The Shape of God

Look in the files under the category “Things People Should Have Said,” and you will find the concept of the “God-shaped hole” that is said to be found in every human soul.  The idea is usually attributed to St. Augustine, who wrote that “our hearts are restless until they find rest in [God].”*  Others will tell you that the God-shaped-hole is a misquote of the 17th century French mathematician, Blaise Pascal, who wrote this:

What else does this craving, this helplessness proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace?  This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself.**

For short-hand, I’d say the idea of a God-shaped hole in the human soul that yearns to be filled will do.

One flip side of this idea is the question of what shape God might be, if God can be said to have a figure or form.  This question is close, I guess, to asking what God looks like, but I think it’s a subtler question in seek of a subtler answer.  If we wonder what shape God might be, our questioning might come from the desire to fill the God-shaped hole in each of us, so it doesn’t sound like a useless question.

A great preoccupation of the Hebrew Scriptures is the matter of idolatry: idols being man-made, hand-made objects toward which we might direct our worship and devotion, and in which we might misguidedly place some hope for wish-fulfillment or more.  The scriptures tell us over and over again that the one, true, living God is offended by the tendency of his people to be drawn away from him by idols of our own making, telling Moses that “I the Lord am a jealous  God.” (Ex 20:5). While it might be true that no one could see God and live, which God also told Moses, God does not want people placing their hope, their faith, or directing their worship toward objects shaped by our own hands and hearts, and therefore within our own control.

At first glance, you might not look to the story of the baptism of Jesus to tell us what shape God is.  But we should also ask ourselves what else we think this story is for.  It’s customary, for instance, to baptize people on this first Sunday after the Epiphany, when we always remember the baptism of Jesus.  But Jesus was baptized by John for reasons that are not entirely clear to us.  And this narrative does not supply the prototype of Christian baptism.  The passage we heard from the Book of Acts makes it clear that the baptism of John has been superseded by baptism in the Spirit, as John himself said it would be.  So, in my opinion, the church is often very misleading on this day.

More than once I have heard a preacher suggest that the words that come from the voice from heaven are directed toward everyone baptized Christian: “You are my Son [my child], the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  But this idea is staggeringly wrong to me - that the words that God the Father spake to the Incarnate Word, simultaneous with the anointing of the Spirit, identifying that Word as his only Son, who is and was and will be the Redeemer of all things; that these words are somehow also meant for you and me… I don’t think so.

I think that mostly it is hard for us to say why Jesus was baptized by John, who proclaimed, after all, a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, since we believe that Jesus did not sin.  So, mostly, on this day, we fudge it, and say something nice about baptism, and hope that nobody much notices.  But there is a lot to take notice of in the events that St. Mark reports, and which are accounted for in all the other Gospels, too.  For these narratives provide a profound revelation of something about the truth of God.  And I think we can speak about that truth in terms of the shape of God.  Which is to say, that in the details of the accounts of the baptism of Jesus, God reveals God’s shape to us, and we should pay attention to that, especially if we think there is a God-shaped hole in the human soul.

Each of the accounts of the baptism of Jesus (in Matthew, Mark, and Luke) includes three specific and distinct features: the presence of Jesus himself, the presence of the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, and a voice from heaven identifying Jesus as “my Son.”  The Gospel of St. John does not provide all these details but does allude to the event and its significance.  And Christian theology has come up with a word to describe the shape that we get a glimpse of, there, at the edge of the Jordan River; that word is: Trinity.

No, God is not a point or a dot.  God is not a line.  God is not flat or round or even a tetrahedron.  God is not bound or contained in three dimensions, to be sure, although God can certainly reveal God’s self in three dimensions, as he did at the Jordan River that day: in two figures of three dimensions, and one voice, all in relationship with one another.

The central purpose of the narrative of the baptism of Jesus, it seems to me, is to provide a lasting testimony of this remarkable revelation of the shape of God as Trinity: a relationship of three persons who are not, in fact bound by space or time, each of whose being is intertwined with the being of the others; whose dwelling in the heavens does not prevent them from coming to earth; who speak and swim, and fly, and walk, and sleep, and dream, and dance with each other; whose relationship to the other is that of beloved to beloved; who are engaged in ministry with each other, and who are engaged in conversation with each other; and who are apparently also engaged in ministry and conversation with the world.  This is the Holy Trinity.  To reduce the witness of this moment by the Jordan River to an account of man, a voice, and a dove, would be to miss the point.  This is God disclosing God’s self, having already made the astonishing self disclosure of himself in Bethlehem.  God is Trinity-shaped.  Which means that God is one, but God is in community with God’s self; that God is always giving God’s self to God’s self; God is always loving: offering and accepting love: God is love speaking love to love for love, and then doing it all again and again.

