Sermon for the 15th of June - Feast of the Holy Trinity
Let me begin with a line from Alan Bennett’s Forty Years On:
Schoolmaster: Now you’re sure you’ve got the Catechism all buttoned up, Foster?
Foster: I’m a bit hazy about the Trinity, sir.
Schoolmaster: Three in one, one in three, perfectly straightforward. Any doubts about that, see your maths master.
Perfectly straightforward, right?
Well, perhaps not. Here’s how the Creed of Saint Athanasius puts it, in the Book of Common Prayer:
“The Catholic faith is this: that we worship one God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity; neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance.”
Perfectly straightforward…
But of course, it isn’t. And perhaps that’s unsurprising. As theologian Mike Lloyd puts it:
“Why would we expect the infinite, eternal God to be easily grasped by our minds, which are finite, haven’t been around for very long, won’t be around much longer… and which we know to be affected by our moods, hormones, (limited) experiences, and digestion?!”
So today, let’s ask: how can we begin to reflect upon the Holy Trinity—this mystery at the heart of God? It’s important to affirm that all reflection on the divine involves an imperfect grasping, as we try to make sense of a mystery, as so we use metaphor, poetry, music, and art.
One way to reflect upon the Trinity is the 15th century icon by the Russian painter Andrei Rublev. It depicts three angelic figures, seated around a white table. On that table is a chalice containing a roasted lamb. Behind them are a house, a tree, and a hill. The scene refers to a mysterious moment in Genesis, when three strangers visit Abraham. Somehow, Abraham comes to recognize them as a manifestation of God.
But Rublev’s painting is more than just a biblical scene. It’s a theological vision—an image of the Holy Trinity.
The figures are arranged in a circle, heads gently inclined toward one another, forming a unity of movement and love. Each holds a staff—a sign, perhaps, that these divine persons travel with us. Despite their wings, they meet us on foot, affirming that God walks with us.
At the centre of the table is the chalice—evoking the altar of Communion, the meal of sacrificial love.
Let’s look more closely at the three figures.
On the left is the Father: clothed in robes that seem to shift and shimmer with the light. They defy description, just as the Father cannot be seen or grasped. Yet his gaze is steady, and his hand is lifted in blessing—sending forth the Son.
In the centre is the Son: wearing deep earthly red, symbolizing his humanity, with a cloak of heaven’s blue. In Christ, heaven and earth meet. His hand gestures toward the chalice—toward the cross.
On the right is the Holy Spirit: wrapped in green, the colour of renewal, and blue, the colour of sky and sea. The Spirit breathes life into all creation. The Spirit moves, inspires, sustains.
This is the movement of God:
The Father sends the Son, the Son sends the Spirit.
And the Spirit moves outward—towards us.
In Rublev’s icon, there’s an open space at the front of the table—the side closest to us. It’s no accident.
This open space is our place. The Trinity is not a closed circle of divine perfection—it is an open invitation. We are not spectators of divine life; we are called to be participants.
We are invited to complete the circle.
The Father sends the Son.
The Son sends the Spirit.
And the Spirit sends us—into the world, into relationship, into love.
Look again at the background of the icon. There are three features behind the figures: a hill, a tree, and a house.
The hill reminds us of prayer. Throughout Scripture, people meet God on the heights—thin places where heaven and earth seem to touch. The Spirit leads us up that hill, even when we don’t know the way.
The tree stands for rest, for life, for the cross. Under its shade we are renewed. At its foot, we are made whole. The cross—the tree of death—has become for us the tree of life, in which death is defeated.
And the house? It is the Father’s house. Its window is open. The Father, like the one in Jesus’ parable, is watching the road—waiting, always, for the return of the prodigal. And the door? It’s wide open.
Each figure in Rublev’s icon holds a staff. They journey with us.
They sit down at our tables. They share in our weariness. They transform our ordinary into the holy.
And the table is prepared. At its centre: the Lamb.
Around it: divine welcome. Before it: an open place—for you.
So come.
Follow the Spirit up the hill of prayer.
Rest beneath the tree of life, in the shadow of the Son.
Come home to the Father, whose door is always open.
The table is spread.
The circle awaits.
Come—take your place.
The dance of God has room for you.