I guess it was the sermon on the Trinity

was the straw that broke Divinity’s back that day, finally.

A lovely Sunday morning in late May.

Still cool, pleasant enough, early,

for our olderly Episcopalian congregation

to gather for an “Outside-By-The-Sea” church service

to honor our preacher, who was retiring from her ministry.

The following Sunday’s service would be

in the church building on Main Street.

A Communion service, first,

then a Men’s Club sponsored luncheon in the Fellowship Hall

and a cheery, if teary, send-off-celebration,

including a hefty check from her loving congregation

for our still vigorous but aging priestess,

who had served the congregation so dutifully and gently,

all these years,

bless her heart…

Her previous and first congregation had been in her home town in Alaska

so this North Carolina Calling had suited her just fine.

A CHRISTIANS CALL TO COMMUNITY,

was her sermons title that day.

The Nicean Creed her homiletical focus.

(Though anyway, in my humble opinion,

in that context,

the scriptures would be pretty useless as proof texts.)

She preached her way from the creedal statement of Triune Fellowship

as example for our congregation to follow.

To be in community with all as Father, Son and Holy Spirit

are in cahoots with each other, each to each.

She was on her way toward the sermons conclusion,

that Trinity, while a difficult doctrine to understand,

believable , finally, only by faith,

was still a useful metaphor for Christian community and fellowship.

But, as usual, the heretic in me asked,

“Faith in what?’

Certainly not Biblical Authority or Divine Revelation.

But only in some synodic formulation to prove the divinity of Jesus

and counter the Jewish conclusion about

the “one-ness” of Jehovah.

(To which the Jewish Jesus surely ascribed.)

All in order to make the new Christian faith

feel and sound more compatible

to the theologies of the era’s many poly-theistic religions.

But, as usual, I needed not to say anything.

For, in these moments,

God seems to always have the final say.

While nearing her conclusion,

our preachers tone, volume and pace combining towards an,

“Ok! Now let’s wrap this baby up!”

an off shore wind began to wake.

A gentle breeze, at first.

But as the sermons raced toward it’s finish line,

the gusts intensified.

Tree branches shook.

Loblolly Pine needles and Live Oak leaves

weezing and clanking together in gathering gusts.

The clamor drowning-out the words of the sermon.

The trees hollering at each other.

(The Spirit blowing where it will?)

Till, finally, hopelessly out of contention with the winds,

our valiant preacher gasped into her portable microphone

some formulaic blessing in the names of God

and collapsed into her folding chair,

exhausted by her contest

against a Nature who was merely following orders.

But as the congregational survivors heaved themselves up

out of their beach chairs

and stampeded toward their cars in the beach parking lot,

the wind began to die down and in the growing silence,

I heard the distant rabbi in my mind chant victory.

“Hear O Israel!

The Lord our God

is One!

Omain!”

But I was feeling sorry for our retiring preacher.

She has always had a quirky funny bone.

And she loves Alaskan King Crab legs

with rivers of melted butter.

And so do I.

And she’s never gotten all inquisitorial

on us heretics hiding in the pews of our most holy place.

So while I will, still, hold tightly to my secret heresies

I will, at best,

enjoy next Sundays service and farewell,

in peaceful communion with our revered and most reverend sister

and with my family-in-community-with- Christ,

dripping melted butter

and spilling sins and coffee

all over my special, Sunday-come-to-worship, vest.