Mr. Perkins Explains the Trinity

 Mr. Perkins Explains the Trinity

by Daniel F. Graves

Trinity Sunday is always a day of fear and trepidation for preachers.  How is one to explain the great mystery of the Triune God – the three in one, the one in three – in a mere ten minutes? Or even more problematically, how does one explain the unity of God in a diversity of persons, distinct yet undivided, in the dreaded two-minute children’s talk?  Perhaps Mr. Perkins was over-confident in his own abilities, or perhaps he was just naïve. Today, he would never even attempt it, but back in the days of his early ministry, during his early years in the little parish of Hampton’s Corners, he thought himself equal to the task.  

His first go at explaining the Trinity was during a children’s talk on Trinity Sunday when he was a relatively new priest.  He self-confidently beckoned the children forward to the chancel steps and sat down amongst them. With hindsight, we can scarcely believe that he did not anticipate what was to follow and the response he was to get when he asked the question: “Good morning boys and girls, do you know what day it is?”

“Sunday!!!” they all shouted back at him.

“Yes, very good,” he responded, “but today is a very special Sunday. Do you know why that is?”

“Yes!” Exclaimed one of the little girls, “It’s my birthday!”

“Well, happy birthday, Janet. That’s wonderful, but there’s something else also very special about today.”

“I know!” called out one of the boys, “It’s Easter!”

“No,” the clergyman said patiently, “Easter was just two months ago.  Today is a very special Sunday called Trinity Sunday. Do you know what makes today so special?”

“Do we get presents?” The boy asked.

Mr. Perkins replied that they don’t get presents but was cut off by little Janet who announced smugly, “I get presents because it’s my birthday!”

“Yes, Janet gets presents…” he continued.

“Do we get chocolate, Mr. Perkins?” another little voice asked.

“Did you bring us chocolate and candy?” They began to shout.

“Children, children…I’m afraid there is no chocolate or candy on Trinity Sunday.”

“Then what kind of special day is Trinity Sunday?” another said.

“Well,” he continued, “Today is special because we get to learn about the great mystery of the Triune God.”

“Huh?” said Janet looking very perplexed. In fact, they all looked perplexed. They clearly were not grasping the special nature of the day.  Trying to get to his point he began, “Let me tell you about the Trinity.”

“The what?”  A dozen little faces looked up at him in confusion.  He looked out at the congregation and he could see they were waiting expectantly to see how this was going to turn out.  

“Well,” he said, “There is but one living and true God, everlasting, without body, parts or passions; of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness; the Maker and Preserver of all things both visible and invisible. And in unity of this Godhead there are three Person, of one substance, power and eternity; the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

“Huh?” said Janet, again, “I don’t get it.” For some reason the explanation Mr. Perkins gave, from Article One of the 39 Articles seemed to have gone over their heads.

Just as Mr. Perkins was about to embark on unpacking this glorious mystery, Wendy Wertherwaite, the Sunday School teacher caught his eye and pointed to her watch.

“Boys and Girls,” Mr. Perkins said, “I see it’s time to go to Sunday School. Off you go.” He turned toward the altar, took a deep breath and headed to his prayer desk.  There was a time when young people knew their catechism he thought, when children could dutifully rhyme of the definition of a sacrament, the Ten Commandments, the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed.  It broke his heart that those days seemed a thing of the past.

After the service, his mind already at work on how he might do a better job of explaining the Trinity next year, Wendy approached him.  

“You know, Mr. Perkins,” she began diplomatically, “that was an admirable attempt but…”

“But…”

“But in my experience, children understand things better when you paint a picture, use an image or an analogy of some sort, like perhaps St. Patrick’s three-leafed shamrock. Maybe next time around, you might try some sort of image like that.”

“I see,” he said coldly, “I shall take that under consideration.”  Of course, he did not need to consider it with any seriousness.  He had no intention of dumbing down the faith of the church to the little ones.  He would elevate them, raise them up, enlighten them with the true light of faith.  Children needed to be able to learn the great doctrines of the church.  Alas, young Mr. Perkins had forgotten the admonition of St. Paul: milk before meat.  At any rate, the Shamrock was a terrible analogy.  So many clergy have lowered themselves to this deficient analogy and in doing so have inadvertently led the young ones into a belief in some form of tri-theism, the error that God is made up of three parts, thereby robbing him of his inherent unity.

The next year rolled around and Mr. Perkins had ruminated on Wendy’s advice.  Maybe he did need to use some imagery.  After all, the Church Fathers used imagery to explain the Trinity. Thus, he pulled out his old copy of St. Augustine’s de Trinitate, or On the Trinity, and began reading.  This would be the answer, he thought. What could possibly go wrong by going back to Augustine? As he read, he was reminded of Augustine’s psychological analogy, that the Father, Son, and Spirit were analogous to memory, understanding, and the will.  Perhaps that might be a little bit difficult for the youngsters to grasp, he conceded.  Then he stumbled on the Trinity of Lover, Beloved, and Love, but again, it was perhaps a bit less concrete than he was hoping for. Pretty soon he dozed off in his chair.  He never really got back to preparing that children’s talk and when Sunday came around, he resorted to the tired old analogy that the Trinity is like a man who is at the same time, Father, Son, and Husband.  He is one man who had different roles to different people. It seemed to work for the little heads nodded in understanding, and as he looked up the adult heads were smiling, as if he finally understood how to talk to children.  It had worked. Wendy was right, and he felt quite satisfied with himself.  After the service, he saw Wendy and rushed up to her, seeking her approval.

