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Palm Sunday 2020

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This sermon appears in video format on the trinitygeneva FaceBook page.

All I have to say,
is this is a really inconvenient time
for Palm Sunday and Holy Week.
I mean, who wants to hear about
betrayal,
torture,
and a gruesome execution
while isolated
and huddled at home
in a pandemic?

Honestly, I do not know how to preach
Palm Sunday in the midst of pandemic.
I have preached it in the context of war –
there is a natural affinity
between this story
and our wars of colonialism
and economic imperialism.
And I have preached it in the midst of economic crisis
in which the story reminds us
of more essential truths,
with all those niggling issues
of justice and class
so deeply embedded in it.

But pandemic, a virus without allegiance
to any nation, class, race, or ethnicity?
A world class virus that is invisible, odorless,
and apparently asymptomatic in 25% of us –
so that some of us are carriers of death
and never even know it?
How does Palm Sunday preach
in that kind of a story?

Somebody asked me the other day
if I thought the pandemic is punishment –
as in a Sodom and Gomora kind of thing.
I was so surprised by my internal reaction.

I wanted to slap the person.
I was incredulous
at the obscenity of the suggestion
that God is the master of punishment and death –
that God is the distributor
of indiscriminate capital punishment
like Nazis machine-gunning
the sick and lame into open graves.
In normal times
I would have fielded the question
without any emotional response
other than perhaps, impatience.
And hopefully, the person on this occasion
did not notice the outrage I felt on the inside.
But the cruelty of the pandemic
in all of its awful dimensions,
made that question more than intellectual.

The Palm Sunday story agitates and chaffs on its own,
because of how Jesus’ death was interpreted
and how the story was used
as a weapon of anti-Semitism.
Frankly, that awful, obscene question I was asked
pokes at the heart
of how Palm Sunday has been interpreted –
not the story itself
but how we have corrupted it
so obscenely.
I am talking about the idea of Atonement –
that God had Jesus tortured and sacrificed
as an offering for our sins.
That is exactly the same kind of thinking
behind a question like,
“Is the pandemic punishment?”

The problem of course,
is that we all know how the story ends
and that distorts how we hear and interpret it.

Our foot-of-the-cross perspective
from which we watch Jesus’ death
is like reading the last chapter
of The DiVinci Code
before reading the whole novel,
or the last chapter of the last Harry Potter story
before reading the first book.
In cheating ourselves
into the climax of a story,
without paying attention to how we got there,
we inevitably miss the larger story
and whatever goodness or truth
may be embedded in it.

An additional problem for us,
after all these years of preaching and teaching,
is that we read the betrayal,
arrest,
imprisonment,
torture,
mistrial,
and execution
through the filter of Christian doctrine
instead of just reading the story.

In other words, we have been given
all the official answers
before we have been allowed to actually
ask questions.
“Why did Jesus have to die?
“To save us from our sins?”
“How did Jesus save us from our sins?”
“By serving as a once and for all sacrifice.”

But let us take advantage
of our historical distance from the story
and ask about that traditional interpretation:
Why in the world
would anyone ever imagine
that one person’s life could be exchanged,
like foreign currency at the bank,
for all of humankind’s wrong-doing –
past, present and future?

That is a good question, doesn’t it?
It seems like something we should want to know
if we are going to take this story seriously.

Well, here is why early story-tellers
might have understood the death of Jesus
as an horric act of God.

In the world of that day,
in both Jewish religion and Roman culture,
sacrifice to the gods was an essential part of life.

They believed
the very balance of the universe,
the very future of every individual and family,
the very fate of cities and nations,
depended upon the right sacrifice to the right god.

But we have to go back to the very beginning
of our story – in the Book of Genesis
with the story of Abraham and Isaac.
God orders Abraham to take his only son,
the very son that it took an epic story
to give birth to,
and cut him open on an altar
as a blood sacrifice
to a blood-thirsty god.

