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You are here: Home / Archives for Trust

5 Easter: Preaching, Trust, and Death

May 15, 2022 by Cam Miller

A video version follows the text

Can I just say that preaching
isn’t as easy as it looks.
I know it is not really a job for a grown man or woman,
but it’s all I know.
And once in awhile I just need to vent.

You see, we have hit a rough patch
along the Lectionary Road.
The Lectionary, as you know,
is a three-year cycle of readings

Episcopal, mainline Protestant, and Roman Catholic
congregations read on Sunday morning.
They are similar to one another
though not exactly the same.
I pick and choose to be honest,
but sometimes the choices are narrow.

You may have forgotten
that there are actually four readings appointed
for each Sunday
because we only read two.

Then we add a contemporary liturgical reading.
And before I disrespect the current cache of readings,
let me acknowledge
that it is a good thing to have a lectionary.

The Lectionary is a practice
rooted in our Jewish ancestry, and it extends far into our past.

It is also a good discipline to keep the preacher
from hopping like a crow, to pick over
his or her own favorite topics
again and again.

But having said all that,
I feel like we are hydroplaning on a nasty slick
of crude proclamations.
The readings since Easter
have been repetitious first century claims
about Jesus and the young Christian movement
that are either irrelevant in our world
or simply not very credible.

Now maybe it is just me,
but it is hard to find a fist in these readings
that reaches up
and grabs my shirt
and yells into my face:
“Listen up you, there is something
you need to hear!”

I confess to liking it
when Scripture is rough with me like that.

But there IS something here
in most of these Easter Lectionary readings.
It is a nag.
It isn’t a fist grabbing us by the shirt,
it is a little nagging nit
that is poking through them.

In all these excerpts from the Bible —
the ones we’ve read on Sundays
and even the ones we didn’t use —
there is an echoing complaint
behind the veil of words:
death.

I have heard, and read
many times
and in many places,
that the spark that ignited the flame
that became Christianity,
was its promise of life after death.

Apparently the culture of Roman society
in the first century
was rotting away like a fallen sequoia:
solid and immovable
but eaten alive by the parasites of cynicism,
seductive fantasy
and near total corruption.
Huh…sounds like another culture I know.

Anyway, Roman society
was starved
for a good religion,
and like hollow Hollywood celebrities
in their frantic search for perpetual youth and beauty,
Roman citizens
snapped up nearly every exotic idea
that came along.

They weren’t much interested in Jesus,
at least not the one
who left footprints with parables
and his ideas of an egalitarian community

gathered around an open table.
Those spiritually and intellectually starved Romans
were more enamored with the Jesus
who escaped like a canary from the cold, dark tomb.

That turned out to be
a delectable idea
with oodles
of first century traction.

The idea of life after death
and a sure and certain path to it,
was an idea whose time had come
and it caused a seismic shift
in all subsequent human history.

It is understandable: we hate death.
Death is like a raspberry seed stuck in our teeth.
It doesn’t matter how magnificent
and beautiful the day,
the month,
the year,
the life…just the idea that death is inevitable
has the potential to make us miserable.

So it’s not just those old Roman’s
in search of life beyond empire.
And it is not just you and me
who long for meaning
in a life of too much affluence.
It goes way back — way, way back.
We could go as far back
to those iconic cave paintings
from prehistoric France,
and talk about how they rage against the machine,
and how they express hope
for something more from life.
That was long before the advent of words.
But I am not a student of that extended tribe
of our elongated human community.

So instead of 10,000 years back
I’ll point to a mere two-thousand,
six-hundred years backward…
to that poem
from which the Book of Revelation
snagged
its poetic imagery.

Almost six-hundred years
before Jesus was born,
the poet Isaiah
envisioned a new heaven and a new earth.
But it was on a mountaintop
rather than a city where Revelation put it.

In Isaiah 25:6 Isaiah wrote:

“On this mountain
the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
a feast of fat things,
a feast of wine on the lees,
of fat things full of marrow,
of wine on the lees well refined.
And God will destroy on this mountain
the covering that is cast over all peoples…
the veil that is spread over all nations.