“What did you think, Wendy? Much better than last year, eh?”

“Well, I would count it a success if you consider teaching the heresy of Modalism a success, Mr. Perkins.”

He thought for a moment. She was right.  He had inadvertently led them astray.  He had denied the distinction of persons in the Trinity by suggesting that each person is actually just a way or mode that God relates to different people in different situations.  In attempting to preserve the unity of the Godhead he had denied its diversity.  He hung his head.  He remembered the nodding heads of the children, the smiling affirming faces of the adults.  He would have some work to undo this damage.

In subsequent years, he shyed away from any explicit teaching on the Trinity, although he attempted to preach very orthodox sermons.  His third attempt came the year he had a young curate.  Now, as every rector knows, Trinity Sunday is the day to pass the sermon off to the curate, let them make the mistakes that are easily forgiven because of lack of experience.  This is a tried, tested, and true way of avoiding Trinity Sunday heresy...let another be the heretic in your stead.  Mr. Perkins believed he was above this pettiness though.  In a gesture of magnanimity, he explained to his curate that he would not make her preach on Trinity Sunday, but that he would do it, that he would relieve her of the terrible burden.  The truth is, he so desperately wanted to finally get it right, and perhaps, he thought, he his curate might even learn something.

He had decided to dispense with the children’s talk this year (for safety’s sake) and tackled the matter directly in the homily.  However, he didn’t get very far into his sermon before he realized that in his attempt this time around to preserve the distinction between the three persons of the Godhead (trying to avoid his pervious heretical incursion) he had driven too great a wedge between the Father and the Son. This had not occurred to him while he was writing it, but as the words came out of his mouth in the pulpit, that feeling of horror and realization came over him.  He had made it sound like the son was created, not begotten...he hadn’t said it, but he had implied it.  In an attempt to recover, he went off script.  Oh, that dangerous moment when a parson decides to start revising on the fly.  It is like pilot who loses control of the plane and one can only pray to God for a miracle to save him (and those who are following along in horror).  

Of course, things got worse. In order to ensure his congregation that God was indeed “one” he resorted to the metaphor of water, ice, and steam. The same element, but in different forms. And then he realized he had stumbled into some version of modalism again.  God couldn’t be all three at the same time, which of course the Trinity is.  He made another attempt to recover and found himself talking about the Sun, its rays, and its warmth. Wait, was that still modalism? Nothing was making this better.  Finally, after several attempts at the runway, he was able to land his plane and disembark sheepishly out of the cockpit of the pulpit and over to his prayer desk. He looked across at his curate whose eyebrows were raised. 

In the vestry following the service, they were very quiet. Finally, he said to her: “Did I miss any?”

“Hmm,” she said, “Sabelliansim, Arianism, Modalism, Monarchianism...I think you missed Docetism.”  Docetism was the heresy that the Son only appeared to die on the cross.  It is true, he had not gone there. He decided to skip coffee hour and slipped away sheepishly to the rectory to meditate upon the Athanasian Creed as an act of penitence.

The following year, he had no idea what to do.  He was a failure at explaining the Trinity. He knew he wasn’t a heretic, and yet he felt it should be printed on his calling card, “The Rev. William Perkins, B.A., M.Div, M.A., Rector of Christ Church Hampton’s Corners – HERETIC".  In his loathing and self-pity, he made a plan.  He would invite others to explain the Trinity for to him. It would be a conversational sermon this year. Ha! He thought smugly, he could let them make the mistakes, offer the bad analogies, and he could correct them. He could get the upper hand and be the valiant protector of orthodoxy against the heretics in the pews!  He got excited.

And so, Trinity Sunday rolled around, and from the pulpit he asked the question: “Can anyone explain to me the Trinity?  Go ahead! Give it a go!”

There was silence for a moment, and then Janet, who just four years ago had been that young girl celebrating her birthday on Trinity Sunday raised her hand.  All eyes were on her.  “Yes, Janet...” he said, “Why don’t you give it a try.”

“Well, Mr. Perkins,” she began, “I heard a story once about a very wise man walking along the beach one day, taking a little rest from writing a giant book on the Trinity.  This wise man was really having a hard time getting his head around it. Every time he came up with a way of explaining it, he realized there was something not quite right.  All of a sudden, he saw a little boy digging a hole in the sand. The boy was running back and forth with water cupped his hands emptying it in the whole he had dug. The wise man watched him doing this, running back and forth and finally he asked the boy, ‘What are you doing? The boy answered him, ‘Well, sir, I’m trying fill that hole with the ocean.’ And the wise man laughed at him, ‘Son, you’ll never fit the ocean in that hole.’ And the boy answered back, ‘Neither will you be able to fit the Trinity into your mind.’”

Mr. Perkins said, “Yes, Janet, that’s right,” and he left the pulpit and sat at his prayer desk in silence.

After the service he saw Wendy, the Sunday School teacher. “You know,” he said, “that was remarkable what Janet said.  Did you know that’s actually a story that’s told about St. Augustine?  Where on earth could she have learned that?”

“What do you think we’re teaching them in Sunday School, Mr. Perkins?” she replied with a smile.

He smiled back at her and with a little chuckle said, “Quite so, Wendy. Quite so.”

c. 2020 Daniel F. Graves