Standing over his son
who was bound and gagged
upon the altar of sacrifice,
Abraham raises the knife over his head.
Just as he was about to thrust the knife
into the heart of his only son,
God yells, “STOP!”
“Just testing.”
God looks around the area
as Abraham is breathing hard,
heart pounding, and sweat
dripping down his face.
God says: “Hey, there is a ram over there in the bushes,
substitute the ram for Isaac
and we’ll call it even.”

That story of Abraham and Isaac
is the background behind God and Jesus.
Abraham demonstrated his total faith in God
by being willing to sacrifice his only son,
while God demonstrated
God’s total devotion to humankind
by going through with the sacrifice of Jesus.

We can see the symmetry and logic
between these two stories
told almost half a millennium apart.
It was a theological message to Jews
that what had taken place with Jesus
was even greater than the story of Abraham and Isaac.

To the Romans is was a political message
that God’s sacrifice of Jesus
was more powerful than any sacrifice
that could be offered to any of their gods.
I mean really, how could you top
God killing his only son
as a gift for you?

But you and I should have a problem with that interpretation of Jesus’ execution
because we do not perceive the universe
as balancing upon the magic of ritual sacrifices.

The idea of Atonement –
the belief that God substituted Jesus
as a sacrifice for our sins
in the same way that the ram
was substituted for Isaac –
makes perfect sense
in a cosmos orbiting around the logic of sacrifice.
But the meaning of Atonement is problematic
in a world of indiscriminate pandemic
and Christian participation in the holocaust,
and any number of genocides and crimes
wreaked upon the powerless
by those with more power.
Has all the unspeakable savagery
been wiped clean
because Jesus was executed –
but only for Christians?

And if so, why haven’t our many other sacrifices
protected us from pandemics,
mass shootings,
wars and terrorism,
and just plain human ugliness?

The problem of course,
is the Atonement has been our only lens
through which to read this story
for many centuries.
But it is NOT the required Christians lens.
We are allowed to take off those glasses –
we can always put them back on later if we want.
But right now, it is time
to read the Palm Sunday story
as if from the beginning
without knowing how it ends.

I think that is how it relates to our social exile
in this time of pandemic:
we have the time, if we have the will,
to stop and read the story
as if we did not know the ending,
and to ask it questions
that we may not have asked before.
We also have the time to work on different answers
unrelated to Atonement and sacrifice.

If we come to this story
at the beginning
instead of from the end,

I can almost guarantee
we will walk away astounded
with new insights
and with flashes of the holy
we have never seen before.

First of all, the story of the last week in the life of Jesus
is an epic poem rather than history.

There are historic references in it
and historic details
that reflect actual events,
but it is not a factual or verbatim account
of what took place.

Even if it were,
there is a whole lot missing
from a week of 24 hour days,
and what is missing
would utterly change the way
we interpret what is told.

No, this is a poem.
It is every bit as much a poem
as the Suffering Servant poems
from the prophet Isaiah.
(Isaiah 42:1-4; 49:1-6; 50:4-7; 52:13-53:12).
And poems,
like paintings or sculptures,
must be construed
and interpreted
and imagined
rather than dissected and squeezed
for exact, literal,
and once-and-for-all meanings.

So here are a few things we might want to know
that have the potential to free us
from the answers we have been given
before we were allowed to ask the questions.
Holy week is a great time
to open ourselves to see and hear
the Palm Sunday story all over again.

So first of all, it was not blasphemy
to be proclaimed or to proclaim oneself
as “Messiah” or “Christ”.
Lots of people did it.

In the gospel story as told
fifty years after Jesus’ death,
Jesus’ claiming to be the Messiah
is supposedly the big offense
that gets him killed.
But that doesn’t hold up.

Secondly, “the Jews” didn’t kill Jesus.
The gospels often blame the Jewish authorities
in particular, and the Jewish crowds in general,
for the execution of Jesus.

But ordinary Jews and Jewish authorities
had no power.
Pontus Pilate,
who the Gospels paint as a decent guy
put in a tough position,
was actually a cruel, viscous tyrant.

