3-IN-ONE

Trinity Sunday is the culmination, in a sense, of the Church’s liturgical year. We move from Advent to Christmas, from Christmas to Epiphany, from Epiphany to Lent, from Lent to the Cross, from Good Friday to Easter, from Easter to Whitsun, from Whitsun to the Ascension, and from Ascension Day to Trinity. Then comes what once described as ‘the long green highway of the year’, the Sundays After Trinity with their noble and varied Collects. But what of Trinity itself?

For the human race, apparently mired in death, the Great Event is the Resurrection. But the Resurrection cannot be taken without the Cross; the two together are the great outpouring of the Son’s love for us; and the Son is not, cannot be, without the Father. “Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own authority; but the Father who dwells in me does his works.” (Jn 14:10) And beyond that, there is the Holy Spirit: “And I will pray the Father, and he will give you another Counselor, to be with you for ever, the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him; you know him, for he dwells with you, and will be in you.” (Jn 14:16-7)

And so, meditating, thinking and praying (and frequently quarrelling), the Church came eventually (381 AD) to the doctrine of the Trinity: the Triune God, one God, three Persons. The Resurrection is the Event; the Trinity is the great Mystery of the faith. In the view of St Basil, his brother Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianzus, as Karen Armstrong explains in A History of God, “the Trinity only made sense as a mystical or spiritual experience . . . It was not a logical or intellectual formulation but an imaginative paradigm that confounded reason. Gregory of Nazianzus made this clear when he explained that contemplation of the Three in One induced a profound and overwhelming emotion that confounded thought and intellectual clarity. ‘No sooner do I conceive of the One than I am illumined by the splendor of the Three; no sooner do I distinguish Three than I am carried back into the One. When I think of any of the Three, I think of him as the whole, and my eyes are filled, and the greater part of what I am thinking escapes me.’” 

And yet it is a mystery that Jesus lets us in on, lets us into: because the Spirit dwells with us and in us, and if the Spirit and the Son and the Father are one, we are taken up into that great beating cosmic heart of Love. How do we celebrate it? All (of the Faith) is always present, wrote T.S. Eliot; yet the point of the liturgical year is that we can concentrate on some individual aspects at any one time. When the parable of the Good Samaritan is read, we look on the people we pass in the street in a new way; in Lent, we give a different attention to those who suffer; and on Trinity Sunday we might usefully learn from the Carthusians and other contemplative orders to meditate on the mystery as Gregory did. The more so in that that same Mystery has chosen to dwell with and in us, poor clods that we are.

CONTRA SPINOZAM TRINITAS

 My God, I heard them say

Thy way of being was a Clock of clocks,

A self-perpetuate motion, and that Love

Was, to create by necessary law;

And they reproach’d for Paradox

My words that thou, perfect above,

Didst need no more;

Sure they are blind who do not see

Thy love in this, that being is a gift;

Who do not sense that we

And all the random forms of hill and drift

Are here by no necessity

But by thy lasting Courtesy:

So they forget thy Trinity.

    Out of thy joyous solitude

    And tender in omnipotence

    To shape a world and on it brood,

    Fashioning trees and men of sense;

    From archangelic psalmody

    Mankind having destruction drawn,

    To enter into agony

    And for their healing to be torn;

    And, resurrected, still to dwell,

    Informing our experience,

    Praying in us, Immanuel,

    Unravelling our impotence;

Such thy unnecessary love: can we do less,

Released from death,

Than savour each delight of breath,

Blessing Thy wilfulness?

RK

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING

Veni, Creator Spiritus . . . I have always loved the Latin hymns with their stately iambic tetrameters; and this one especially. Since my youth – and an education not given to particular ‘devotions’ – I’ve had a special orientation towards the Holy Ghost (and towards St John the Evangelist, after whom I was named at baptism and who was the poet of the Gospels). The Third Person of the Trinity, so ungraspable, so strange and yet so close: what do we do with him?

The question is of course the wrong way round. What does He do with us? The readings I’ve seen recently give one useful answer, which has doubtless occurred to many. Jesus promises the disciples that he will send them the Spirit to be with them after he has gone up to the Father. So, says Fr Marc Sevin, all the things that Jesus says he still has to tell them but which they ‘cannot bear now’: these are the things the Spirit will tell them – tell us – in and through the community of the Church, from the first Pentecost to the Second Coming. 

So in that sense, the Spirit is the One who continues Jesus’ teaching. What else does he do? Another reading says that the Pentecostal event of the tongues is not about speaking, but about hearing and understanding. Each person heard and understood what was being said, in his own dialect. So the Spirit teaches us to hear and understand both God and our neighbour in our own dialect. First, we can look through and beyond language- and communication-barriers to the heart, and meet one another in the language of love; and secondly, we hear and understand both God and our neighbour in the way we, personally, are capable of doing so. The Spirit, then, removes barriers: the barriers between us and our neighbours are removed by both of us hearing the one who is speaking of God, and the barriers between us and God are removed by our understanding what is being said. 

