The Scorpion and the Egg.

This is one of those many homilies about a mythical person in a mythical parish. This person is a collage of people whom I have been privileged to minister to.

I’m going to call this person Seraphina. Seraphina was one of those remarkable people who danced in the shadows of the parish. She had never been a Sunday-by-Sunday person and was never going to be. Apparently, there had been a ‘to-do’ with Reverend what's-their-name, and so that was that. The exact details of the debate had been lost to time, but according to parish legend, it was a fiery contest with no clear winners. There never are, except maybe the pharmaceutical companies that make blood pressure tablets.

Some Sundays, I’d just look up and she would be there. And by the time the last hymn was finished, she would be gone again.

So the first opportunity I had to really get to know her was when she turned up in the Hospital.

She had been diagnosed with something nasty and incurable. The long-term outlook was pretty grim. That’s me dressing it up and trying to be polite.

Seraphina and I had some scrumptious chats, and she taught me much. I shall always be deeply and profoundly grateful for her patience and skill. And even though she may not have been a Sunday by Sunday pew sitter, I always came away from her bedside knowing that I had been in the presence of the living God. And that was both a scary and an exhilarating experience.

I was young and inexperienced enough to believe that prayer might go some way to sorting all this out. So pray I did, as pray I might, as pray I tried.

I would come back to today’s gospel frequently.

The Lord’s prayer was always a good place to start. I knew how this one went, and I could prattle it off quick smart and give myself an A+ every time.

I would read again the bit about the guy who had unexpected visitors and knocked on his neighbour's door at 3 am in order to get a sandwich loaf and some sliced honey leg ham, and a bottle of Chianti to give to his visitors.

“ Because of his persistence, he will get up and give him whatever he needs”. There! It's in the bible, so it’s gotta be right. If I am just persistent enough, then Seraphina’s next scan will show a reduction in the tumour and we’ll be well on the way to recovery and a full, healthy and happy life.

And I read and prayed the next bit.

“So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.  For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened”.

I was sure searching and knocking and asking, all it seemed to be to no avail.

How do we reconcile Our Lord’s promise in this gospel reading with the cold, hard reality of Seraphina in a coffin? For me at least, the scorpion of death had not lost its sting at all.

What do we say when God seems to fail?

A tiny baby step forward was given to me once by a wise old priest. “Hmmph!” he snorted. “This God of ours, I shake my fist at Him”.

And I can tell you that after every Seraphina’s funeral, there is a good deal of passionate fist shaking and long may it last.

Perhaps part of the answer is that we are not supposed to have all the answers. Perhaps our fist shaking and our silent sobs are the prayers that we should be offering more frequently instead of the quick, trite I’m the religious prayer professional person.

And perhaps another part of the jigsaw puzzle that we never see completed on this side of the grave is the line ‘your will be done’ which would infer that God’s will isn’t always done. Perhaps, sometimes God’s last word will be spoken convincingly and lovingly sometime in the future and Seraphina’s story is just Episode 2 of a huge blockbuster mega series the final episodes of which are only just being directed and rehearsed.

One other thing that I think about. I refer you to the very last bit of the gospel with the scorpion and the egg.

‘What parent, if the child asks for an egg, will give them a scorpion?’

On the surface of it, I was asking for an egg for Seraphina(s), and it felt like, feels like I was handed a stinging scorpion.

But what if, by asking for a continuation of poor quality, pain-riddled, morphine fuelled life for Seraphina, a delay of what is inevitable for all of us, I was in fact asking for a scorpion for her?

And is it not possible, that through Seraphina’s gentle, superb and holy ministry from her deathbed, that God offered me an egg? A new life, bursting with blessing, enrichment and potential to share with the world. Maybe now I can finally, authentically learn to say…

For the kingdom, the power and the glory are indeed yours, now and ever amen.

Something Else I stole from someone else.

What follows comes from someone who happens to have grown up in a different denomination from me, but their message, I believe, is for people of all faiths. I found it helpful. I hope you do too.

" Brothers, sisters…

I speak to you, especially to those who no longer believe, no longer hope, no longer pray, because they think God has left.

To those who are fed up with scandals, with misused power, with the silence of a Church that sometimes seems more like a palace than a home.

I, too, was angry with God.

I, too, saw good people die, children suffer, and grandparents cry without medicine.

And yes… There were days when I prayed and only felt an echo.

