Year B: May 30, 2021 | Trinity Sunday
Trinity Sunday, Year B: Isaiah 6:1-8 | Psalm 29
Episcopal Church of the Holy Cross
May 30, 2021
the Rev. Jonathan Hanneman
To watch a video of the sermon, please visit this page.
Happy Trinity Sunday! Today is one of the few major Church feasts that celebrates a theological concept rather than an event in the life of Christ or another significant Biblical figure.
Although it’s central to our understanding of God, the word “trinity” doesn’t actually appear anywhere in the Bible. And it’s a weird concept, to be honest. It took several hundred years—and few major heretical movements—for ancient Church leadership to really hammer out the details of what the term even meant. All the battles (and I do mean “battles”: we have documentation of at least one physical fight) focused around the question of who God is. No one had any arguments against the Father being God, but the Son and the Spirit were where things got a little squiffy. Jesus especially proved the main source of trouble: was this Messianic figure the chief of God’s messengers, “the firstborn of all creation,” or was he actually God incarnate? If he wasn’t God, how could his life, death, and resurrection provide any saving or restorative effect? But if he actually was God, then how exactly could we explain the way the Father and/or the Spirit would occasionally show up with him at the same time, like at his baptism? So maybe there are three gods? No—that would contradict the Hebrew Bible, where Moses plainly states, “The Lord our God is one Lord.”[1] After a few centuries of conflict, the internal Church argument eventually pointed to there being one God, although that one God somehow appears to function as three distinct “Persons,” hence the Trinity.
So getting to the basics of our theological heritage as Trinitarian Christians and Episcopalians: there is one true God—only one. We are indeed monotheists. But the Bible suggests this one God often interacts with humanity through three distinct Persons, whom we title the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.[2] Sometimes one of those Persons appears to act alone, but that one Person is still the fullness of the one God acting. At other times, two or even all three of those Persons appear to be interacting at the same time, but that continues to be the fullness of the one God acting. That’s about as simple as I can make it, and I’m sure that better theologians than I would cringe at the errors I’ve accidentally perpetuated in my summary.
As I said, it’s a weird concept, and it resists any sort of simplification. Various people have tried explaining it by referencing nature: an egg consists of the white, yolk, and shell, yet it’s still a single egg; or, as more famously attributed to St. Patrick, the shamrock has three leaves yet remains one plant. Things like that. But no matter how we try to condense it, the Trinity remains as difficult to grasp today as it was from the start. And that’s probably a good thing. To paraphrase one of my seminary professors, “When you find the ‘right’ way to explain God, one that no longer involves any mystery, chances are it’s just another heresy.”
Despite the risks of introducing more mistakes or adding to the confusion, I’d like to add another point of view to the mix.
To the right you’ll find an image called a “mitsudomoe,” which is a symbol I initially encountered while studying Shintoism, Japan’s indigenous religion. When I first saw it, I liked how it looked, but I figured it was just a logo—a cool graphic without any real meaning. However, the mitsudomoe has a rich life within Shinto tradition and is often explained as a representation of the threefold interaction of humanity, the earth, and the heavens central to that religious practice. Looking well outside its appropriate cultural context, in my own contemplation I’ve also found the mitsudomoe to be a helpful guide in clarifying my personal understanding of the Trinity.
There are a few different ways of looking at the mitsudomoe. Let’s start by considering the white space inside. That three-armed shape is called a “triskellion,” and variations of that symbol appear in cultures and carvings throughout the world—pretty much every inhabited continent. In this Japanese version, I find it looks a lot like a blade, and an unpleasant one at that—something you might see a Klingon using in Star Trek. It’s obviously designed to spin, and either way it turns, it’s going to cause massive damage. Whether a weapon, a scythe, or a saw, there’s no doubt it’s going to destroy anything that crosses its path.
I wonder if that isn’t similar to what Isaiah was thinking in our Hebrew Bible reading. He has a vision of God’s glory and majesty, a view of the Reign of God, but it terrifies him. He compares this Cosmic King to himself, and this being is so incredible and so far beyond anything Isaiah’s ever experienced that the prophet can’t help but assume it must be out to get him. He can hear angels crying out about God’s glory, but it makes no sense: his brain is simply overloaded with fear. Nothing he or anyone else might try could ever possibly impede or appease that kind of power, so he ends up frozen in despair. He wants to run from this sweeping doom, but he recognized the effort would be useless. Like a giant fan, the blades of judgment are pulling him in, and he’s helpless to avoid them.
But one of the angels comes to him, performs a simple ritual, and suddenly everything changes. Now, instead of hearing about God from the angels, Isaiah is directly able to hear God’s voice for himself. And then, instead of hiding in terror, he jumps at the holy invitation and begs to join the Divine work.
That leaves me wondering, what changed? Nothing indicates that God or the vision itself changed. The angelic ritual didn’t really make Isaiah himself all that different. So what does change here?
Isaiah’s perspective.
Let’s look at the mitsudomoe again. This time, instead of focusing on the white part, take a look at the black sections. Each one of those three tadpole-looking things is called a tomoe. Each one is a complete unit on its own. Each one feels alive, like it has a certain amount of motion built into it. But when you bring them together, they become something more. They suggest a circle, and not just an ordinary circle: they create a vortex, like a whirlpool. A vortex builds a flow of energy, drawing everything toward it, an intense pulling toward the future and a new creation—in this case a flow I think of as the work and will of God. Set together, the three identical yet individual tomoe focus our attention in a way that a single one couldn’t accomplish alone. Stare at the symbol long enough, at its perpetual motion and stillness, and you might just start to get dizzy—you start to lose yourself. If you stare at God’s wonder long enough, you’ll likely do the same.
Just like our perspective on the mitsudomoe can change, Isaiah’s perspective on God changed. When he stopped thinking of God as a threat, stopped being afraid that God might even notice him, instead of seeing the triskellion, those sweeping blades of judgment, the vision reemerged as an invitation, an amazing energy welcoming him to join its continuing work. Giddy with relief and riding that unending flow of power, Isaiah couldn’t help but want to participate.
Today’s Psalmist obviously experienced something similar. David wasn’t just contemplating God intellectually; this poem is far from an academic exercise. He isn’t standing at a distance and calmly documenting some sort of emotionless encounter. He’s on the edge of that swirl, that great divine flow, and he’s ready to fall straight in. The ground is slipping beneath his feet, but instead of jumping back in fear, he’s excited! He can barely stick to one image as he describes God’s wonder. Thunder, fire, a tornado, a roaring river, an earthquake—there aren’t enough analogies to contain his enthusiasm. He acts like a little kid shouting for his friends, “Come see this, everybody! You guys have GOT to see this!”
I wonder if that same perspective change isn’t what the Apostle Paul was referring to as our adoption as God’s children or what Jesus himself was talking about as being “born from above.” Neither of those concepts has to be something far from us, some alien, esoteric rite. Joining God’s work—participating in the Kingdom of God, the life of the Trinity itself—isn’t something exotic or distant from any of us. It’s right here, so close you can touch it. It’s simply waking up and responding to the ongoing invitation to celebrate this Good News.
[1] Deuteronomy 6:4 (KJV)
[2] Various attempts have been made to de-gender the titles, such as Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, but due to controversy about the terminology across the various branches of the global Church, Father, Son, and Spirit remain the standard formulation, especially in the act of baptism.