Don't You Love a Good Mystery? (Reflections on the Feast of the Holy Trinity)

 

“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 born of the spirit.” (John 3:8) 

Several years ago when I was a volunteer chaplain at what is now called Jefferson Torresdale Hospital, I chanced to enter the room of a young guy who was having a pretty rough time. He was a talented artist who just had both of his legs mangled in an auto accident. When he saw me come into the room, he asked his other visitors (which probably included his mom and dad) to leave. “Father,” he said to me when we were alone, “I’m losing my faith.” 

I listened as the patient told me all the really crappy things which had happened to him lately, and ending up in an orthopedic ward was not the worst of it. As the saying goes, if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. Naturally, he wondered why God would treat him in so shabby a way when he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. I finally told him I thought it was a good thing that he was losing his faith. “Because, “I said, “I don’t think you have faith in God. You seem to believe in Santa Clause.” 

Isn’t that always the way? Faith would be so easy if we had some definite answers. If good things happened to nice people and bad things happened to naughty people. Simple, right? But God never seems to work like that. We’re always forced to re-examine what it is we mean when we say the word “God.” If we get stuck with a Sunday School understanding of God as some invisible man in the clouds who watches and judges and doles out rewards and punishment, we’re really not being religious. We’re being superstitious. To come up with a working definition of the word “God” might just require some work on our part. 

Or maybe not. 

The Gospel lesson for Hoy Trinity (John 3:1-17) is that familiar story of Nicodemus coming to Jesus by night. He starts by buttering him up, and that kind of makes you wonder what this Pharisee is after. Since Nick admits that Jesus must’ve come from God, we can pretty much bet he’s got some theological questions on his mind. But Jesus doesn’t even let him make those queries before he starts messing with the old dude. Jesus starts talking about being born from above, and being born of water and the Spirit. This gets Nicodemus thoroughly confused, which might’ve been Jesus’ point after all. We don’t even understand earthly things, so how can we comprehend the mystery of God? Simple explanations aren’t going to cut the mustard when it comes to the Almighty. 

In 325 CE the early church bishops met in Nicaea and gave us a definition of God which makes no sense at all. God is Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.  God is immensely vast and powerful while being truly human and frail and weak while being ethereal and incorporeal and transcendent and immanent. God is all of these things at once and yet none of these things alone. I wonder if those ancient bishops, tasked with coming up with the definitive definition of God, finally just threw their hands up and said, “We don’t freakin’ know, but this is the best explanation we can give.” 

What is crucial, I think—and what the mystery of God pushes us kicking and screaming towrds—is the contemplation of God’s majesty. I really dig the images in the First Lesson for Holy Trinity, Year B (Isaiah6:1-8). The prophet sees himself before the throne of God. God is SO darn big that the very hem of his robe fills the whole temple—and the temple of Jerusalem was probably the biggest building Isaiah ever saw. There are seraphs flying around covering their faces and their private parts[i] so they don’t profane by even looking at God. The place is shaking like it’s been hit by a quake that’s at least a 7.0 on the Richter scale, and the incense (and the temple was always filled with incense which symbolized ascending prayer) is so intense that the poor guy can’t even see in front of him. All of this makes him feel like a bug about to be squashed. He knows he’s in deep doo-doo before this magnificent and all-powerful God. 

But what does God do? He has one of the seraphs take a burning coal from the altar and touch the prophet’s lips (Which would scare the crap out of me, by the way!). Instead of giving Isaiah a third degree burn and ruining any chances he’d have of making money at a kissing booth, the hot coal burns away all profanation from the prophet, and makes him worthy to speak God’s word. 

We may not understand much about God, but what we know is that God’s will for us is full of mercy. 

There’s a story about Albert Schweitzer and a reporter which I really hope is true. After Schweitzer spent years as a medical missionary in Africa, a young writer asked the famous physician and humanitarian what he’d learned. Schweitzer is said to have replied: “I know only two things: First, there is a God. Second, I’m not him.”[ii] Contemplation of the mystery of the Holy Trinity should make us feel small and inadequate. That’s a good thing. Humility takes the pressure off of us. Still, how wonderful to contemplate that this colossal God loves us enough to die for and with us. IF we understand nothing else about God, let’s be sure we understand that.