What else does the Spirit do? Paul says that He prays in us. ‘Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered’ (Romans 8:26) – and the Father understands this, says Paul, because the Spirit does so kata Theon, in conformity, in harmony, with God. This goes very deep. If when we pray the vastness of God Himself prays in us; like something holding us up as we learn to swim; then our prayer takes on a trembling confidence we may never have thought of.

I wrote last time that the Spirit is our Paraclete, our Defender, our Advocate. He is also our ‘shield and defender’ against the Evil One. And he is the Comforter – a word we have somewhat trivialised in applying it to blankets and such. And, we are taught, ‘comfort’ in Early Modern English still has the sense of con-fortare, strengthening. He is the Comforter in that sense: he strengthens us when we definitely do not feel up to things. Here again, we should learn to be aware of that as a Presence, and to rely on it: how many people might avoid the clutching quicksand of depression, the knifing of despair, if they knew Who was ready to hold them up and give them that extra ounce of strength they lack?

He teaches us; helps us hear and understand; prays in, with and for us; strengthens us and holds us up. No wonder Pentecost, Whitsun, is a feast. A feast; a festival; a celebration. We can’t earn the Spirit; we can’t work to receive him; we can’t get him by making sacrifices or fasting or doing good. He is given us, as a gift, a present, free of charge. He gives Himself. As the French say, Que du bonheur! What joy.

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART

The Church year has two moments of dolorous absence: Holy Saturday and the ten days between Ascension Day and Whit Sunday. I heard a brief recorded homily recently by a Carthusian on the former: he enjoined his brothers not to slide over Holy Saturday but to live it to the full: ‘we must be dead with the God who is dead,’ he said. I remember, when I frequented St Mary Magdalen in Toronto, the powerful impact not just of the shrouded statues and the parishioners’ uninterrupted prayer vigil, but especially the empty tabernacle with its door open. It gave me a sense of complete desolation, worse even than a disaffected church being bulldozed.

The time between the Ascension and Whitsun is in some ways similar. The risen Lord was there: he was there in upper rooms, on the beach, at the dinner table of an inn. He wasn’t a ghost: he was flesh and blood and could be touched. (He did walk through walls, though.)  He explained things to the lads: to a couple of them, on the road, he explained the whole of the Scriptures and their pointing to him as the new Scripture, the new Torah, the new Temple. Their joy must have been a little tempered by uncanniness, but so intense. And then he left, whisked off to heaven, not ‘up there’ as we now know, but ‘out there’ (which from a spherical planet always looks like ‘up’, anyway).

Of course, he had explained to them, patiently, that this had to happen: he had to go back to his (and our) Father, and he had to make room for the Third Person of the Trinity to come and join them, for all time (until the End of Time and his return). But the Paraclete did not come until Whitsun, and for those ten days I imagine them feeling desolate in the extreme. No time-scale had been told them. They had little idea what the Holy Spirit would be like. It must all have seemed vague beside the acute and definite loss.

What can we do with this time of in-between, these days of absence? First, realise that the absence is liturgical, and thus both symbolic and recurring: literally, we live in the time of His (the Spirit’s) presence. Secondly, learn from the desolation we feel what a world without God would be like. ‘The fool has said in his heart, There is no God.’ An increasing number of otherwise intelligent people are saying the same thing; which to them means Good riddance:  we can now do as we please. We can at last have world without God. And, as Ratzinger says in Jesus of Nazareth: when we look around us, we are beginning to see what that looks like . . .

Third, we can prepare for Whitsun by pondering the Third Person of the Trinity. What – who – is the Holy Spirit? I’m always surprised by the mentions of him in the book of Acts, for example, where he is shown as a very definite, almost physical, event: he can come in an instant and have very obvious manifestations: speaking in tongues, for one. Nowadays, in mainstream churches, one gets taught about him differently if at all. As I have written before, he is now often defined as the relation of love between the Father and the Son; but can a relation be a Person?

We are told he is the Paraclete, the Defender, the Advocate. He is, in other words, on our side. Against whom? The obvious thought is, He will stick up for us when we stand as little guilty children before the stern-browed, loving but terrifying Father. But we could expand that. Against whom do we need defending, really? Mmmmm, right. Let’s not name him, but we know whom we mean. Several authors say that ‘Lead us not into temptation’ means ‘Do not test us beyond what we can bear’, and the kind of test they have in mind is the one inflicted on Job, with the Father’s agreement. If such testing were contemplated again, the Advocate would speak up for us on the one hand, and help us bear any subsequent test on the other.

He is also the Spirit of the divine love. Not himself a relationship, but perhaps the One who incarnates and thus creates the love that circulates eternally within the Trinity. God the Father, we imagine, may be Love but has other attributes also, such as Creation and Justice. God the Son, we imagine, may be Love but also has the experience of being (having been? being?) human as well as divine, with all that that implies of difficulty and suffering. Perhaps the Third Person is pure Love, with no other attributes: the fons et origo, the wellspring of heavenly love, that overflows, first within the Triune Godhead, and then down to us pauvres pécheurs, to help and sustain us, to defend us and deliver us, to be always within our reach, to never let us go: to give us the joy that begins on Whitsun. Pondering this might be a very good way to live the ten days of strange, uncanny, unheimlich absence.

SURPRISED BY GIDE

André Gide, portrait by Matzneff

I was surprised to hear the marvellous voice of the bilingual actor Michael Lonsdale murmuring, on my car's stereo, a touching passage of faith by the austere and sometimes caustic Andre Gide. It comes from a notebook of diary-like jottings, Le Cahier vert (1916), and I offer it here in my own translation:

Lord, it is not because they tell me that you are the Son of God that I listen to your word; but your word is beautiful beyond all human words, and that is how I recognise that you are the Son of God. 

Through what absurd modesty, through what humility, what shame,  have I put off until today to write that which for so many years has yearned in me…

I always waited for more wisdom, reading, knowledge, as if the wisdom of men were not folly before God. 


Lord, I come to you as a child; as the child that  you want me to become, as the child that whoever abandons himself to you becomes. I resign all that was my pride and which near you would be my shame. I listen, and my heart is yours. 

A GOOD ASKING

This mosaic of St Ephrem is the oldest image I could find: an 11C mosaic from the Nea Moni monastery 
on the Greek island of Chios. He looks as if he has just seen the ghost of Mani threatening him. 

I was looking up the 4th-century St Ephrem of Syria, nicknamed "the harp of the Holy Spirit" for his Syriac hymns, and came across "the Prayer of St Ephrem" which is part of the Orthodox liturgy and which I found simple and touching:

O Lord and Master of my life, give me not the spirit of idleness, meddling, lust for power and idle talk.

But grant unto me, Thy servant, a spirit of wisdom, humility, patience and love.

Truly, Lord and King, grant me to see mine own faults and not to judge my brother. For blessed art Thou, world without end. Amen.

The "wisdom" in the second line is sophrosunè in Greek, which is a kind of general intelligent sanity of life: it is traditionally translated as "chastity" but in modern terms something like "wisdom, discernment, integrity, simplicity" and/or a mixture of all of those seems more accurate. 

FRIENDS

Just a quick thought. A comment in Prions en église pointed out, à propos of a passage in the Gospel of St John, that we keep thinking that we have chosen to be Christians, Episcopalians or Anglicans who actually believe, Methodists, Baptists, etcetera.  That it reflects a mature choice in our adult life, that we have considered the temptations (manifold) to be something else, or, temptingly, nothing at all so we can live with no constraints whatever, and that we have come to the conclusion that, as Winston Churchill said about democracy, the Christian faith is the worst of all faiths except for all the other ones.

Wrong. Wrong, said Fr van den Driessche. We may believe that it happened like this, but we are fooling ourselves. It is He who has done the choosing. Wake up and smell the coffee. You didn’t choose squat. You were chosen. How very unnerving. You were chosen: he chose you because he loved, and loves, you. How embarrassing. How spectacularly wonderful. How humbling. 

What do we do about this? No, no, no: we do not charge off to Do Good. At least not right away. How would it be if we stopped for a while and pondered, and let that love reach to our inmost noogies, and basked in it? We keep being told not to do things like that, and to get of our ass and Do Good. Uh, huh. Unless and until we can feel that love warming the cockles of our heart (what are cockles, anyway?), we cannot pass it on. We aren’t equipped. We’re hindered by all those thornbushes and all those serpents. Only if we can stop – stop – and let that love (not just for everyone, for humanity, for men of good will: for you, for me, oh shit) percolate to every nook and cranny of our inmost being, and enjoy it, and bask in it, and revel in it ------- only if we can do that can we go on to communicate it, in whichever way we have received the gift of doing so, to all those people we love and who could be receiving it too if only we could explain it to them . . . . . . .

“Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it you.” (John 15:16)

"Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for all things that I have heard of my Father I have made known unto you." (John 15:15)

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Image: detail from Paolo Veronese, The Feast in the House of Levi (1573)

A SOUND IDEA

Many churchgoers must be having experiences similar to this: the time for the sermon arrives; the priest grabs the microphone and either stands in front of or slightly to the side of the altar, or ambles up and down the aisle, roaring informally to the parishioners who are trying to catch the words in the reverb and end up closing their eyes to be able to concentrate on what is being said.

After all – so the current dogma goes – you can’t actually use a pulpit: horrors, it’s elitist, colonialist, what you will, it puts the priest high above the congregation so they have to look up, how undemocratic! Away with such relics of obscurantism!

Wrong, Pulpits are what they are for a reason, and priest-worship isn’t it. They are perched high so that everyone in the congregation can see and hear: see who is talking and hear what is being said. Microphones and loudspeakers are singularly ill-adapted to churches: the echo is far too great, and the sound quality is actually diminished by them. If you use a pulpit, you do not need a sound system: a pulpit is a sound system. OK, it helps if you’ve had a week of voice training and learn to throw your voice; but it doesn’t take much.

Priests, take note: your congregations might well be happier with a good sermon delivered in a natural voice from a pulpit that with electric sounds amplified through a system of loud(loud!)speakers.