But then I discovered something:

God doesn't shout. God whispers.

And sometimes He whispers from the mud, from pain, from a grandmother who feeds you without having anything.

I don't come to offer you perfect faith.

I come to tell you that faith is a walk with stones, puddles, and unexpected hugs.

I'm not asking you to believe in everything.

I'm asking you not to close the door. Give a chance to the God who waits for you without judgment.

I'm just a priest who saw God in the smile of a woman who lost her son... and yet she cooked for others.

That changed me.

So if you're broken, if you don't believe, if you're tired of the lies...come anyway. With your anger, your doubt, your dirty backpack.

No one here will ask you for a VIP card.

Because this Church, as long as I breathe, will be a home for the homeless, and a rest for the weary.

God doesn't need soldiers.

He needs brothers and sisters

And you, yes, you are one of them."

Robert Prevost (Leo XIV)

Where do I begin?

Of Vincenzo and Elaine

I'd like to tell you a story about a man who was born in Italy. Some of you will have watched him in the series called ‘The Piano’ on the ABC. His name is Vincenzo and he is 73.

Growing up, he played in a band in Italy. One night, when in a restaurant, his father prompted him to go and help a young woman with the menu that was written in English.

She must have appreciated the kindness and probably the looks of this helpful young man, because when the menu was sorted, she offered to buy him a beer.

In 1975, they were married and came to Australia. Music became an integral part of our relationship.

In 2015, Elaine suffered a stroke and Vincenzo became her carer.

He told us that when you have something and someone special that you might lose the essence of the marriage becomes even sweeter.  Elaine was one in a hundred million.

So on the TV he plays the theme from Love Story, also known as ‘Where do I begin.’

It was a piece of music that Elaine liked, as they had a love story for 50 years. Between the initial casting for the series and Vincenzo appearing to play on TV, Elaine died, so he dedicates the piece to her.

He plays at the Market City in Sydney’s Chinatown and is therefore surrounded by a community of not only his daughters who have come to watch him play, but also those who fortuitously happened to be there who have come to watch and to listen and to hear not just his playing but also his story about he and Elaine.

And on the TV, when the last note is played and the piano falls silent, there is no silence at all. Rather, there are tears and applause and joy and triumph.

Whilst watching this little snippet, I couldn't help but think of the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. A bit of a jump, but stay with me. Their hearts are heavy with grief, and they tell their story to a complete stranger just as Vincenzo did. The gospel story finishes with them in a community of those who know that the while song has been completed, there is now a different sound to make. One of celebration and triumph. They know just as surely as Vincenzo, also a lonely traveller like Cleopas, that their music, the music of Elaine and Vincenzo, was merely keeping a rest. A period of silence so that what comes next is even more heightened and powerful. The silence, the hiatus between death and resurrection, between silence and applause, is merely an implement to expand our longing and heighten our expectation for what comes next.

You see, Vincenzo and Elaine gave thousands of viewers and listeners the gift of their love to share. Having performed so very publicly and so very well, he has begun to conquer his loneliness, his fear and pain.

The piece Vincenzo played lasted for less than three minutes, but it could have been an eternity as I slipped into that ‘other’ and didn’t ever, ever, want it to finish. Please, please, let his never end. I ached. Did not my heart burn within me as Vincenzo played? And centuries ago, the disciples would sa,y ‘Did not our hearts burn within us …?

Sometimes we have to listen and wait patiently for a long time

The Master on the road waits for Cleopas to simply talk. Jesus initiates and prompts the conversation, and then, it seems simply shuts up and lets the breaking of the bread at the supper table say everything that needs to be said just as Vincenzo’s brokenness and exquisite playing say everything that needs to be said and in a medium that words can never hope to convey.

Death does not speak the last word, play the final note. Love does! And it is a beautiful sound and the note that we thought was the finish, the final one to signal that it is all over and kaputt, was actually the one that, blended with our tears, is the beginning of the symphony of heaven which goes from strength to strength and from silence to exotic thrilling music.

I’m well aware Henri Nouwen put this all far more eloquently so I’ll let him tell it his way and have the last word.

“Having entered into communion with Jesus and created community with those who know that he is alive, we now can go and join the many lonely travellers and help them discover that they too have the gift of love to share. We are no longer afraid of their sadness and pain, but can ask them simply: "What are you talking about as you walk along the road?" And we will hear stories of immense loneliness, fear, rejection, abandonment, and sadness. We must lis- ten, often for a long time, but there are also opportunities to say with words or simple gestures: "Didn't you know that what you are complaining about can also be lived as a way to something new? Maybe it is impossible to change what has happened to you, but you are still free to choose how to live it."

