Expressing The Inexpressible
Stories
Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit
Series VI, Cycle B
Object:
What can we ever say about God that is adequate? How can finite minds and mouths ever adequately describe the infinite? Ancient Israel understood that better than most. Those folks were not even allowed to utter God's name out loud for fear of misusing it. Still, every theological tradition, in its own way, tries to give expression to the inexpressible. Perhaps that is a foolish enterprise given that the word "theology" is a bit of a stretch. What is theology -- the study of God? Really? God is not like a rock, sitting there to be studied. But, still we try.
Christians have been at it from the beginning. In fact, this day on our liturgical calendar -- Trinity Sunday -- gets to the heart of our centuries-long musings.
As you historians know, the Nicene Creed is the first official doctrinal statement of the whole Christian church that describes our understanding. It developed from the work of the first two ecumenical councils, Nicaea in 325 AD and Constantinople in 381, gaining final approval by the prestigious Council of Chalcedon in 451. In its present form, it is the oldest theological affirmation of the church and is the only creed accepted by all three major branches of Christianity -- Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestant.
What prompted the councils in the first place was a controversy in the church about our understanding of God. In particular, the issue was how to understand Jesus Christ in relation to God. Some wanted to say Jesus was God in human flesh; others wanted to say that, to be sure, Jesus was special, but not quite that special. The dispute was not confined to academic halls or ecclesiastical conclaves. Depending upon who happened to be in power at any one moment in any one place, there were excommunications and banishments. Various theologians had their own followings who were more than willing to take the battle to the streets, and yes, they actually had riots over the issue.
Once things settled down (and as the chronology indicates, it took 126 years), the church said that as mysterious as it might be, the scriptural teaching about Jesus Christ is that he is truly God in the flesh. At the same time, Jesus Christ is fully human -- not half-and-half, but 100% of each! In essence, the creed says that whatever God is, Jesus is; and whatever humanity is, Jesus is that too, in one whole person. We do not pretend to understand all that, because Christ is unique -- we have no one with whom to compare him.
The Nicene Creed also expresses our understanding of the Holy Spirit. Christian belief insists that the Spirit is also fully God, the giver and sustainer of life: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One God, "in three persons," we sing, "Blessed Trinity." And that is what we celebrate on this Trinity Sunday.
One would think that, after lo, these many centuries, the issue of our understanding of God finally would be settled. As recent controversies in one denomination after another have shown, we can still find plenty to fight about. Too bad. As Mark Twain observed over a century ago, Christians preach and teach, "Love your neighbor as yourself," but often as not, they will cut your throat if your theology is not straight.
There is an ancient legend of Saint Augustine, who, as the tale goes, also struggled to understand the Trinity. In the midst of his reflections, he went for a walk on the beach. He saw a little boy digging a hole in the sand with a seashell and then running to the ocean, filling up the shell, and rushing back to pour the water into the hole he had made. "What are you doing, my little man?" Augustine asked.
"I'm putting the ocean in this hole," the boy replied. For Augustine it was a moment of revelation as he realized that he had been trying to do much the same -- put the mystery of an infinite God into his finite mind.
That is the reality that Isaiah experienced in the temple that day. Here he was, a religious man, to be sure, but no preacher. Actually, he was a functionary in the king's court, a White House bureaucrat, if you will. It was an unhappy time in the nation's life. The good king Uzziah had died. Uzziah's reign had been a time of great material prosperity. To secure the caravan route along the Mediterranean coast, he had built cities and military outposts and armed his troops with the most advanced weapons. He had refortified the walls of Jerusalem with towers. His construction of numerous cisterns and military outposts in the desert made widespread settlement possible. Uzziah was a lover of the soil who promoted agriculture. But now he was gone, struck down by leprosy, buried in a field rather than in the royal tombs because of his disease. It was a sad time.
Suddenly, in the midst of the sadness, Isaiah is confronted with something magnificent. "I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted, and the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him were seraphs, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. And they were calling to one another: 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory' " (vv. 1-3). How could Isaiah react? How could you or I react? We would feel very small. "Woe to me! I am ruined ..." (v. 5).
Isaiah had a vision of almighty God, the God who had made the universe; the God who hung the sun, moon, and stars; the God who had built the mountains and dug out the oceans; the God of all creation. Rather than try to describe the indescribable, to explain the inexplicable, to express the inexpressible, Isaiah told himself he had better just shut his mouth. "I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips" (v. 5).
Can we learn that lesson? Can we come to the place on our spiritual pilgrimage where we are content to let God be God, greater than any possible human understanding, realizing that even when we, on Trinity Sunday, say "God in three persons," or at any other time when we are about to make some dogmatic statement about God, no matter what we say, we cannot begin to say it all?
You may have heard the story before of the little fellow sitting on the floor, drawing a picture. Dad asks, "What are you drawing, son?"
"A picture of God," the boy replied.
Dad responds, "But nobody knows what God looks like."
The lad confidently answers, "They will when I get done."