God will swallow up death for ever,
and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces,
and the reproach of God’s people
will be taken away from all the earth…”

Seven hundred years later, someone named John —
not the same John as the one who wrote the Gospel —
echoed Isaiah
from a Roman prison island on Patmos:
“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth;
…And I saw the holy city of Jerusalem coming down…
…(and there) God will dwell with (God’s) people,
and God will be with them,
(and) wipe away every tear from their eyes,
and death shall be no more,
neither shall there be mourning nor crying
nor pain any more,
for the former things have passed away.”

When we humans
get enough cushion
between ourselves and starvation,
and then a little hint of stability and security,
we start asking questions about life and death.
No matter how fat and sassy we get
as a society,
it never feels like enough
when it comes to the reality of death.

We want some assurance that this is not all there is
and that, in fact,
what lies ahead is good.
Heaven,
Moksha,
Jannah,
Salvation,
Nirvana…
all the ideas
about what happens after we die
reflect what the culture they derive from
believe would be an improvement
on what is now.

In the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition
a very human sounding
system of distributive justice
is exacted upon the good guys and the bad guys alike,
with rewards and punishments
meted out
at the end of life,
all to even out the scales of justice.

Likewise, in Hinduism, the scales of justice
measured somewhat differently,
are balanced through reincarnation.

Hinduism explodes the mind
with an openness to a withering array of gods
and levels of the universes,
and succession of lives
that make possible
any and all conceptions of fairness.

Buddhism,
of which there are as many brand names
as there are Christian denominations,
reckons that all lives, good and bad,
are spokes stuck on a wheel of suffering.

The only hope hinges,
not upon balancing a scale,
but upon release into nothingness;
in the absolute going out of existence
instead of the relentless cycles of lives.

But modern science has also given us a new vision:
an odd kind of afterlife
knit within the confines of molecules and atoms.

Science has declared
that no energy is ever lost
but simply changes form.
We live,
we die,
we become part of the soil
and that in turn feeds
and becomes a part of the on-going
cosmic cycle of energy.
Even the dust of once distant stars
resides in us,
a kind of resurrection beyond our imagination.

But is that all there is?
Are those our only choices?
Heaven, Reincarnation, Nirvana, Thermodynamics?

I think there is another choice: Trust.

Put our hand in the hand of God
and simply trust.
Trust that, because God loves us,
that whatever happens
it will be okay.

To me, that is what Jesus demonstrated
and we do not need to say more.

If in fact, we trust the love of God,
we do not need any theories
about what happens next.

Rather, we need good and better methodologies
for preparing and expanding
our open table.

We need
good and better methodologies
for creating and nurturing
the kingdom on earth
as it is in heaven.

Trust God about what happens next
and get on with the kingdom.
That’s all.
I think that’s a gospel that will preach, as they say.

Trust God about what happens next
and get on with the kingdom.

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Filed Under: Sermons Tagged With: Death, Kingdom come, Trust

16 Pentecost: Yes/NO

September 20, 2020 by Cam Miller

Video version of this sermon and the worship it was part of, can be found by scrolling down to the bottom.

Soren Kierkegaard made the observation
about our ordinary human insanity,
that we could only understand life backward,
but we can only live life gong forward.

Likewise, we declare and grant
”Yes” and “No”
to so many life-altering events and decisions
without blinking an eye –
never knowing ahead of time what we
have accented to or denied,
and most of the time never knowing the implications
of our saying no.

The readings today
take us down that rabbit hole
and lead us along a twisted path.
I am going to do the same.

Let’s go back to the beginning of another century –
the turn of the 20th century – just for perspective.

In 1900
a massive hurricane swallowed Galveston, Texas whole
and killed 8,000 people.

In 1901
President McKinley was assassinated in Buffalo.

In 1902
a volcanic eruption on the island of Martinique
killed 38,000 people in a single moment.

In 1906
San Francisco had its famous earthquake and fire
that killed 3,000.
That same year an earthquake in Colombia killed another 1,000.
Still in 1906 an earthquake in Valparaiso, Chile
killed 20,000.

The bookend on that half-decade of devastation
was a famine in China
during which 20 million died in one year.
We could add to this woe by mentioning travails in Africa,
Australia, the Middle East or Siberia
in those first few years of the new twentieth century.

