Waltzing with the Trinity

From Steve Mathonnet-VanderWell

The Sunday after Pentecost, this coming Sunday, is known as Trinity Sunday. I used to make fun of Trinity Sunday. Exactly what event are we celebrating? “Oh yes, that's the day we read our favorite Trinity story!” We all know that on Pentecost, you read Acts 2. On Christmas, Luke 2. For Trinity Sunday, what? The three mysterious visitors to Abraham and Sarah at the oaks of Mamre, (Genesis 18), perhaps?

Back then I viewed the Trinity more as divine minutiae, an arcane embarrassment, the byproduct of underworked and overly-imaginative theologians, a topic one could not discuss for more than thirty seconds without falling into some heresy. If I slip into heresy here, please let me know. 

Now, the Trinity has become for me a mystery to be celebrated, a delightful eccentricity that refuses to be digested by our schemas. Trinity is the very heart of God, and in turn, informs us greatly about what it is to be human.

As my appreciation for the Trinity has increased, I’ve also come to welcome Trinity Sunday. In fact, the trio of Ascension, Pentecost, and Trinity Sunday has become a fun, faint echo of Easter and the Holy Week events. Of course, this relishing of the Trinity is not some solo journey, my great personal revelation. Trinity has been a hot topic in theology for a couple of decades, richly mined by all sorts of good folk.

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The Spirit of Possibility

From Jessica Bratt

Graphic by Timothy Aivazian (http://timothyaivazian.com)Happy Pentecost Monday, friends. As I was reflecting on the layers of meaning that Pentecost carries, I found my way back to a quote I'd copied down years ago from one of German theologian Jurgen Moltmann's books, The Spirit of Life: A Universal Affirmation. It resonated deeply with me right now and I wanted to share it.

I hope and pray today that the Spirit who animates and transforms our lives may keep us utterly aflame (and highly contagious!) with possibility, with love, and with trust. 

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The Silence of God

Last fall my husband and I traveled to Nashville for our very first Hutchmoot—a weekend of live music, delicious food, and conversations centered on art, faith, and the telling of great stories. One of the sessions I attended was “Recovery Through Song.” In this session, three songwriters shared how music and creativity served as outlets for spiritual and emotional healing in dark seasons of their lives. Though each apologized for “bleeding” their problems over the audience, I deeply appreciated their musical vulnerability as these very personal songs contributed to healing in my own life.

Several years ago, I became acquainted with “The Silence of God” by Andrew Peterson. Toward the end of the song, these lyrics spoke directly into that time of darkness.

There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone

And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not.

The aching may remain, but the breaking does not—these words offered hope without ignoring or attempting to tidy up present circumstances. Occasionally, this song has been my “card” to others as I find it better than anything available in the Hallmark aisle.

Dana Daniels is the associate director of advancement at Western Theological Seminary. She is also involved in an RCA church plant, Embody Christ Fellowship, with husband Rev. Jim Daniels.

Unfinished Business

From Debra Rienstra

When I first began teaching, I tried to have all my semester grades turned in before commencement, so that I could enjoy a sense of closure as I sat there in my academic regalia and watched graduating students stride down the field house aisle and into their future. These days, I don’t even bother to try to hit that deadline. I’m so slow and tired by the end of the academic year; I can’t push myself hard enough to make it. Instead, I usually stumble along right up to the Wednesday after commencement weekend, when the registrar insists we turn in our final grades.

I suppose I have simply gotten used to unfinished business. As more academic years slide past and pile up behind me, I have less a sense of closure in May than a sense of constant motion. Even this year, when two of my own children are graduating—one from high school and one from middle school—I’m having a hard time savoring the moment. It all seems to be flying past me in a blur.

Perhaps this is why Psalm 90 has been on my mind, a psalm about the passage of time, the ephemerality of life. For God, a thousand years are like a day, and our little human lives are quick as a breath and no more substantial. Humbled by this reflection, the psalmist pleads, “Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Teach us how very small we are. Melt our self-importance away in the light of divine perspective.

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Prayers for a young widow

From James C. Schaap