We know this because historical records
show he was later demoted
and sent into administrative oblivion
for being such a repressive governor.
Pontus Pilate and the colonial Roman Military system
ground Jesus into jackal meat,
not ordinary Jews and ruling clergy.

Jesus was executed by the Romans
as punishment for a crime.
The crime that fits that punishment is insurrection.

So if historical conjecture is our lens
instead of Atonement,
Jesus was found guilty of insurrection
against the authority of the Roman Empire.

He was executed as any political prisoner
proven to be guilty would be executed:
publicly and with maximum humiliation.

Now if that is true,
one of the questions we might ask the story
is why, as clever and wise as Jesus was,
did he find it necessary to risk such an outcome
by leaving Galilee and going to Jerusalem?
What opportunity did he imagine
was available in the city of Jerusalem
when he was most popular and safest in Galilee?

Knowing the dangers –
as clearly as he would have seen the dangers
since others had suffered his fate before him –
what opportunity made the risk worth it?
What dangerous opportunity did Jesus reach for
against such a risk?

I invite us to take this story home
and to come to it
from the beginning
not the end,
and read it anew.

If you have someone to read it with,
take turns reading it to each other out loud,
the way most people back then would have
encountered it – orally.

If you don’t have someone in the house,
make a phone or video conference date
with a friend or family member
to read the story.
Heck, convene a book club online
or via zoom or google
and read it again
and ask it questions
you have never asked it before.

Allow all the pre-conceived Christian notions surrounding the story to fall away.
Allow your questions to lead you
deeper and deeper into the story,
evoking and provoking
more questions and wonder.

None of that, I am sorry to say,
really helps us with the pandemic.
But here are a couple of great metaphors
connecting Palm Sunday and pandemic
that I received in an email this week
(Thank you, Shelley).
They are great puzzles to work with:

  • Rolling out the palm leaves and coats as Confusion rides into town.
  • Welcoming something we don’t understand and might even fear,
    because Hope rides into town in the middle of our needing a Savior.

So I invite you to read this story again:
work it
argue with it
move it around and wrestle it
ask it questions that have always bothered you about it
forget the answers you were given and challenge it
be open to it and allow it to speak to you
re-write it in a way that makes more sense to you

Treat it like a story that truly matters, because it does.

Palm Sunday C, 2019: Palliative – to relieve without curing

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I’m just saying, Palm Sunday
is the hardest sermon to preach all year long.
Just remember that when you’re tempted
to throw your prayer stone.

When Easter arrives, we can dream again.
But for now, standing below the cross
on Palm Sunday,
we cannot dream.
Standing at anyone’s grave
we cannot dream.

In the shadow of death
the only dreaming is denial.
Instead of dreams, it is our memories
that areactivated in the aftermath of death.

Death pulls us into our memory.
By remembering
we stay close to the one who has died.

We stand around
and we remember the one who has died
and we laugh
and cry
and grow thoughtful
and reflective,
and we want to stay in that remembering zone
because it feels almost like a drug.
When the only other thing we feel
is the exhaustion of grief,
the “memory zone” is palliative.

If death has ever been a visitor in your life
then you know that channel of remembering
that feels so good
because it keeps us hanging
in the nether world
of the person who has died.
It is the remembering
that keeps the loved one from slipping away.
Remembering is not quite a palliative
but close enough
when we are standing in the shadow
of a loved one’s death.

Pal-li-a-tive.
“…to relieve without curing; to mitigate;
to alleviate.”

“Palliative care,” is medical care not intended to cure
but rather, to address the emotional, social, spiritual, and pain management needs of the terminal.

I am going to ask us to do a hard thing.
I am going to ask us to slip into the memory
of this Palm Sunday story
without the palliative
that was placed in it.

First, I will draw out the palliative
and then leave us at the heart of this story
so we can use it for contemplation during Holy Week.
Then, on to Easter, we can dream again.

Here is the palliative of the Passion story,
it is nothing new if you have heard me preach
that last three years:
Pontius Pilate,
the Roman military governor of Judea,
stands before the blood-thirsty crowd
and complains about the innocence of Jesus.
“Please don’t make me do this,” he pleads.