But one crucial difference
between then and now, is that now
their is a sandstorm  of information
about every and all disasters, wars, genocides,
economic meltdowns and even the death of unnamed individuals
who die from noteworthy causes
two continents away.

You and I are standing in the middle
of what might be the collapse of US capitalism,
and at the same time
we are inundated with horrendous details
about god-awful fires,
hurricanes, autocrats
poisoning or chopping up members of their opposition,
the North Korean nuclear program,
global warming witnessed one chunk of ice at a time,
and a global pandemic that has revealed
the astounding negligence and incompetence
of the current federal leadership.

We are drenched with disasters in great detail
whether or not we experience them personally
and whether or not we can exert any personal influence
upon solving them or caring for their victims.

Add to this gruesome storm of devastation,
threat, and calamity
any personal trauma, crisis, or grief
and our perspective on the world,
on life itself,
and on our own circumstances,
can be utterly distorted.

In fact, even if everything is going along well for us personally,
all that information
about things utterly beyond our control
can change our perception dramatically.
And we ought to know by now
that “perception is reality.”

In other words, how we perceive things,
whether we are accurate in our perception or not,
shapes our actions and responses.

So…in a moment like this one,
when institutions we have come to depend upon
are cracking if not collapsing,
and the vault of our trust in elected leaders
is more bankrupt than Pier One and JC Penny,
and the strange disconnect between
economic reality and the stock market
feels like thin ice,
we have less certainty than ever
about what to say “Yes” or say “No” to.
It is a good time to take a step back.

In times like these
we need to step back and name
what is most important to us.

We need to step back and name
who is most important to us.

We need to step back and name
who and what we have in our lives
for which we are most grateful.

We need to step back and name
who and what we need to reach out and hold onto –
for their sake and for ours.

It is in times like these
we need to step back from the fury of information
raining down on us like acid,
and filter it out
so that we can see our own situation more clearly.
We need to be like a dancer affixing her gaze
so she can retain her balance
while spinning furiously on her toes.

We likewise need to affix our gaze
on a single point –
on a single point that we trust…
on a single point that we love…
on a single point that we know
is more solid than anything else we know.

I won’t tell you there is only one single point
in the vast array of our spiritual wisdom
upon which to affix our gaze.
Our tradition has multiple points
and a long history of guides, mystics, and teachers
who offered different tethers in a storm
that work differently for different people.
Abraham and Sarah;
Moses and the Exodus;
Ruth and Naomi;
Isaiah, Jeremiah and Micah;
the parables and teachings of rabbi Jesus;
the mystical, resurrected Christ;
the wisdom of Paul;
the female and male mystics
of the 13th, 14th and 15th centuries;
the social prophetic martyrs of the 20th century…

In one sense
they are all part of one giant pier
upon which to tether ourselves in turbulent times,
but it is too big to hold onto the whole thing
and so we must choose a piece of it for ourselves.
We can wrap ourselves even around just a solid branch
of the giant tree that is most familiar,
most comforting,
most solid for us in the moment.

Knowing you surely have your own tether
or focus point for tumultuous and painful times,
I am going to share where my gaze is affixed just now.
Or to put in in terms of the readings,
where my “Yes” is declared and tethered.
For me personally,
the point on which to affix my gaze is trust –
trust that no matter what, no matter what,
it will be okay – because of God.

Now I don’t mean magical thinking
in the sense that because of God no one gets hurt
and everything turns out like Disney in the end.
I mean because of God, whatever happens,
I trust it will be okay.
Whether or not I survive
or those I love survive,
it will be okay because I trust God
is merciful.
I trust God to be God,
and therefore whatever happens will be grace.

What that really means
is that I am able to grab hold of a perspective
that it is not really about me
and not really about those I love,
rather, it is a perspective about something much bigger
and greater than myself.
To trust God to be God
is to gain the perspective
that it is not about me or mine,
or the nation or the church I belong to.

To trust God to be God
is to gain the perspective
that it is about so much more
than I can see at any given moment,
nor will I ever have the perspective
to judge the final outcome.

To trust God to be God
is to keep my vision affixed
on my core knowledge about God
and to hold onto it with determination and faith
rather than with fear and anxiety.