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[i] Yes, “feet” is a euphemism. You’d think that seraphs attending on God would put some clothes on!

[ii] Apologies for the sexist masculine pronoun, but Albert lived in a less enlightened time than our own!

God's (Tiny) Deeds of Power (Reflections on the Day of Pentecost)

 

“…in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” (Acts 2:11b) 

Kristen was only 32 years old when she died. She was a single mom, a talented pianist, and a registered nurse. I’m told she had a wicked sense of humor. She was also anorexic, and, in spite of the best help her parents and medical science could give her, the demons got the better of her. She starved herself to death. 

A year after I officiated her funeral service, I got a call from the funeral director, my pal Dana, who asked if I’d be available again for Kristen’s family. They were requesting that I do a short committal liturgy. They were ready to bury Kristen’s cremated remains. 

It was a hot July day at the cemetery. Dana set up a small white pillar and placed Kristen’s urn on top. The family, Kristen’s parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew, and grandparents, arrived and gathered around the pillar. Kristen’s mom wore two colorful brooches in the shapes of butterflies. “These are for my two daughters,” she explained. I read the short liturgy from the Lutheran Occasional Services. When I finished, Dana shared some words of comfort with the family. As she spoke, her back to the pillar, the most enormous blue-winged butterfly I’ve ever seen floated down and landed on Kristen’s urn. It flapped its brilliant wings briefly, and then floated off again. 

I don’t pretend to be an expert on butterflies, but I’ve researched this. Butterflies of this particular size and color are not native to the Philadelphia area. In fact, they’re not even native to the east coast of the United States. Was the appearance of this creature a mere coincidence, or was it—possibly?—a small manifestation of the Holy Spirit? Was God speaking a message of peace and comfort in a moment of tragedy?  

Every year on Pentecost we hear again the story of the coming of the Holy Spirit (Acts 2:1-21)—the rush of the “violent wind,” the appearance of tongues of flame, and the miraculous ability given to the apostles to speak and be understood in various languages. When the Spirit shows up, she makes a dramatic entrance. She flamboyantly grabs our attention, amazing and astonishing us, so that we may hear of God’s deeds of power. 

But I wonder: does the Spirit only speak in extravagant ways, or is God always communicating with us in deeds which may be as subtle as the appearance of a butterfly? Are God’s deeds of power always fantastic, Red Sea-rending acts, or can they be as simple as an act of kindness rendered at a crucial moment? How do you experience the Holy Spirit? What deeds of power have given direction to your journey? What language has God used to get through to you?      

Of course, there are always those who won’t listen, even when the Spirit speaks her loudest. The miraculous gift of languages on that first Pentecost was met with amazement by some and mocking by others who passed it off as the ravings of a bunch of drunkards. When Jesus, in the Gospel (John 15:26-27, 16:4b-15) speaks of the sin of unbelief (v.9), he’s not equating belief with assent to church doctrine. I’m sure there are many who willingly confess the creeds of the faith but don’t really believe that the Spirit could be speaking and acting in their lives. 

To live in the Holy Spirit doesn’t have to mean speaking in tongues or seeing visions like some ancient mystic. But it does mean a sure and certain hope that God has not abandoned us, that God is speaking to us, and that God wants to speak through us. “You also are to testify,” Jesus says, and he assures us that the Spirit will give us the words. 

Keep listening, my friend. She’s speaking.                                                                                                                                                       

Looks Like We're on Our Own--Sort Of (Reflections on Easter 7, Year B)

 

“…I have given them your word…” (John 17:14a) 

When you cross the Delaware River over the Tacony/Palmyra Bridge from New Jersey to Philadelphia, you’ll pass under a painted train trestle which reads “Saint Leo’s: the Heart of Tacony.” Indeed, for well over a century this mostly Italian-American Catholic church was the spiritual center of its Northeast Philly neighborhood. The worship space was as gorgeous as any European cathedral, and generations of worshipers and parochial school children spoke their confessions, made their sacraments, married their sweethearts, and buried their loved ones from the chancel of this majestic and imposing house of God. But, alas, as times and neighborhoods changed, the Archdiocese of Philadelphia closed old Leo’s in 2013 and intended to sell off the property. Last Sunday, the 137 year-old building caught fire and burned to the ground. That which the flames didn’t claim was destroyed by a wrecking ball to prevent it from falling on unsuspecting pedestrians. 