We used an abbreviated and modified version
this morning,
but here is a verbatim of Luke’s version
of the Pilate Palliative:

“Then they all shouted out together, “Away with this fellow! Release Barabbas for us!”

Pilate, wanting to release Jesus, addressed them again; but they kept shouting, “Crucify, crucify him!” A third time he said to them, “Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no ground for the sentence of death; I will therefore have him flogged and then release him.” But they kept urgently demanding with loud shouts that he should be crucified; and their voices prevailed.

So, Pilate gave his verdict that their demand should be granted. He released the man they asked for, the one who had been put in prison for insurrection and murder, and he handed Jesus over as they wished.”

Luke has made it so clear and blatant
who is at fault, that unlike John’s version,
Pilate doesn’t even have to wash his hands.

In Luke’s version the crowd purifies Pilate of blame.

We can guess why it was palliative
for Luke to tell the story this way,
but since Pilate is whitewashed in all four gospels
with varying shades of emphasis,
why suspect the historicity of it?
Here is why:
We know that Pontius Pilate was ruthless.
He was a blood-thirsty, cruel,
and tyrannical manager.
He was so repressive and violent,
crucifying so many local peasants,
that the not-so-squeamish Caesar
yanked him from duty
just a couple of years after he crucified Jesus.
Pilate’s violent, repressive administration
fueled riots and rebellion by the locals.

That is not the picture the gospels painted of Pilate
when they were telling the tale
forty to eighty years after the crucifixion,
but Pilate’s recall, based upon his ruthlessness,
is in Rome’s historical record.
Pontus Pilate did not need a palliative,
no excuses were necessary for him.
He apparently just loved to kill peasants.
We also know that the ranking priests and elders
who formed the small establishment
around the Temple,
governed their little fiefdom
with a rigid, stingy hierarchy.

We know too, that they were greatly disliked
and disrespected by ordinary people
who were marginalized by these Temple clergy
and their privileged status.

At the same time, we also know this temple clergy,
beyond the temple courtyards and inner sanctuaries,
were impotent.

They were a powerless paper aristocracy
with no influence over Pilate.
In the scheme of things
they had even less power over the direction
of Roman governing authority
than immigrant laborers in Finger Lakes dairies
have over what the New York State legislator does.

That Temple hierarchy was hated to be sure,
bloated with self-importance
and perhaps even acting with malevolence
toward the peasants of their own religion,
but beyond the walls of the temple
they were also impotent –
and as history would show,
even in the Temple
they were powerless without Roman backing.
To tell the story with a nice-guy Pilate
put into a bad situation
by the bad-guy Jews,
was a palliative
for that second generation of Christians
who wrote down and disseminated the story.

So, who were Matthew, Mark, Luke and John comforting with this palliative story that blamed
‘the Jews’ for the arrest, trial, and death of Jesus?
And why should WE care?

They were protecting Rome.
It was Roman rule being whitewashed.
Pontius Pilate represents Rome
and the effort to conceal its guilt
by casting blame on the Jews
was done for a very good first century reason.
After that first generation of Jesus-followers,
Christians were no longer Judeans or Galileans,
they were mostly Roman –
in other words,
they were no longer Jews but Gentiles.

So, our passion story as it has come down to us,
like all remembering at the graveside,
was told partly as a palliative –
to relieve and alleviate the pain of loss.
That second generation of Evangelists
who we have to thank even for Trinity Place,
were telling the story in a way
that was more palatable to Romans and Gentiles,
and with little or no concern
about the Jews of Judea and Galilee.

The palliative in Luke’s Gospel
is that impotent clergy
and a violently repressed population
forced a ruthless, cruel tyrant
into executing a poor, undeserving Messiah.

There are two problems with this palliative for us.

The first and most awful one
is that it has been the source of Christian
anti-Semitism for more than a millennium.
With this palliative
Christians and the Church itself
have participated in inquisitions, pogroms,
and genocide against Jews and Judaism
for centuries and centuries.

That alone
means we cannot allow this ancient palliative
in our most sacred story,
to go unnoticed or unmentioned.
That is why I bother to address it each year.

But here is the other reason
this palliative may have shaped our story:
We do not know what really happened
between the Last Supper
when Jesus gathered his friends for Passover,
and his crucifixion on the cross.

We doknow
the Romans arrested him,
because that is who had the power and authority
to police locals.
We do know
Jesus was charged with insurrection
because crucifixion is the punishment
that fits that crime.

We do know
that Pontius Pilate was the one who condemned him
to be executed because he was the only one
with the authority to do so.

We do know
that Jesus was crucified
because it is corroborated by other,
even non-Christian
sources of the period.

But we do NOT know
how and why
he got from Passover with his friends,
to the cross with his enemies.
We do not know,
it is a blank, except for
what is written in the gospels.

When we stand at the grave
and cannot understand
why someone so young,
so vital, so close,
so beloved has died,
it makes us even crazier with grief
because we do not understand “WHY!”
We have no answers to death, and so
we reach for palliatives.
We reach for answers
whether we know they are true or not,
because they make us feel better in the moment.

But making the death of Jesus
seem more palatable
may relieve our anxiety and fear
but it will not cure them.

Making this sacred story go down easier
does not lead to dreaming again.
Only Easter leads to dreaming again. Only Easter.
At the heart of this sacred story
there are questions and mysteries we cannot answer,
and pretending that we can
is to engage in hospice spirituality
that presumes we will never get well
so let’s just make one another comfortable.

The story of Jesus,
the sacred story of the Passion,
is not supposed to make us comfortable.
It holds a truth not a palliative.

The sacred story of the Passion
is about the power of God’s love
coming face-to-face
with OUR use of coercive power,
and how we always try to kill the love of God.
Human coercion
always tries to kill the love of God.

That is what this story is about
if we take away the palliative myth about Pilate
being forced into killing Jesus
by the marginalize citizens of Judea.
Jesus was not the first
and he sure wasn’t the last,
but he shows us in excruciating detail
that our response to God’s love
is the use of coercive power
that seeks to kill.

Power in our hands can kill,
not only Jesus, but the love of God
as it makes itself known among us.
Or so it would seem until we can dream again.

On Palm Sunday 2019,
in the coming days of Holy Week,
we are challenged to confront
our participation in coercive power
and how we contribute to the death
of God’s ever-present love.

Not the Jews.
Not the Temple clergy.
Not even Pontius Pilate – because really,
he is only an agent of OUR bidding.

This story,
this sacred story told without a palliative,
asks how you and I
try to kill the love of God in our midst
with the misuse and neglect
of our power.

For some of us – like me, a large, straight male –
that will mean reflecting
on what our power actually is,
because we live in denial of it.

For others, whose power is more immediate
and obvious,
it will mean reflecting on
how we might use our power differently.

But either way,
this sacred story of ours,
without the palliative,
challenges us to consider our participation
in the attempted murder of God’s love
by the misuse and neglect of our power –
not just then…but now.

How do we participate
in trying to kill the love of God
with the misuse or neglect
of our power?

Next week we try to dream again.

 

Palm Sunday 2017: God’s Dream

by

I have two sermons to offer this morning
but together they may be shorter than one.
The problem is an irreconcilable difference
between head and heart.

First comes the head sermon,
no less and no more important than the heart sermon.

The head sermon
has to do with how Matthew depicts
Pontus Pilate and “the crowd.”

First of all, “the crowd”
in the popular narrative of Christianity,
really becomes “the Jews” –
largely because the Church
has historically loved the Gospel of John,
which is a polemic against “the Jews” – as if Jesus and everyone who loved him were not also Jews.

So my head warns me as a preacher,
not to tell this story without challenging
its historic and erroneous religious narrative
that led to a millennium of anti-Semitism
and the Nazi Holocaust.