I know that the doctrine of the Holy Trinity can seem like a persnickety administrative detail,, something, perhaps important at a theoretical level, but more dubious in practice.  But the witness provided at the Jordan River when Jesus was baptized by John reminds us that the Trinity is more than a persnickety administrative detail about God for theologians to muse upon; it’s also an important description of the shape of God; and it’s nice to know that it’s true, if this consistent witness at the baptism of Jesus is to relied upon!  It also seems important to those of us who have noticed something of a God-shaped hole in our lives, in our hearts, in our souls: something yearning to be filled with a true happiness that we can’t believe should be this elusive, that we can’t believe wasn’t what we were made for.

It’s a little embarrassing to be called out with such clear and exact specificity by a 17th century French mathematician.  How can he see us so clearly and know us so well?  We do, don’t we, try in vain to fill ourselves with everything around us, seeking in things that are not there the help we cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself?  That’s a mouthful, but if you spend a little time with it, you might be convinced by it.  You might recognize the tendency to seek in things that are not there the help we cannot find in things that are.  You might be convinced that sometimes when you spend time alone you are frightened to discover that you face what appears to be an infinite abyss.

There is an infinite and immutable object that can fill to overflowing that infinite abyss.  It is Trinity-shaped.  We call it Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, because God’s true name is unpronounceable, and we have neither the time nor the space to even listen to it, let alone try to speak it.  And the reason we return again and again to the banks of the Jordan River is to remember when the revelation was given for all to see that this is the shape of God: the presence of Jesus himself, the presence of the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, and a voice from heaven identifying Jesus as “my Son.”

What a marvelous shape the Trinity is!  Adjusting to every one of us, no matter how close to the edge of the abyss we are, able to fill us to overflowing, and assuring us that yes, our hearts are restless, but that we can and will find our rest in God, who fills all in all.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
7 January 2024
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

* Augustine of Hippo, Confessions (1,1,1)
** Blaise Pascal, Pensées VII (425)

An Epiphany of Overwhelming Joy

From where I’m standing, I feel as though I have a privileged vantage point of the wise men, as they make their way toward Bethlehem, so let me comment on just a few of things that I notice from here.

First, St. Matthew provides us with a very interesting detail, that I admit I hadn’t noticed before.  It’s a detail about timing, but it strikes me as significant.  We are told that the wise men were “overwhelmed with joy” at some point in their journey to see the Christ Child.  But interestingly, the experience of being overwhelmed with joy came to them, not when they encountered the Baby Jesus in the manger.  Rather, we are told that it was when they realized that the star had stopped that this overwhelming sense of happiness came upon them.

“When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.”  I think there’s a great deal more going on here than meets the eye, to affect the magi in this way.  I think that when the star stopped, it was one of those moments when the malleability of time and space was noticeable, and the wise men could almost perceive the world from God’s perspective, which does not unfold merely in three dimensions.  And they realized that they were precariously close to the Presence of God and his angels, and that time was folding in on itself, as it may do when an event takes place for eternity.  And there may have been a sense of electricity in the air as all this happened.  And the magi were no fools, they were attuned to what was going on around them.  And when the star stopped, they may have sensed that they were already closer to the Little Lord Jesus than they realized - before they even reached the manger - and they could feel it.

This signal of joy in advance was important, too, because, remember that no one was allowed to see God - certainly not a mob of Gentiles!  But that is precisely what was about to happen.   Perhaps it’s because the magi were Gentiles that no angels were sent to them to reassure them that they need not be afraid.  They didn’t know there were supposed to be afraid.  Maybe they didn’t know that God had said to Moses, “you cannot see my face; for no one shall see me and live.”  Maybe they didn’t know that no one was supposed to be able to look at the face of God.  But it is absolutely significant that on the verge of their face-to-face encounter with the living God, they are not filled with dread but they are overwhelmed with joy.  Clearly, God is doing something differently.