I watched the news reports about the fire, and I felt badly for the former parishioners who, when interviewed, spoke of such love and nostalgia for old St. Leo’s. At the same time, I couldn’t help but think that nothing lasts forever, and, if 137 years’ worth of sermons have done their job, the people of this parish still have the Word of God and have not been abandoned. After all, it was just a building. As beautiful as St. Leo’s was, I suspect there will be fewer such buildings on the American landscape in the years to come.[i] 

In the Gospel reading for Easter 7 Year B in the RCL (John 17:6-19), we find Jesus praying what some scholars call his “High Priestly Prayer.”  Jesus tells the Father God that he has given everything to his disciples to equip them for ministry once he is gone, and he asks the Father to grant them safety in their mission. This is a pretty appropriate reading for this Sunday as it follows the Feast of the Ascension celebrated last Thursday.[ii] Forty days after the resurrection (and forty represents not merely a number but is symbolic of “enough time has gone by” in Jewish numerology) Jesus makes his departure, not to return until the end of all time. I bet the disciples probably felt pretty lost without him. After all, it would certainly be swell to have Jesus with us forever. He has a really great track record with disease and bad weather. He could heal people of COVID-19 and end global warming at the same time! 

But this doesn’t seem to be God’s plan, does it? Just as Jesus has demonstrated that life is eternal, he splits for who-knows-where and leaves us to fend for ourselves. Supposedly, we’ve been equipped to deal with whatever the world (and by “world” I don’t mean the planet, but the human condition and spirit of our age) throws at us. I guess we’re supposed to end COVID and fix global climate change ourselves. Now, ain’t that a bummer!? 

But maybe not. Maybe this bereavement—if you want to call it that—is really the best thing for us. If Jesus was still here physically, I hope he’d still be in charge of his Church (that is, if we didn’t decide that discipleship was too much of a burden and get him executed again!). We’d still be followers, but we wouldn’t be representatives of Christ. By leaving us, Jesus has forced us to deal with our loss and grow up. 

Loss of anything is always hard. We don’t like change. We weep when our loved ones die—even though we know that God’s promise is true and we will always have our loved one’s wisdom and kindness in our hearts. But getting used to change might just be the surest sign of maturity—spiritually and otherwise. 

If we look around us, we’ll see that the whole face of our culture has changed. I think of my former confirmands, some of whom are graduating from college now and are staring their journeys into the real world. This real world is so different from the one I inhabited at their age. They have never lived in a time when a mass shooting in a school was not a possibility. They have never known a time when terrorists couldn’t kill thousands of Americans in one strike. They have not lived in a world where pandemic was only something in a history book, where upward social mobility was always possible, and where the planet was not poised on the ledge of catastrophe. Life without cell phones and instant internet access is unthinkable to them, and there is no taboo about discussing human sexuality, distrust of law enforcement, or gender inequality. Our old ways of doing and being church may have nothing at all to do with this generation, and a church dedicated to nostalgia will not speak to them. 

All the same, we hold on to the Word which has equipped us: God is love, and this love is made perfect in the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. This never changes. 

I don’t know what changes will have to be made in the future. Perhaps the Christian church will exist as it once did in small groups meeting in private homes augmented by a presence in cyber space. I couldn’t say. But what I will say is that I think we’re in the same place the apostles found themselves following the Ascension—the place where we find them in the First Lesson (Acts1:15-17, 21-26). We may be confused and uncertain, but Like Peter, we need to put on our big boy pants and make some decisions. Doing anything (like filling a vacancy) might be better than doing nothing at all. 

After all, we are sanctified in the Word. Everything else is just stuff.