What is the Flavour of love?

Over the past little while, I have been speculating as to what hope and faith might taste like if they were food. Or to put it another way, what dish would best describe these essential life ingredients?

This article completes the trio of reflections and speculates about what flavour or dish would most closely align with ‘love’.

I should begin by pointing out that we only have one word in our English language to describe love. Other languages are more nuanced and have distinct words for family love, romantic love, brotherly love, and divine love.

The dish that comes to mind when I think of the word love is this. A desert of chocolate brownies served with brandied kumquats. A little dollop of whipped cream on the side if you must, but not enough to take away from the heady dish that is set before you. For the purest love is often that which finds you. Actively  and relentlessly pursue it and it will elude you. If perchance you should capture it will probably not be to your liking and may even turn sour and disappointing with the years.

This delectation is the culmination of faith and hope. It follows on naturally from the two other courses and is the scrumptious reward for persevering in faith and hope, sometimes for a long time in a barren wilderness. Savour your desert with swooning and adulation. Allow it to thrill you and delight you and above all do not, under any circumstances, rush its consumption. Make it last for as long as possible over a bubbling and effervescent conversation. Laughter and mirth should pop spontaneously into the air.

Served with a fiery cognac which inflames and warms the soul, your life experience should be fulsome and leave you relaxed and sated. Yes!

What does faith taste like?

This is the second of three articles trying to encapsulate what hope, faith and love would taste like. What sort of dish would best convey these three basic and essential ingredients of life? Last week, I flirted with the idea that hope was like a very small teasing taste of spiced almonds.

Today I suggest that faith is like bread. Not just any old bread. Not like the sort of bread that some would cheekily describe as ‘cotton wool’. Oh no, our faith/bread is the thick, crusty, warm bread with lots of texture and comes complete with that ‘I've just come out of the oven aroma.' This is the fragrance that draws you in on the promise of something sustaining and nutritional, and delicious.

Eating this bread is part anticipation, part taste, part satisfaction, but mainly it is an experience.

Our dish of faith is best served with a deep, mysterious, complex glass of superb red wine. The sort that just when you think you’ve got it worked out leaves a surprising and particular zing on your palette. Something that you weren’t quite expecting. Something that is unique and leaves you wondering how the clever wine Master got it so right. He’s saved the best wine until now. This is not a wine to be rushed and gulped down. This is not a quaffable, rough Barby Red. This is a wine to be played with, enjoyed slowly, stringing out the pleasure for as long as possible.

This combo deal of faith, bread and wine is nothing new. It’s been enjoyed for literally centuries, and those who dabble in this wonderful mystery come to imbibe with faith in their souls and joy in their hearts. I reckon they’re onto something.

We shall follow the breadcrumbs, and they will lead us home.

I invite you to recall the story of Hansel and Gretel. There are a few different versions of the same story, but basically here’s the plot.

Hansel and Gretel are the young children of a poor woodcutter and his wife, who are working well below the basic recommended minimum wage. When the cost of living rises so high, the woodcutter and his wife decide that they can no longer afford to feed their children, and so they hatch a cunning but rather grizzly plan.

They will lead the children deep into the woods and leave them there to fend for themselves, thus halving their grocery bill and making a massive saving on school fees.

What the wicked parents do not realise is that the children have overheard the plot, and Hansel quickly sneaks out of the bedroom window, goes outside and gathers some white pebbles. The next day, as the family walks deeper into the woods, Hansel leaves a trail of these white pebbles.

After their parents abandon them, the children wait until night falls and the moonlight reveals the white pebbles shining in the dark. The children safely follow the trail back home, much to the surprise and befuddlement of their parents. Hansel proudly tells his parents how they managed to find their way home with the white pebbles.

However, the recession continues, and this time the parents lock the children in their room the night before, leading them into the woods, thus ensuring that they have no opportunity to gather white stones.

Instead, the sinister parents give their children some crumbs of bread and once again lead them into the woods. Hansel cleverly drops the crumbs of bread as they go. Now there are a couple of different versions of the story. One of them has the local magpies consume all the breadcrumbs. Hansel and Gretel then wander aimlessly about, and they go on to encounter and conquer a wicked witch and have a wonderful adventure.