To trust God to be God
allows me to reach out
and hold the hands of people I see reaching toward me,
but also allowing them to hold me.

Trusting God to be God
means strengthening our connection
to others in community
at the very moment our knee-jerk reaction
is to recoil, pull away, and nurse
our hurt or fear in isolation.

I mention all of this,
not only because of the disintegration
of the financial system
or the fires
or need for face masks
or people who refuse to wear face masks
or any of it,
but because of that parable from Matthew.

It is an image of the tether
to which I affix my gaze in difficult times.
God is like the generous employer
who gives everyone the same pay
regardless of when they began working.

That pretty much preaches itself.

It’s great news to anyone except
those who have been working all day.
It’s great news to anyone except
those who nurse on resentment when someone gets more than they do.
There is something in this parable
that is very much like the story of the father
whose generous love and embrace
of his very derelict boy
fills the oldest and dutiful son
with nothing but bitterness.

There is something in this parable
very much like the story of Jonah
who complains angrily to God
that the whole reason he ran away in the first place
was because he knew, he just knew,
that if he really went and warned Nineveh to clean it up,
that God was going to grant them leniency.
It just burned Jonah up
that late in the game God was going to be merciful
instead of stingy with a kind of justice
that would punish them for not being good enough.
Jonah’s was a resentment
that revealed his deeply self-centered perspective.

And it is just not that difficult to identify with Jonah,
the Prodigal’s oldest brother
or those who worked the whole day for the same pay.
Everyone of us has sucked on that toxin before.
Everyone of us knows the bitterness of that bile.

Everyone of us knows the perverse pleasure
of nursing resentment
years and years after the perceived offense.

But resentment and bitterness are not
the primary disease,
they are the only symptoms.
The primary disease is a gaze that is affixed to the self.

The primary disease is being fatally rooted
in “me and my own.”
The primary dis-ease is a self-orbit
that knows no higher ground.

These parables and stories
that consistently come at us from out of our tradition,
push our gaze upward and outward
toward a perspective
that is much bigger and greater than ourselves.

That does not mean we don’t matter.
It does not mean our needs are unimportant.
It does not mean that our losses and pain
are not grievous and debilitating.
They are.
But rather, it means
we are a small part in a much bigger story
and our meaning is derived,
not from our part in the story,
but from the story itself.

Get it?

The rock solid meaning
to which we need to tether ourselves,
is the meaning of the story
– not our little part in it.

When we can affix our gaze
at difficult and painful moments
on our trust that the kingdom of God,
and this life we are living,
is part of a bigger
and more meaningful story than our own self-interest,
then we find ourselves able to unclench our jaws.

So I don’t really know what that means
for the long-term health or demise
of American capitalism
or global warming
or the fight for the soul of the nation,
but I do know
that I can see and hear
and comprehend much better
when I hold onto trust in God.
It helps me to unclench my jaw
and loosen my grip on the rope
and start reaching out to hold your hand.
Sometimes then, I can even allow you to hold mine.

Well, thank you so much for listening today,
and being part of this community across time and space – whoever you are
and wherever you are.

Peace be with you.

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Filed Under: Sermons Tagged With: Mercy, the story we're in, Trust

4 Easter: A voice without self-interest

May 7, 2017 by Cam Miller

Text for Preaching This Week: John 10:1-10 and “Flock” by Billy Collins

I knew a bishop once
who would proudly announce,
every time there was a procession
of diocesan clergy
bedecked in their liturgical finery and splendor, and lined up waiting for the opening hymn
so they could enter the church,
that the reason he, the bishop,
was the last one in procession
was because the shepherd
always walked behind his flock.
His job was to prod and guide them,”
he would add.

Then, at one such event, unexpectedly,
the voice of a new young priest piped up:
“But Bishop,” he said,
“just think about what those shepherds
had to walk through following those sheep.”

Time is the sleeve
and memory the arm slipping through it.
So reach back now into your childhood.
Was there a voice,
an innate companion
that called you by name?

Was there ever,
in any time of your life,
a voice that called you by name?
Somewhere,
sometime,
in a dream;
when you were all alone,
in a crowd,
when you were lost –
was there a voice
that called you by name?