There are so many missing details of this story,
and so many details that are simply historically unlikely,
that we do not actually know who or what killed Jesus
other than Roman military authority –
which sentenced him to death for insurrection.
Was he an insurrectionist against Rome?
We do not know that for certain either,
we only know that was the charge
that qualified him for capital punishment.
Jesus got the equivalent of the electric chair,
hangman’s noose, or firing squad,
because he was convicted of insurrection.

We also know, that Matthew was a Jew
and that he was writing to convince
other Jewish Christians,
and those who were not Christian yet,
that Jesus and the emerging Christian Gospel
should be the future understanding of Judaism,
instead of the dawning movement
of what would become rabbinical Judaism.

Remember, Matthew is writing his gospel
fifty or more years after Jesus is dead.
But to make that distance even greater
than the number of years that it is,
he is writing his gospel a decade
after a horrendously violent Jewish-Roman war.
It was a three year war, from 66-70,
that not only destroyed the temple in Jerusalem,
but with murderous meticulousness
also killed anyone associated with the religion.
The remnant of Israel fled
and what we think of today as Israel and Palestine
was wiped clean of (Second) Temple-centered Judaism.

In fact, the Judaism almost went the way
of other historic religions that have not carried forward.
It hung by a thread,
kept alive by those huddled in the Diaspora
of the Roman Empire.
What we know as Judaism today
was reborn in that period
from what our Gospels call the Pharisees.
The Pharisees were not,
as our Gospels depict,
a bunch of legalistic scholars.

The Pharisaic movement was in fact,
a grassroots reform that had as much conflict with the Temple,
and the religious aristocracy that controlled the Temple,
as Jesus and John the Baptist did.
The Pharisees in Matthew’s day
represented his competition for the heart of Judaism
and what it would become.
So he depicts them in a negative light
because he wants Judaism to become a religion
centered on the teachings of rabbi Jesus.

In this early Christian telling of history by Matthew,
the Roman military governor, Pontus Pilate,
is let off the hook
and the Temple leadership
and anyone associated with them,
is put on the hook.
So much so,
that Matthew actually has Pontus Pilate
wash his hands of any blood,
AND incredulously,
has the locals – meaning ordinary Jewish citizens –
ask for the blood to be on them “and on their children.”
So Christian theology gladly obliged,
and for centuries persecuted European Jews
as “Christ Killers”
even though Jesus was executed
by State Power
as an enemy of the State.

That is the head sermon –
it is a challenge to bad theology
and bad history.
We should not take this story to be historical
but rather, a theological rendering of events.
A half a century after Jesus’ execution,
Matthew wrote the story from a particular perspective
of a generation and public far removed
from Jesus’ actual death on the cross.
He told us this story in the way he did,
so we would understand what he thought
was the meaning of Jesus on the cross.
What my head tells me
is that we need to grow up about this story,
so that the parts that infected our religion
are neutralized,
and we can then get on
with appropriating the wisdom embedded in it
for the twenty-first century.

Okay, now the heart sermon.

We think about the death of Jesus on Palm Sunday,
but what about the dream of God?
And what about God’s best dream for us?
Did those dreams get
arrested,
tortured,
crucified,
and die
two thousand years ago?
Did you ever you think about what happens
when we try to kill a dream?

It comes back.

Like a bubble under pressure
it is irrepressible.

No one can kill a dream;
it is impossible to kill a dream
and that is exactly why the dream of God,
and God’s best dreams for us,
terrifies people –
especially people who wield coercive power.

Palm Sunday is a story about coercive power
trying to kill a dream;
but it is also, indirectly,
about you and I
when we try to kill God’s best dream for us.

I am not talking about fantasies
that are the work of a wounded ego
reaching for something that feels good
or dulls the ache
or otherwise wraps us in self-indulgence.

Nor do I mean magical thinking,
when our fears and anxieties
lead us to pretend that the safety and security
we want is also easily available
if only we will do the right thing
or say the right thing
or pray the right thing.

And I don’t mean wishful thinking either,
when we imagine that what we want
should be what we get,
and therefore if we wish hard enough
it will happen for us.