Second, I think it may have been their overwhelming joy that helped the wise men to participate in the economy of giftedness, which is, as far as I can tell, the preferred economy of God.  Having received the gift of overwhelming joy before they even came into the presence of the Holy Child, the wise men found it easy to respond to God’s gift by giving gifts themselves.  They are prototypes of the economy of giving, and exemplars of it, too, since the gifts they give are generous and heartfelt.  And since they are remembered primarily for the giving of gifts.

Third and finally, I strongly suspect that the magi had musicians traveling with them.  We gather that they were rich.  Surely they were traveling with a retinue of companions and servants and artisans.  It is impossible for me to believe that there were not some musicians traveling among them.  The pity, for them, is that it’s hard to travel with an organ.  And so, if the likes of an ancient counterpart of Robert McCormick might have been with them, he’d have had to organize a band playing harps, lyres, lutes, reed pipes, and drums, according to my research, and probably using the Lydian mode.  The percussion section might have included  clappers, scrapers, rattles, sistra, cymbals, and bells.  I don’t know what some of those things are, but you put them all together and it sounds like a Zimbelstern to me!  The presence of musicians seems absolutely essential to me, since we are told that the magi were overwhelmed with joy.  And if overwhelming joy was on the menu, then music must have been, too.

How often, over these last seven years and more, has the music made here - often coming from just two hands and two feet, from up there in the organ loft - how often has the music made here with Robert and by Robert helped us to express our overwhelming joy?  Sometimes the joy might have come first, and Robert helped us find a way to express what God had already primed in our hearts and in our voices.  But there have been other times, when we had no idea that we were about to be overwhelmed by joy, and then Robert showed us the way.  More times than I could count, I have stood in this church with my mouth open in song, and tears in my eyes as the overwhelming joy of singing in the presence of the living God has been facilitated by Robert’s superb musical instincts, talent, and leadership.

To be sure, Robert knows how to play in minor keys.  And he has helped us to express, and to feel, and to offer a wide range of emotions, and a broad and varied articulation of faith.  But on the feast of the Epiphany, we find ourselves in communion with the magi.  And I strongly suspect that it’s to their experience of overwhelming joy that we’re most nearly connected.

Once the star had stopped, and the magi, overwhelmed with joy, must have been dancing on their tippy toes and speaking to one another only in songs, as they made their way to the manger, it was the revelation of the person of the Christ Child - Emmanuel, God with us - that they discovered was the real source of their joy.  How they must have showered their musicians with thanks, after they had given their gifts, and as they made their way home by another way!  And how the musicians must have recalled to one another that the magi never sang so well as they did that night - neither before nor since - and how they must have wished they could have remained in such good voice just a little while longer!

We are doing things in a different order.  The star moved on long ago, and we have already been to the manger.  But it is a blessing in this place on Locust Street, where, from time to time, we thing we can detect  something of the malleability of time and space from something like God’s perspective; and we realize that we are precariously close to the Presence of God and his angels, and time is folding in on itself, as it may do when an event takes place for eternity, and there may be electricity in the air as God shows us, too, the person of the Christ Child - Emmanuel, God with us - that we, like magi, may discover the real source of overwhelming joy that it is our delight to sing about in this place.

Thanks be to God!

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
The Feast of the Epiphany 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia

Love's Creation Of Love For Love

Does God still walk through the garden in the cool of the day;
the scent of honeysuckle thick in places;
the memory of the origins of everything woven in the grass,
murmured about by the bees, snickered about
by the horses, and hissed about by lisping snakes
and lizards, preoccupied with their own bad reputations?

Is God at all concerned with the data that shows
his own repute in bad decline outside
the garden walls?  Could it matter to him?
Does God not see how prone to failure so much of
his work tends to be?  Does God recall
that his own received him not?  What kind of operation
is he running?  And who is even signing
up for the newsletter anymore?

Is there a paradise somewhere still,
where the knowledge of good and evil is safely left
un-picked on the tree?  Where the creatures live in perfect
balance with each other and all the rest;
without the need to mine or plunder earth;
or maim or snuff each other out; or fight to the death
over this patch of land or that one?  Is there another
version of all this playing out somewhere,
where Adam does not have to work by the sweat of his brow;
where childbirth is painless for Eve; and the serpent still lisps,
but has legs; and where everyone is naked, and happy about it?