It may not have been an actual voice you heard.
It may simply have been that somehow,
you didn’t know how,
but you knew what you needed to know
when you needed to know it;
and that was enough
to make a difference,
or make a necessary change,
or maybe even save a life –
maybe even your own.

Or maybe, if you are like me,
there were times you did not listen
to what you heard
or what you knew
or what you should have done.
Maybe you didn’t listen
because you didn’t believe it.
Or maybe because you thought is was something
other than it was
even though it knew your name.
We may not be able to retrieve
an actual memory of God from childhood.

If ever we talked out loud about that voice,
or that something we couldn’t name,
to another person,
or mentioned the dream
or the vision
or the whisper,
we soon discovered such talk
is not taken seriously.

Hearing the still small voice within,
let alone a voice that knows us by name,
is not something that rational,
mature, sensible adults
talk out loud about in our world.
If we ever did talk about such things as a child,
we were told it was something
other than what it was.

It would have been dismissed
as a child’s “pretend”
or simply ignored like a bad smell
as children’s insights and visions often are.

We learned from the way adults responded to us,
that the holy is like Santa Claus:
talked about by adults
in that voice we use for children,
but never heard in the voice
adults use with one another.

We learned
that anyone who talks out loud
about hearing the voice of God is crazy.

We learned
through the modeling of adults around us,
to turn off our sensitivity to the holy
in the same way boys are taught not to cry.

We learned
from listening to the adults around us,
and watching their reactions
to those considered too religious,
that an encounter with God
is not something normal people talk about.

So we learned
to close off those faculties,
the ones that allow us to tune-in
to that dimension of life
around us
and within us
that some of us call the holy.

We learned
to ignore the voice of the holy
within and around us
until we stopped hearing it at all together.

We put that part of ourselves,
and those memories,
to sleep.

The holy is not a voice we hear,
or a language we speak,
or a sound we know,
except through memories that call to us
from the other end of that long sleeve of time.

That’s a problem,
and right now in this stage of human history,
it is an acute problem.

Human beings are in crisis.
Especially in the Global West,
which is now saturated with,
and dominated by, economic culture –
by which I mean the social matrix binding us together is predominantly ruled by
the values and ideas of economics.
We are in crisis, you and I,
because we have mostly lost the ability to hear
the voice of the one who knows us each by name.

At the same time, the voices we can hear,
the ones cooing or shouting or hawking at us
to follow them and trust them,
are not trustworthy voices at all.

Here is just one easy example.

We know that our atmosphere
and the environmental balance
of Earth’s ecosystems
are in grave danger.
But we also know that even as our shepherds
talk-the-talk of environmentalism,
or proclaim it is not a problem of our own making,
they nevertheless walk-the-walk of corporations
that bestow wealth upon those who continue
to degrade the environment.

We hear the voices of our cultural shepherds,
and we see in their actions
they cannot be trusted.

That is just one low-hanging example
that points to the crisis of trust
that is eating away
at the fabric of communal hope.

Who can we trust?

What happens when
no matter how hard we listen,
we cannot hear a voice we can trust?

In religion,
in war,
in health care,
in education,
in technology

we know we cannot trust the shepherds
because their first interest
is their own self-interest.

If ever we meet someone
who is not guided primarily
by his or her own self-interest,

it is enormously compelling
and we want to know them
and have them know us.
I hope you know someone like that;
someone who,
when it comes to your relationship,
you can sense is not guided exclusively,
or even primarily by their own self-interest.

But we are in crisis
because the voices we can hear
cannot be trusted,
while the voice we can trust
cannot be heard.
We are in crisis
because we walk
through the valley of the shadow of death
but we cannot hear the voice
of the one who knows us each by name.
In the valley of death
we are surrounded by the voices
we know are guided by their own self-interest.

There is no easy answer to this crisis,
no single, silver bullet.
But I have an idea about what to do.
It is not THE answer, only one small idea.

Our deafness to the holy
has been learned over many years
and is not easily reversed.
And when it comes to being shaped over time,
in unnatural ways,
I often go back to an important lesson
I had to unlearn as an adult.
I have mentioned it to you before.