Another version goes like this. They wait until dark, when Gretel, who is unaware of Hansel’s cleverness with the breadcrumbs, wails…

“Oh, Hansel, whatever shall we do? How shall we make our way home?”

Hansel replies, “Never fear Gretel, my dear sister. We shall follow the bread crumbs that I have left along the path, and we shall find our way home”

Of course, it’s just a charming, delightful children’s story, completely unbelievable, but great fun.

But… doesn’t every life have its ogres and disappointing characters? Some of them are even human beings, whilst others are the monsters that we wrestle within the shadows of our own personal ‘woods.’

Doesn’t every life have times when we are cast out and we feel that we are left to fend for ourselves by those whom we had trusted and come to rely on?

Doesn’t every life have times of light and darkness, clear undulating plains and deep dark woods?

And aren’t there times in all our lives when we are so very lost and don’t know where to turn? We long to go home, but aren’t quite sure where Home, with a capital H, really is.

The reason why Hansel and Gretel is still in print and is being read today is not just because  it's an exciting story, but because it resonates in all sorts of ways at our deepest inner being. Hansel and Gretel’s story is our story as well.

But the line that really struck me and which I hope might be helpful for you, is Hansel’s line of reassurance to fearful, distraught Gretel.

“We shall follow the trail of breadcrumbs and we will find our way home.”

In those times when we are lost, when we are hurt, when we don’t know the way home, when we have wandered far into the woods and night has fallen. Then we follow the bread crumbs home. The meagre, tiniest, wispy, crusts of bread nourish us not with the basic five groups and vitamins, but sustain us at those deepest levels and help us to conquer the beasts that threaten to eat us.  We come to the altar once again to find the next piece of bread along the path, because we know at some level that what we really find, is actually Him. The one who is always leading us on, encouraging us to follow, to leave our darkness behind and to come back home to Him and with Him.

And yes, sometimes the bread crumbs are hard to find, sometimes we only glimpse Him or maybe just even sense him and then sometimes the crust of bread does not seem enough and leaves us hungry for more.

Part of the reason I really like Hansel and Gretel is that it does not pretend. It doesn’t dress up life in unicorn wrapping paper and with a pretty bow on top.

Its beauty lies in its ugliness and being unpretentious, not just its tidy happy ending and victorious conclusion. But it is also a story that offers us a way forward, a way out of the forest, a way back home. “We shall follow the breadcrumbs and they will lead us home.”

What does hope taste like?

Hope is an elusive commodity. It is something that tantalises and teases us. We all feel it from time to time, and when we don’t, we ache for it, which is itself a sign of hope.

To be without hope is to be hope/less, which is a very repugnant flavour indeed. Hope can be pouring over the tattslotto ticket, searching the inbox for that email from that special someone, or even awaiting the results of that medical test you had exactly 5 days 2 hours and 16 minutes ago.

But what if you could describe Hope as a dish or a flavour? How would you describe it?

I guess that it would be like a very small dish of Cajun Seasoned Almonds. The size and quantity are important here, for hope seems to be doled out in very small portions. I think this is because we have been disappointed in the past by any number of circumstances and plops from on high, so we dare not invest too much or expect too much.

The flavour of hope should spark our palette and imagination. It should lead us on to wanting more, longing for more, hoping for more.

Hope is definitely an entrée or a tapas. It is not supposed to be the last course. It is supposed to be the very first. The starting place, and whilst we will always need hope, it should lead us onto the next course. That is its role. To help us look forward to what is to come.

The cajun spiced almonds should be served with a very small glass of refreshing bubbles, just to cleanse the palate and entice us onwards. What might be the next course? What fresh and wonderful dishes are in store for us?

Peter Smith … not his real name.

One of the regional towns I found myself in was a town called Bullamanka. Not its real name. And one of the senior elite gentlemen of the hoypaloy of the Bullamanka was Peter Smith. Not his real name.

Peter did a lot for Bullamanka and, for a while, was even chief Poobah (not the real title) of Bullamanka. He painted the local footy shed, mowed the grass outside the Senior Citizens building and even visited the Rest Easy retirement home on the first Thursday of every second month. What a guy!

Well, you know how these regional towns all have their own folklore…and all the characters have their stories… Well, Bullamanka was no different, and Peter  Smith was no different.

But Peter Smith, like all of us, was flawed in more than a few ways, and one of the legends about Peter went like this.