By God's grace, may we then learn one more lesson? If what we say about God and how we picture God is important, may we realize with our young friend and with Isaiah that something must be said? Yes, we concede that we are truly expressing the inexpressible, but, we cannot keep silent: "My eyes have seen the King, the Lord almighty! ... Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' And I said, 'Here am I; send me!' " (vv. 5, 8).
Christians have been at it from the beginning. In fact, this day on our liturgical calendar -- Trinity Sunday -- gets to the heart of our centuries-long musings.
As you historians know, the Nicene Creed is the first official doctrinal statement of the whole Christian church that describes our understanding. It developed from the work of the first two ecumenical councils, Nicaea in 325 AD and Constantinople in 381, gaining final approval by the prestigious Council of Chalcedon in 451. In its present form, it is the oldest theological affirmation of the church and is the only creed accepted by all three major branches of Christianity -- Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestant.
What prompted the councils in the first place was a controversy in the church about our understanding of God. In particular, the issue was how to understand Jesus Christ in relation to God. Some wanted to say Jesus was God in human flesh; others wanted to say that, to be sure, Jesus was special, but not quite that special. The dispute was not confined to academic halls or ecclesiastical conclaves. Depending upon who happened to be in power at any one moment in any one place, there were excommunications and banishments. Various theologians had their own followings who were more than willing to take the battle to the streets, and yes, they actually had riots over the issue.
Once things settled down (and as the chronology indicates, it took 126 years), the church said that as mysterious as it might be, the scriptural teaching about Jesus Christ is that he is truly God in the flesh. At the same time, Jesus Christ is fully human -- not half-and-half, but 100% of each! In essence, the creed says that whatever God is, Jesus is; and whatever humanity is, Jesus is that too, in one whole person. We do not pretend to understand all that, because Christ is unique -- we have no one with whom to compare him.
The Nicene Creed also expresses our understanding of the Holy Spirit. Christian belief insists that the Spirit is also fully God, the giver and sustainer of life: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One God, "in three persons," we sing, "Blessed Trinity." And that is what we celebrate on this Trinity Sunday.
One would think that, after lo, these many centuries, the issue of our understanding of God finally would be settled. As recent controversies in one denomination after another have shown, we can still find plenty to fight about. Too bad. As Mark Twain observed over a century ago, Christians preach and teach, "Love your neighbor as yourself," but often as not, they will cut your throat if your theology is not straight.
There is an ancient legend of Saint Augustine, who, as the tale goes, also struggled to understand the Trinity. In the midst of his reflections, he went for a walk on the beach. He saw a little boy digging a hole in the sand with a seashell and then running to the ocean, filling up the shell, and rushing back to pour the water into the hole he had made. "What are you doing, my little man?" Augustine asked.
"I'm putting the ocean in this hole," the boy replied. For Augustine it was a moment of revelation as he realized that he had been trying to do much the same -- put the mystery of an infinite God into his finite mind.
That is the reality that Isaiah experienced in the temple that day. Here he was, a religious man, to be sure, but no preacher. Actually, he was a functionary in the king's court, a White House bureaucrat, if you will. It was an unhappy time in the nation's life. The good king Uzziah had died. Uzziah's reign had been a time of great material prosperity. To secure the caravan route along the Mediterranean coast, he had built cities and military outposts and armed his troops with the most advanced weapons. He had refortified the walls of Jerusalem with towers. His construction of numerous cisterns and military outposts in the desert made widespread settlement possible. Uzziah was a lover of the soil who promoted agriculture. But now he was gone, struck down by leprosy, buried in a field rather than in the royal tombs because of his disease. It was a sad time.
Suddenly, in the midst of the sadness, Isaiah is confronted with something magnificent. "I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted, and the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him were seraphs, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. And they were calling to one another: 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory' " (vv. 1-3). How could Isaiah react? How could you or I react? We would feel very small. "Woe to me! I am ruined ..." (v. 5).
Isaiah had a vision of almighty God, the God who had made the universe; the God who hung the sun, moon, and stars; the God who had built the mountains and dug out the oceans; the God of all creation. Rather than try to describe the indescribable, to explain the inexplicable, to express the inexpressible, Isaiah told himself he had better just shut his mouth. "I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips" (v. 5).
Can we learn that lesson? Can we come to the place on our spiritual pilgrimage where we are content to let God be God, greater than any possible human understanding, realizing that even when we, on Trinity Sunday, say "God in three persons," or at any other time when we are about to make some dogmatic statement about God, no matter what we say, we cannot begin to say it all?
You may have heard the story before of the little fellow sitting on the floor, drawing a picture. Dad asks, "What are you drawing, son?"
"A picture of God," the boy replied.
Dad responds, "But nobody knows what God looks like."
The lad confidently answers, "They will when I get done."
By God's grace, may we then learn one more lesson? If what we say about God and how we picture God is important, may we realize with our young friend and with Isaiah that something must be said? Yes, we concede that we are truly expressing the inexpressible, but, we cannot keep silent: "My eyes have seen the King, the Lord almighty! ... Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' And I said, 'Here am I; send me!' " (vv. 5, 8).