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[i] As a matter of fact, I have watched over the course of my ministry in Northeast Philadelphia as eight Lutheran congregations in what was once the Northeast Philadelphia Conference have shut their doors forever.

[ii] That is, IF you celebrated it. Historically, this is one of the six principal festivals of the Church, but my congregation has, for reasons now lost to antiquity, never observed it. That’s a shame, because it’s a pretty cool festival. I recently heard that one Lutheran church in my synod celebrates Ascension by drinking root beer floats. I guess this is a way to imagine Jesus floating on the clouds like the ice cream floats on the root beer foam. I’d certainly be up for that!

Friends and Mothers (Reflections on Easter 6, Year B)

I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. (John15:15) 

I think it’s pretty cool that my daughter likes to hang out with her mom. They go shopping together (masked, of course), share information about food and health, and generally share daily stuff with each other. They’re getting to be like girlfriends in a way, and I think that’s nice. 

Of course, all the parenting experts will tell you that your mom is not supposed to be your friend. She’s supposed to be your mom. Her unique and particularly difficult and thankless job is to whip your young butt into shape and get you ready to be an adult. Some other lady may cross your path someday who can inspire you and guide you on the yellow brick road to your own funky individualism, but good ol’ Mom is there like a Marine Corp DI to prepare you for responsible independence. 

One way Mom does this is by passing down her wisdom and knowledge. I have to give a shout-out to my own late mother, Marie “Bear” Griffiths, who was also my Sunday School teacher and taught me a good deal about the Lutheran faith. Today, when my confirmation students are learning via Zoom, I not only allow their mothers to help them with their homework, but I encourage the moms to do so. Believe me, the kids do so much better when their moms get involved. 

But moms also demonstrate a lot of serving. In the Gospel lesson for Easter 6, Year B (John 15:19-17), Jesus speaks to his disciples on the eve of his arrest and execution after he has just done the outrageously mom-like act of washing their smelly feet. After all, didn’t your mom wash you? And your clothes? And prepare your lunch? And check your homework, and do a million other servant-like things for you? Why? So you could grow up and do them for yourself the right and responsible way. She loved you in the hope that one day you would no longer be her dependent, but you would draw even with her and become her equal. 

There comes a point, I think, when parents look at their kids and say, “We’re both adults now. We’re both over 21, we can vote and buy beer and hold public office. We drive cars, pay a mortgage, and hold down a job. And now we’re both parents.” If there comes a point when parent and child can see each other as individuals and not as extensions of their own egos, that’s a great moment. That’s when the parent can call the child her friend. 

Jesus’ call to discipleship in the Gospel lesson is a call to both love and friendship. The love he refers to is, in Greek, agape (agaph) love. That is, God’s love—a love which involves a deep concern for the other. But Jesus also calls the disciples his friends. In Greek, this word is philoi (filoi), a word which can suggest the intellectual enjoyment of something or someone, a sense of companionship. There is no longer a hierarchy, but a sense of equality or fraternity. This is how Christians are called to love—as both parents who would die for their children and as siblings who see no one as greater or lesser than themselves but all as children of the same Heavenly Father. 

I’ll admit, it’s not always easy to see a child of God in a child or parent of our own. Sometimes the hardest relationships to have are with the ones who are the closest to us. My grandmother was well into her eighties before she could turn to my mother for help and advice. I don’t think my own mom ever got to the point where she could lay down her sense of primacy over her children. Truth be told, Jesus is always asking us to do some pretty hard things. Just as, in the First Lesson for Easter 6 (Acts 10:44-48), Peter and his buddies had a real rough time believing that Gentiles could also receive the Holy Spirit, we sometimes have trouble laying down our preconceptions and appreciating our family members for the individual qualities God has given them. 

Yup. It’s often easier for us to love the stranger than to love the ones who swim in the same gene pool with us in both Christian servanthood and selfless appreciation. But this is what Jesus has called us to do, and he wouldn’t tell us to do it if he didn’t think we couldn’t manage it. It might take us a lifetime to learn the meaning of both love and friendship, but, if we’re willing to learn, I’d hazard to guess that somewhere along the way Mom showed us how.