On the evening of a significant birthday, Peter Smith (not his real name) was driving home when he was stopped for a routine breath test. To be fair, the policewoman was only doing her job when she flagged Peter down and asked him if he had anything to drink. Peter never lied and confessed to having a few raspberry milkshakes. Peter dutifully blew into the breathalyser that was offered, and the policewoman kindly explained that he was over the legal limit and courteously asked if he would mind stepping out of the vehicle and producing his licence.

Peter could see that his illustrious reputation would be in tatters if the matter proceeded any further, and it is alleged that he said something, kind of like this.

“You can’t arrest me. I’m Peter Smith” (not his real name). “I’m terribly sorry, Sir…” the policewoman began. But Peter was quick off the mark. “Peter Smith has done this for Bullamanka, Peter Smith has done X Y and 3.4 for Bullamanka, I’m the local Poobah and president of the Really Intelligent Peoples Club. I’m Peter Smith, rock and pillar of this community.”

The sorry tale tells of a deterioration in the quality of communication and it is alleged that Peter Smith finished his travels that night in quite a different vehicle, to quite a different location with his name and photo appearing on the front page of the Bullamanka Express the next day with a rather more fulsome article and two more photos on page 3. In fact, there was some fear that the story might diminish the size of the sports report… let it never be said.

Peter Smith could easily have been a figment of my imagination, or he could easily have been like any of us here and especially like St. Peter of old.

In fact, Peter Smith very much reminds me of St. Peter of old. Dashing about with voice and deed, always willing and wanting to do the right thing, but secretly or perhaps not so secretly, his brashness getting him into strife. ‘You are Peter, the rock on which I will build my church’ says the Master, but the briefest of looks at Peter Smith or St. Peter of old, or especially in our bathroom mirror will show us that we are actually just shale and rubble.
That we are a little bit crumbly and flaky around the edges. There are flaws and bumps that embarrass us. And when, like Peter Smith, someone points these fractures out we can easily ark up, toss the toys out of our cot, and offer a litany of our attributes and plusses.

A quick look around at the other apostles and those who join us in worship reveals a puzzling but lovely anomaly. It seems that with a giggle and smirk, The divine rolls up his sleeves and delights in choosing the Peter and Pam Smiths of this world to do some of his most important work knowing that their hearts will be broken as well as filled with joy. The flinty  and the shonky are our friends and fellow worshippers. Our bibles are choc full of some of the shadiest characters you could ever hope not to meet.

It is always a privilege to worship and enjoy the company of those who are actually not plaster saints. I identify so strongly with and have much more in common with those who come from places like Galilee or Bullamanka or Nazareth. Can anything good come out of Kalangatuk west or Sheephills?

It is in and through the shonky characters that I see God working most powerfully and exquisitely and beautifully. God does some of his finest work through the Peter Smiths of this world. Our tumblings are His opportunities to reach out with his pierced hands, hold us and say again ‘Peace be with you’. Trips in the white van with the pretty lights on top are the  beginning of an exciting new adventure. I would be intimidated and abashed by a church full of perfect people. I would not fit in and belong. Give me a church full of St. Peters, of Peter Smiths. Give me a wounded Body of Christ who shows off his ruptured hands and feet. This is where I belong. With the grubby, the needy and the redeemed. May St. Peter and Peter Smith and you and I continue to pray for each other Amen.

From the Priest to You

Today's reflection is about no specific person but rather a collective collage of faithful people whom I have had the privilege of serving in the parish of Hamilton.

Sunday by Sunday, day by day, you come and sit on hard wooden pews and in blithering, biting cold and stinking unforgiving heat, mutter your prayers and sing the hymns to the unseen God.

Each one of you is richly endowed with enviable talents. From the chorister, the handyman, the flower arranger, the statesman, and the gardener.  From those who quietly visit and listen, to those who light and extinguish candles, set up and pack up.

Your work is largely imperceptible, but your laughter and conversation are often audible, and your countenance is always welcoming. Your giggling is contagious, and your prayers are like an all-encompassing doona that is comforting and consoling.

There are those who challenge me, to think and pray. They stretch me in all sorts of ways and help me to aspire to giddy new heights of wisdom and discernment. I owe them a particular debt, for they taught me the invaluable lesson that ‘You can’t unsay things.’

