Today is Trinity Sunday. Coincidentally—or perhaps synchronistically—I’ve had more opportunity to think about the concept of the Trinity in this last week than I usually do. You may be surprised to learn that I don’t spend a lot of time reflecting on the form and substance and action of the Trinity. Certainly the question is not as present with me as it was with the leaders of the early church, whose disputes about the nature and relationship of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit were the work of their lives. However, this week has been different. Through circumstance—or perhaps through action of the Holy Spirit—several people have engaged me in discussion about the Trinity, and that has led me into reflection that’s been valuable to me as I think about this rather slippery tenet of our faith.
Two weeks ago I went to Big Sur for an oil-painting workshop. From Sunday evening until noon on Friday, I was immersed in a group of 17 people who were focused on the process of capturing images on canvas with oil paint. We were an artistically diverse group. Some of us had never drawn or painted before. A couple of us had several years of experience. Most of us fell somewhere in the middle of that range. All of us ended the week in amazement at the learning we had experienced and the work we had done during the week. We were led on this journey by our teacher, Adam Wolpert, and his assistant Gabrielle, both of whom are excellent painters. He is a master teacher, and Gabrielle is showing clear signs of following in Adam’s footsteps.
We began the week on Sunday evening by introducing ourselves to the group.
We sat in a circle, and one by one, we spoke of our experience—or lack
of it—and our hopes for the week. Then our teacher showed us slides of
his work over the last 25 years, which gave us a perspective of his journey
and was our first lesson in painting what we see, not what we think things look
like.
Then Adam outlined a method for us to use as we approached the somewhat daunting
task of painting the abundant scenery around us. He also outlined a method for
us to learn from each other. He told us that we would meet each evening to critique
the work of the day. He also encouraged us to take breaks from our painting
and to wander around and look at each other’s work. He gave us a specific
model to do that viewing. He said we should ask others if we could look at their
work, not just go lurking around behind people, peering at their painting over
their shoulders. He suggested several ways people could respond to a request.
We could say “sure, come on over.” We could say, “no, not
now.” We could also say “yes, you may look, but I don’t want
to talk about it.”
The next morning, we went out into the beautiful grounds, nestled between the hills and the sea. We staked out claims for our easels, got paint for our palettes and began trying to identify what we wanted to paint. We had been told that we would probably paint two landscape studies each day. Most of us had trouble with the thought of painting just one during the whole week.
Despite our trepidations, we got into the groove fairly quickly. Our focus
on the work was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating. Painting is like everything
else we do with our bodies.
The focused action of painting brought our emotions to the surface, and our
frustration, our excitement, our fear and our hope were there for anyone to
see. As we painted, Adam and Gabrielle made their separate rounds among us,
stopping to look at our work, to ask what we were doing and how it was going.
They always found something encouraging to say and offered little nudges to
help us find our direction. We took breaks when we needed to move away from
our own work, and I was delighted by the opportunity to watch other people develop
their paintings. Our evening critiques were expressions of excitement about
each other’s work and encouragement to build on emerging skills and techniques.
During the off hours, we spent time getting to know each other, but primarily
we talked about the experience we were having with our painting.
Our final critiques were Thursday night and Friday morning. Each person’s work was grouped together, and we took turns describing our movement through the week, talking about our difficulties, our challenges, our excitement and our learning. The progress each of us had made during the week was clearly visible to all of us, and these critique sessions were a time of celebration for the growth that had happened in each of us. Our last activity as a class was our closing circle. We sat together, just as we had on Sunday evening, and each person shared with the group about his or her experience of the week. When it was my turn, I looked around the room and realized how much I had learned from everyone there. I spoke of the way each person had contributed to the work I did and how they and our experience of working separately yet in a way that was very connected will always be embedded in my art. They are a part of me, and I believe that I have also become a part of them.
It wasn’t until I was driving back home that I began to notice what a
trinitarian experience the week had been. One of the symbols that’s helpful
for me in thinking of the Trinity is the notion of the three persons of the
Trinity dancing together. Their substance and form remain the same,
but they are constantly changing position and posture, always moving, perpetually
renewing and transforming their relationship to each other, ever alert to the
evolving nuance of movement of self and other. I think this image of the dancing
trinity is not merely whimsical. Dancing well with another person—or two—or
16—requires a strong sense of self, an acute sensitivity to the other,
a willingness to bring weight and energy to the interaction, and an openness
to change that’s initiated and mediated and modified by the other. Our
little community of painters embodied this dancing in a way that left each of
us richer for the experience. In our dance, we remained separate but became
closely united. Our engagement with each other in the focus of our work shifted
each of us. We all retained our own style, but our styles were enhanced by the
ways we influenced each other.
As I’ve reflected on that week of painting in the company of other painters,
I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s no accident that Trinity Sunday
follows immediately on the heels of Pentecost. Both feasts give us models of
community that are important to our lives as Christians.
Pentecost teaches us that the community holds our diversity. It teaches us that
each one of us is an important part of the Body of Christ. It teaches us that
our differences add to the richness of our community. It teaches us that every
person brings something important to the Body of Christ.
On the other hand, Trinity teaches us about the importance of the interactions of the individuals within a community. Everything we do has an impact on those around us. We influence each other in ways that have far-reaching effects on all of us and on our community. Our engagement with each other shifts each of us and leaves none of us unchanged by the interaction. As I reflect on my days with our little community of painters, my prayer is that our St. Mark’s community will become more and more able to dance with each other in ways that celebrate our diversity and support all of us in our growth as individuals, as a community and in our relationship as the Body of Christ.