How many beginnings will God offer us?
How many in-the-beginnings have there already been?
How many times till we see that the Word was with God,
and the Word was God; that he was in the beginning
with God; that all things were made by him; and that
without him was not any thing made that was made?
In him was life, and the life was the light of men.
How many times has God called that life into being,
as in the beginning, when he said, “Let there be light?”
Did God say it once?  Or is God always
calling creation into being, if everything
is always happening everywhere?

And is there another future for us in which
God’s kingdom is already dawning?  In which his people,
born not of blood, nor of the will of flesh,
nor of the will of man, but of God - another
future, in which we do receive him; in which
the Word rules out hearts, and governs our lives?
And in that other future, not only does
the light shine in the darkness, and the darkness does not
overcome it, but the light overcomes the darkness once
and for all; banishing the darkness for ever?

There was a shepherd and his flock who were
good for each other.  The shepherd helped his sheep
to be better sheep; and they helped him
to be a better shepherd. They sang each other
to sleep each night - the shepherd and his sheep.
And while they slept, they dreamed of God.
And once, the shepherd woke in the midst of a dream
about love, and when he woke, he could swear that the sheep
were singing about love, as the stars still shone in the sky,
reminding him of the light that the darkness cannot
overcome.  He suspected that everything is always
happening everywhere; but he could not prove it, nor did
he even really know what this meant.  The sheep,
God bless them, trusted his instinct on this.  And besides,
what difference did it make if he was wrong?
And when he awoke from his dream, this is what
he knew, with the sheep singing about love, in the grass:
that the universe is love’s creation of love for love.
And if he was right, then maybe what was needed in the
world was some constructive interference,
to bring about a greater amplitude
of love, by which to align the singing sheep
with that other future in which the darkness
is banished for ever, and love rules all.

Do they know all this in the garden we left behind;
where the scent of honeysuckle is still thick,
and the bees, and the horses know more than we do,
and the lisping snakes and lizards, too, and God
still walks in the garden in the cool of the day, calling
for the light, which never fails?

Do we recall that it was power he gave
to us when we became the children of God?
Do we remember what it means to embrace that Word
who is God of God, light of light,
very God of very God?  To receive him?
Do we know how close we are to that version of
the future in which God’s kingdom is already dawning?
And could it be that all that’s required to get
from here to there is that  increased amplitude
of love that keeps trying to be born?

Are we still hiding because we remember that we
were naked once?  And are we still ashamed?
As if we were not supposed to be naked?  As if
we aren’t marvelously made?  As if
we aren’t truly children of God?

Somewhere in rooms with blinking screens (if screens
still blink) men with careful creases discuss
target selection.  The creases make it seem
like business, but this is war.  One cannot
detect the scent of honeysuckle in these
rooms; maybe that’s the problem.  And although
the rooms are kept secure, a lisping snake
or two has found its way inside, for sure.
And honeysuckle is no antidote
for war, in a world in which the light is easily
occluded.

What was that Word?  Why has God made it
so difficult to pronounce, or spell, or comprehend?
What did he say that caused the morning stars to sing,
and all the sons of God to shout for joy?
Is it the Word that’s hard to grasp, or
are our hands mis-shapen for the task?
What is that Word?

Do you remember how God called out, “Where are you?”
when you had hidden yourself, because you knew
that you were naked?  Can you still smell the honeysuckle?
And does your heart yearn for the sound of God
at the time of the evening breeze?  Do you believe
that paradise is lost to us?  Maybe.

If everything is always happening everywhere,
and time and space scrunch up on themselves,
then there is always another beginning to hope for.
God has not stopped beginning in the
beginning (with apologies to Cole Porter).
And in-the-beginning is a promise-time, returning
again and again, to be spoken into by
God’s voice.  We know the Word he spake, for he
has come to us again, again, whenever,
our hands stretched out, receive we him.  Just so.
That is the Word.

Can you still hear the sheep singing about
love, as the stars still shine in the sky, and the darkness
cannot overcome the light that lightens the world?
The universe is love’s creation of love for love.
What else is there to say, since love spake love
for love?  Except perhaps to echo love
in love’s ear, and call it prayer, or praise.

There was a shepherd who dreamed of love, and sang
of love when his sheep sang love songs too.  They were born
not of blood, nor the will of flesh, nor the will of man,
but of God.  You, too, were born of God.  And if love
created love for love, he created it for you.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
31 December 2023
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia