Gloria Dei Lutheran Church

It is Holy Trinity Sunday.

The only Sunday set aside to celebrate doctrine. That is, that the God we worship is triune. God comes to us as community. As Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Faith is never just about you. Or me. Or you and Jesus. Faith is always born of and into community. That’s the way of God: God comes to us as a party of three. Three-in-one. If God made a reservation at Buca di Beppo tonight, it would be for a table of three.

When I got to seminary, I learned most every way we have for talking about or explaining the Trinity proves to be heretical in some way. So friends, get ready for some heresy this morning.

We enter Matthew’s Gospel today at the end. These are the final words in the book and a good time to reflect on the whole. It’s a scrapbook moment. Jesus is back in Galilee, where his ministry started. Full circle. Galilee is the place where he called unlikely people into discipleship. Jesus invited people who made their living on sea, casting nets. He invited tax collectors. And that crew witnessed and participated in three years packed with healing and blessing. They blessed everyone: those who were poor in spirit, people in mourning, a few who were pure in heart. They blessed those who worked as peacemakers and said they were children of God.

They witnessed Jesus bless children, much to the chagrin of those disciples. They didn’t like it. But Jesus continues with their training program and not only blesses the children but pulls them right onto his lap and says, “Love, I am just nuts about you.” Which gives all of us an imagination to pull children right into the center of our worship life here at Gloria Dei.

All Easter season, we proclaimed these words at the communion table: “Christ is made known in the breaking of the bread.” And you all responded: “Holy things for holy people.” Each week, I waited and waited for those particular words to be said. Because then we go on and put those things into the hands of anyone would stretches out a palm, including all the children. Holy things entrusted into the hands of kids. Isn’t that something?

Throughout the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus did a ton teaching, mostly through stories that connected to the disciples real lives. He talked to them about their anger and judgement, told them to love their enemies and they soaked up what they could. But also those stories left them with more questions. Eventually, you likely know where the storyline leads. Jesus was tried and executed by the state, like many who had gone before him and many who came after. However, just as he predicted, he did not stay in that grave. He rose. He lived and died and lived again. And he gave the first story of resurrection to the women. And this whole process was hard on those fisherman and tax collecting disciples but they hung in there. They had doubts all along but here they are at the end, sticking with their discipleship training. But please note, Scripture says they gathered with Jesus and worshipped and some doubted.

How many, do you supposed, doubted. Thomas obviously comes to mind because of typecasting. But it says “some.” So more than one. 1/3 of the group? Half? All but one?

Might this tell us that there is all sorts of room for your doubts? Those moments when it’s just too hard to believe in a God who dies, rises. In a God who is for you. In a God who comes to us as Three-in-one? A holy mystery.

Of course, this isn’t just a trip down memory lane from our ancestors in faith. We are called into all of it, too. We are invited to become students of Jesus and bear this love to the world. We are not called to form people into cookie cutters who all believe the right thing. We are not called to shame ore scare people into a belief system. We are called to be good neighbors. To talk over the fences—both the actual ones and the metaphorical ones and check in on one another. We are invited over and over to show mercy without an agenda. To bless, bless, bless and give and share without strings.

The other compelling part in this story is the movement. Perhaps when we hear this charge from the Gospel of Matthew—to “Go therefore, baptize and teach” instead of feeling  like we have heard Good News, we feel guilty. Because Jesus tells us to “Go” but we haven’t gone anywhere and we have settled into a nice life here in beautiful Minnesota.

I’d like to let you in on a little secret. When you dig around the Greek, you find that verb tense of that “Go” is: “under the circumstances of having gone.” Read it with that in mind. “Under the circumstance of having gone, baptize and teach….” Which means, honey-you have arrived. You are there. You are right where you are supposed to be.

The one who is actually moving in this text is Jesus. He moves. He physically comes to them. He moves toward them. Jesus comes into their space. Their personal space.

He doesn’t call. Or send a text. Or an email. He moves in as flesh and bone and skin and breath.

What is your personal space comfort level? How close is too close?

When I was in college, I went on a trip with a group of students and a professor to Europe. We went to six different countries and studied intercultural communication. How close we stand to one another. How loudly or softly we talk. Eye contact. Hand gestures. It was during this month abroad that I began to notice things like what the appropriate distance is between two people standing in line. Or in an elevator. Or how close you can sit to a stranger on a bus.

In Italy and Greece—you can all just cram into a city bus, bodies touching, smells mingling and no one is offended. England and Germany? Well, folks like a bit more space. Norway? They want space the size of fjord.

When I returned home, I tested out some of the things I had observed. I was waiting in line for a pay phone and decided to see how close I could move in before things got weird. (I was asked to back off).

How close does Jesus move in? Well, he comes all the way, actually. Disrupting our comfortable distance. Messing with our idea of keeping God at a manageable arms length, giving us the illusion of control.

Truthfully, I’ve always wrinkled my nose at the ending of the this Gospel. “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” I see it in stained glass. As Jesus as Eva Perone in the musical Evita. As a parting soliloquy.

But, what I have come to see this week is that Jesus does not ride off into the sunset. There is no ascension in this Gospel like there is in Mark and Luke. Jesus doesn’t make this lovely statement and hop a cloud to heaven. He remains with you and me and the doubt and the holy things in our care.

And finally, I want to talk about belonging this morning. Because worshipping a trinitarian God means we are born into community. We are born into belonging and baptized into an entire assembly of people promise to love and pray for us. To root for our well-being.

Most of us go through times when we feel alone and isolated. That’s part of being a human. Maybe that is where you are living right now and then good on you for walking in here this morning. Because not only do you belong to God, you belong to God’s people.

It takes some effort to foster a sense of belonging. Especially if you are new or you your life has changed because of a death or a move or a break up. It is worth sticking around and giving it a go.

And sometimes no effort at all. Belongingness can surprise you in places you aren’t expecting. Both small and large moments in our week. Like, there is a barista at a coffee shop who remembers me and asks about my life in the 30 seconds we have together. On Wednesday night, I went to the Lynx game and that was an arena of people cheering for those glorious women playing ball. And a stadium full of people cheering for women made me burst into tears.

Last week, belonging showed up over a curry dinner with people I have known for a long time.  A number of  years ago, I was in woods outside of Eau Claire Wisconsin at a music festival.  A couple thousand people were gathered around one of the stages to hear Sufjan Stevens play. He had all of us singing at the top of our lungs a chorus, “We’re all gonna die.” And then he’d hit the vibraslap. Big smile on his face. “We’re all gonna die.” vibraslap I remember looking around and thinking, this is my place. Right here. Now. With all these strangers.

And of course, here at the font. Here at table. Here in the singing and the praying and the holy things for holy people into all of our hands. There is belonging belonging belonging.