And there are those who have suffered piercing, ferocious heartbreak and rather than bow down  to the insatiable Gods of anger and bitterness, have risen from the ashes, understanding that their tears and their bruises are actually the marks of their magnificence.

To be immersed in such wildness and wit in the western districts is a privilege I did not seek and one I certainly do not deserve.

Month by flitting month, in all my encounters, you selflessly show forth a faith that is courageous and rapturous. In smashingly good times and in the despair of drought, your  faith is the one thing that I have come to rely on and enjoy.

And if you can do it… ???

Trinity Sunday

My friends who are Glen.

Many of you have patiently endured preacher after preacher, year after year, trying to explain the Holy and Blessed and Undivided Trinity.

With great fortitude and resilience, you have watched and listened as preacher after preacher failed in spectacular fashion to reach the dizzying theological heights of announcing and clarifying that which never can be articulated.

So, rather than try to achieve the unachievable, I thought that I would talk about three of my good friends, all of whom happen to be named Glen. All three of them are heartwarming, engaging, bonhomie comrades indeed. All of them, quite distinct and yet all of them have a great deal in common. In fact, they are so similar that I wondered whether there might be something in the name ‘Glen’, so I had a look at a screen and discovered that

Glen means 'a deep, narrow valley, especially in Scotland or Ireland’. More about this later.

First, I’d like to introduce you to Glen the gardener.

Glen faithfully tends the soil and has watched over his patch of dirt for decades. His greatest thrill is to plant tiny seeds in the ground and watch them sprout, grow, flourish and then ultimately harvest his well-deserved vegetables and flowers. He also has the hobby of creating superb clay earthenware pots and statues. His work is to be admired, and it is always inspiring. When you gaze upon it, you find yourself in a different space. You can’t help but want to imitate Glen’s creative genius and rush home to your patch of dirt and make something wonderful.

Then there is  Glen the priest. I have known him for pretty much all my ordained life. I have seen him at some of his finest moments, and some of these are noted publicly, and they are shiny and lovely. But there are other times when I have seen him broken, and he has seen me broken. There in the spaces where no one sees and no one will ever know, we meet each other in our fragile and hurting selves and discover to our delight and amazement that we are not that much different after all. He admires the gifts that I hide from myself, and vice versa. Over the decades, he has generously and selflessly poured out his life in the service of others, often at great cost to those who are closest to him and always at great cost to himself. His life has been a sacrifice that has enhanced and sanctified all who have touched the hem of his garment.

Finally, there is my good friend Mr. Glen Livet. Mr. Livet boasts an ancestor, Mr. George Smith, who lived in a secluded valley in Scotland. It’s an isolated place, and just as well because Glen’s ancestor George was in the illegal distillation trade. When the legislation changed, George did the right thing and acquired a licence and the company. In his chatter, I have always found Mr. Livet balanced and nuanced. To engage and indulge him in an encounter is an experience that is both indescribable and unforgettable. He also has a distinctive type of aftershave which I can only describe as having traces of almond and spice. A talented musician he can produce alluring melodies with sweet velvety notes which leave you glowing and relaxed. He has always fired my imagination and warmed the cockles of my heart.

Time to fess up.

When I first wrote this homily, the other two “Glens” were actually Mr. Glen Morangie and Mr. Glen Fiddich.

I was going to make the point that all three are fine whisky, all are expensive, all are flavoursome and yet each is unique and distinctive, which makes it a fun but flimsy parable for the Trinity. It was a frivolous homily indeed, and at the very least, you deserve an attempt to do better.

So I decided instead to talk about Glen the Gardner, a type of God, the creator Father, Glen the priest, a parable for THE priest, and I selfishly kept Glen the distiller for the Holy Spirit.

None is better than the other. Each has its own unique quality, but they are not identical. They are never in competition with each other, just as members of the Trinity are never in competition with each other, for the Trinity is of such love that it can never be divided.

But like all images, it can never describe who God is, for God is completely ‘other’. We can go a part of the way, but never all the way.

For example you can never have too much God, but you can have too much whisky. There is a significant cost when you buy whisky, but God’s grace is free and you can probably think of other ways in which my little images must inevitably fall over under the weight of necessary logic.

This homily may not have taught you much about the theological academic intricacies of  God. But that is not the most exciting or the best bit about God. The most intoxicating part about God is just getting to know him, enjoying him and savouring him.

So perhaps you might forget everything I’ve said and just grab a glass and do the obvious and the wonderful.