you answer it?


God you came among us to make whole our hearts and souls. Forgive me when I've resisted that work to protect the identity with which I've become so familiar. And when you ask, help me to answer "yes."