None of that is what I mean
by the dream of God
and God’s best dream for us.
Such things are often mistaken for authentic dreams,
but they are categorically different.

First of all,
the dream of God
is for all of us –
all people,
all species,
all Creation.
It is a dream imagined in the Book of Genesis
and again and again throughout the Bible,
especially through the voices of the prophets.

It is the dream of Earth and human society
as an exquisite ecosystem in balance,
so that life flourishes
and the abundance woven throughout the Creation
is shared by all life within it.

It is the dream that those with leadership
of corporate, governmental, industrial, military,
and other institutional responsibilities,
will practice stewardship,
so that resources are more equitably shared
rather than concentrated and hoarded by a few.

That is the dream of God for the Creation.

Jesus articulated that dream
and he practiced that dream on a personal level
so that it was reflected in his life.
It is a dream that terrifies coercive authority
and so they try to kill it.

But it is a dream that keeps coming back.
Relentlessly
the dream of God for the Creation
keeps coming back
in voices throughout history,
and with struggles that strive for peace,
and movements that reach for greater justice,
and leaders who emerge to take us a step closer.
We keep trying to kill it
and bury it forever,
but the dream of God for Creation
keeps coming back.

And then, in addition to that dream,
the one God has for all Creation,
there is God’s best dream for us –
for you and me as individual persons,
and as individual candles of light
in an often darkened world.

God does in fact
have a best dream for you, and for me,
and it never dies either.
It may change as we change,
from 16 to 35 to 90,
but it keeps ripening.
Our task, whatever age we are
and whatever our current capacities,
is to bring that dream out
from the fog of subconscious
into the light of wakefulness.
God’s best dream for us
wants to burst into the open air.
God’s best dream for us
wants to breath in the light of day
and you are the only one
in all of Creation –

in all the cosmos of a billion gazillion stars –
who can make that one dream come true.
It is God’s best dream for your life.

This story is about that dream
and about how it didn’t die
when you and I left it behind somewhere,
or tried to bury it,
or crucify it.
That dream,
God’s best dream for your life,
is alive today
just like God’s dream for the Creation
is relentlessly coming back at us.

This story is about the relentless dreams of God
and how they never die
no matter how hard we try.
So take that into your heart and go with it. Amen.

Our Vision

Our vision…a Trinity Church known in the community as a welcoming home to everyone, responding effectively to the needs of our community, in collaboration with fellow Episcopalians and other faith communities

Our mission…to strive in our daily life and parish life to respect the dignity of every human being, and to treat each person entering our doors as if that person is Christ.

We are striving to be as open as the table Jesus hosted, in solidarity with the people of Geneva, and an accessible partner to others who share our sense of the gospel.

It also means we have opened ourselves to the future, and not only moved but adopted a new way of being church from the more traditional model. Join us at Trinity Place, 78 Castle Street in downtown Geneva, NY.

 Trinity Place, An Open Space for Growth, Wellness, Healing, & the Arts

“Open Space” means open and inclusive, welcoming the Geneva and FLX community to use our space, and to partner with us in building an inclusive community for spiritual inquiry and wellness. 

“Growth, Wellness, Healing, & the Arts” means we are pointed toward a particular dimension of life, specifically that which strengthens the relationship of body, mind, and spirit. 

Trinity is a Christian community of worship and spiritual practice welcoming all, and an Episcopal Church in particular. However, we welcome all spiritual traditions and those who have no particular spiritual background but are engaged in a mission consistent with ours. We are looking for partners in mission not members (although we love to welcome new members too).

Trinity’s historic building and our adaptive reuse plan has been named and embraced by The Landmark Society of Western New York. Among thousands of worthy historic sites and projects, Trinity’s was selected. Follow this link to read more: https://landmarksociety.org/2019-five-to-revive-announced/

Visit “savetrinity.org” which tells the exciting story of historic re-use striving to be born. You can help us save this magnificent building by visiting savetrinity.org and signing a letter of support! Thank you.

https://www.savetrinity.org

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Newsletter

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