5/30/2026_Trinity Sunday_Relationship

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to preside at one of our Eucharists during the NAECC Conference in St. Louis—which was this beautiful gaggle of quirky people living in dispersed religious communities.

Prior to the conference I was very lazy, did absolutely no research, hardly skimmed things sent. It turned out the Pallottine Retreat Center where we were staying was a Catholic, and previously a convent. When I realized that, I knew I needed to check in with the staff.

I needed to know they were okay with me—a queer, woman-presenting human—wearing their vestments, standing behind their altar, in their chapel, consecrating sacraments from their sacristy.

Their response?

"Absolutely. We are happy to have you."

Presiding in that space was something I still haven't quite found words for. The deeper work of healing had been happening for years (bless you therapy and coaching)… this feels different and something deeper.

When I got home, I pulled out my childhood Bible and unfolded the letter I had kept from the Catholic Church telling me I was no longer welcome to receive Communion. On top of it, I half wrote/half drew about the magic that happened celebrating in that chapel. The feeling of peace, this wild, reconciling, restorative power of relationship and love. 

As much as I appreciate the Early Church Fathers who searched for language to express the mystery of the Trinity, their work arose from lived experience: encounters with God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus as both human and divine. For many, salvation was at stake. Athanasius argued that if Christ is not truly God, then humanity cannot truly share in God's life.

While that quest for certainty and right belief has its place, it feels less important to me these days. I find myself drawn instead to the Cappadocian Fathers, who described God not as a solitary substance but as a communion of relationships—mutual giving, receiving, and indwelling. Relationship is not something God does—it is who God is.

St. Louis reminded me of that. Before anything was created, and in the restoration of all things still unfolding, there was, there is, relationship.

God in motion.

"In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth... the Spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters."

Ruach—breath, wind, spirit—before creation is ordered, before anything is named, the Spirit hovers over chaos like a protective presence. The image is intimate, almost maternal: God drawing near to disorder not with violence, but with sustaining presence.

And then creation unfolds through speech: "God said..."

Again and again, life comes into being through divine relationship—Word spoken outward, creation called forth, God engaging the world rather than dominating it. Early Christians would later hear echoes of this in John's Gospel:

"In the beginning was the Word..."

The Church would come to read Genesis through the mystery of Creator, Incarnate Word, and Spirit already present at creation's dawn—not as three separate beings, but as one divine life shared in communion.

*I use “Creator” and “Incarnate Word” because it helps widen my imagination of God beyond exclusively gendered terms, honoring the mystery of the One who cannot be contained by human categories; “Incarnate Word” also reminds me that God’s Word is not distant or static, but living, embodied, active, and moving among us.

Before creation, relationship.
Within creation, relationship.
At the heart of God, relationship.

And perhaps that is why moments of reconciliation and restoration feel so holy. They return to us something older than doctrine and deeper than certainty. They remind us that the life of God is not a puzzle to solve but a communion into which we are continually being drawn.

They tell us something essential about reality itself: relationship is not secondary to existence. Relationship is the foundation of existence.

God pauses to call creation “good.” This goodness is not about usefulness or beauty. Goodness emerges through harmony, interdependence, and belonging. Light belongs with darkness and creates a multitude of colors in between. Land with sea. Plants with soil and rain.

Adam—humanity—is deeply connected to adamah, meaning soil or ground. Humanity is earth-creature, inseparable from creation itself. We are not placed above creation as detached rulers, but within it as participants and caretakers.

And humanity bears God's image not merely as isolated individuals, but together. The image of God is reflected in shared life, mutual care, and communion.

Which means sin is not simply rule-breaking. At its deepest level, sin is the rupture of relationship:
with God,
with one another,
with creation,
even within ourselves.

That makes me hear Matthew’s Gospel differently.

The disciples gather with the risen Christ on a mountain in Galilee. Mountains in Matthew are places of revelation: the Sermon on the Mount, the Transfiguration, and now this final commissioning.

But what is striking is Matthew’s honesty about the disciples: “When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.”

Matthew refuses to romanticize discipleship. Even here—after resurrection, after miracles, after years with Jesus—doubt remains. Yet Jesus still entrusts these disciples with the Gospel. Relationship with God is not dependent upon flawless belief.

Then Jesus says: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.”

Throughout Matthew’s Gospel, Christ’s authority is expressed through healing, mercy, forgiveness, feeding the hungry, and welcoming the excluded. Divine authority is revealed not as domination, but as restorative love.

Then we get the Great Commission:

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Creator, Incarnate Word, and Holy Spirit.”

“Name,” singular.

The baptized are drawn into one shared divine life. Baptism is not simply membership in an institution or agreement with doctrines. It is incorporation into relationship—into this communion of Creator, Incarnate Word, and Holy Spirit.

Returning to the Cappadocian Father’s—the Trinity is not abstract speculation about God's inner life. It is about God drawing humanity into divine communion: 

Living Trinitarian faith means sharing in God's life: living for God and for others as Jesus did—proclaiming good news, offering healing and reconciliation, welcoming the excluded, resisting whatever places rules above people, and embodying compassion and love.

Living Trinitarian faith means living by the power of the Holy Spirit—turning our hearts toward God, responding in faith, hope, and love, and growing ever more deeply into union with God.

It means living in communion with all creation within God's household, embracing the gospel's liberation from sin, isolation, and everything that fractures relationship.

Which means salvation is not escape from the world. Salvation is learning how to live in communion again.

I think that is what was “more than healing” about celebrating in Pallottine’s chapel. It felt like an embodied experience of communion restored.

Because our spiritual lives cannot be separated from how we treat one another.

 Every act of compassion participates in the life of God.
Every act of mercy reflects the Trinity.
Every act of reconciliation bears witness to resurrection.

And every system, policy, or form of power that tears apart human dignity stands against the life of God.

Because if God's very nature is relationship, then anything that deliberately destroys relationship participates in sin.

When families are separated by immigration systems that force people to leave the country, uncertain whether they will be allowed to return to their spouses, children, homes, or communities, the Church cannot remain silent.

When human beings who have built lives, relationships, and belonging here are treated as disposable or perpetually suspect, we are witnessing a rupture of the communion God desires for humanity.

When people are targeted by legislation that denies their dignity, restricts their healthcare, tries to erase their existence, or teaches them they are unworthy of safety and belonging, the Church cannot look away.

Because person bears the image of God.
Every immigrant bears the image of God.
Every vulnerable person bears the image of God.

To defend human dignity is not politics. It is discipleship.

Jesus sends the disciples not merely to believe privately, but to participate publicly in God's restorative work in the world.

There are moments when silence becomes a form of consent to harm.

And Christians are called not simply to personal kindness, but to communal courage:
to speak when people are dehumanized,
to protect when people are endangered,
to tell the truth when fear and cruelty become normalized.

Not because the Church belongs to an ideology,
but because the Church belongs to the God whose very life is communion.

A God who crosses boundaries.
A God who draws near to the excluded.
A God who refuses to abandon human beings to isolation, fear, or erasure.

You belong to God.
You belong to one another.
And none of us becomes fully human alone.

The Church at its best is meant to embody this truth: a community where people are reminded of their dignity, where burdens are shared, where grief is held collectively, where forgiveness remains possible, where love becomes visible.

Not perfect people.

But people practicing communion.

May it be so. Amen.