In our culture, as in many cultures,
we teach boys not to cry.
Teaching boys not to cry
is of course a horrendous disservice to men –
and therefore to women.
It makes us emotionally crippled.
Its negative impact on the culture at large
can be observed and encountered everywhere.

Children know how to cry
and most of them cry easily,
so we teach them to cry appropriately
in order to manage their tears.
That makes a certain amount of sense,
so long as we are not teaching one another
to shut down the capacity to cry altogether.
But that is what boys are instructed to do
under the bludgeon of humiliation.

I learned how to cry again as an adult,
in an acting class in college.
I didn’t know at the time
that was what I was doing,
nor how important it would be to me later,
but that is where I learned it.

It came about because I had a role in a play
that called for me to break down in tears
and my professor would not allow me to act –
he insisted that I learn to cry.
No fake crying, but real sobs and tears –
that, he said, is the difference between drama
and acting.

I had to learn to make myself cry,
first by acting as if I was crying.
Then I had to put myself in touch
with the memories of what hurt inside
until the tears I evoked
were real tears.
I had to act as if
I was crying
until I learned to allow myself to cry.
You see the methodology?

What I want to suggest
is that learning to hear the voice of the holy
begins with acting as if we can hear it.
Even before we actually can hear it,
we need to act as if we can hear it.

Then we need to do something

that is counter-intuitive:
We need to practice listening for the holy
in the midst of our fears and our hurts
because that is where
we feel the greatest need for God.

One of the glaring perversities of human nature
is that we learn and change
in the midst of dissatisfaction and need,
while under the spell of satiation and balance
we put ourselves to sleep.

It is walking through the valley
of the shadow of death
where we are most acutely aware
of both the crisis
and our need
for a power greater than ourselves.

So listening within,
listening within to our fears and to our wounds,
is where we begin to hear the voice
of the one who knows us each by name.

What is it we fear?
Which of our hurts is most enduring?

If we will listen hard
and listen well
to that chamber of our heart,
we will begin to hear a new voice –
one we instinctively know
we can trust.

In that innermost chamber of our heart,

where few if any have ever been allowed to peek,
only the presence of someone or something
we know is not guided by self-interest,
can be tolerated.

Because we could only allow
such a trustworthy presence as that,
into our place of tenderness deep inside,
it feels like a lonely place
and we are hesitant to go there.

And yet, that is where our gold is stored.

There are treasures
in the very place we fear to look
just waiting for us to behold.
Among those treasures,
in that place,
is a memory so tender,
so sacred, and so dear,
we hold it like fragile glass.

Going there,
and listening for the one without self-interest –
acting as if it knows us by name,
acting as if it cared for us personally,
and acting as if we were able to hear its voice –
will allow us to re-gain our hearing.

That which resides
in the inner most chamber of our heart,
among the tenderness of our
fears and hurts and wounds,
is also God’s voice echoing our name.
Listen.
Even if we fear it, listen.
Listen quietly and intently,
and hear the voice of the holy
where it is freshest.

It is possible to hear the voice of God again
even as we heard it all those years ago
at the other end of the long sleeve of time.

The voice of the one who knows us each by name,
calls to us
out of the innermost chamber of our heart,
also whispers to us
in the midst of what is both
precious and fearsome.

If we will practice listening
we will hear it again.

In a time of crisis
is when we most need to hone our listening skill,
to recover our ability to hear
the voice of the one we can trust;
the one that will lead us and guide us
without self-interest.

So the punch line is: keep listening.
Practice-listen,
practice-listen as if there is
a power greater than yourself
who speaks to you without self-interest.

Practice-listen
in that place at the center of your being,
where resides both fear and hurt.
Go there, expecting loneliness
but discovering a presence
both healing and trustworthy.

Practice, as if you will hear.

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Filed Under: Sermons Tagged With: Listening, Self-interest, Trust

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  • Email
    infotrinitygenevany@gmail.com
  • Phone
    (315)325-4216
  • Address
    Trinity Place
    Offices & Program
    PO Box 287
    Geneva, NY 14456

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Trinity Place

 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).

 

 

 

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The Rev. R. Cameron Miller is our rector, which means the resident clergy leader. In addition … Read more

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