Rublev's Philoxenia
Texts: Genesis 1.1-2.4; Psalm 8; 2 Corinthians 13.11-13; Matthew
28.16-20
Today is Trinity Sunday, and that excites me a great deal. You
may find that surprising. To the modern heart and mind, and even
those of Christians, the Trinity can sound like an anachronistic
formula from the mystical and magical past. One might fairly ask
questions about both the intellectual integrity and the social
relevance of the doctrine. Does the idea that the one God is
really three make any sense? And even if it did make sense, what
difference would that make to anything important? Would it stop
the bloodshed in the Sudan, for example? Or cancel the debts of
the 2/3rds world?
I could spend the next fifteen minutes trying to answer those
questions. I could tell you that theologians of every
confessional standpoint have rehabilitated the Trinity as perhaps the
most important of Christian symbols, a symbol which mirrors and
represents the whole history of God's identity and mission. I
could tell how the post-modern imagination has been drawn to the
Trinity as a quintessential icon of the reality in which we live,
composed as it is of that splendid interplay between identity and
difference. I could tell you how political and liberation
theologians have found in the Trinity a model for re-making both church
and world in the image of a God who is, first of all, an egalitarian
community of love . . . But I'm not going to go on with all
that. There's no need. Because it's all present in this
wonderful painting from 15th century Russia. It is all contained
in Andrei Rublev's marvellous icon, know as the Philoxenia.
(Download the icon here).
Why don't you look at it for a moment? Take your time. What
do you notice?
There are three figures in the painting, sitting at a round
table. Each wears a cloak and bears a staff, indicating that they
are resting a while in the midst of a long journey. The figures
have androgynous features, that is, we can't be certain if they are men
or women. But we do know that they represent the three persons of
the Trinity. The figure in the middle is Christ. He is looking to
the figure on the left, which is the Father; the Father appears to be
gazing at both Christ and the Spirit, who is the third figure; the
Spirit seems to be looking at both the Father and the chalice of wine
which sits in the middle of the table. There is only one cup of
wine, which is apparently being shared by all three. But if you
look carefully, you will notice that the shapes of the Father and the
Spirit form the silhouette of a larger chalice, which actually
surrounds and contains Christ. Finally, note that in the
background of the picture are three objects: a house or temple,
an oak three, and a mountain. You yourself, as you look at the
picture, are in the foreground.
What does all this mean? Many things, but I have time only to
mention a few. First, the seating arrangement of the three speaks
of an equality between them. There is none who is more important
than the others. There is none who sits at the head of the table,
because the table is round. God, you see, is more like a circle
than a pyramid. No one is the boss because all three are the
boss. They make their decisions together, and there is no room
for hierarchy or for lording it over another. Second, the three
gaze at each other as if they are in love. There is an uncanny
knowing between them which can only be described with words like
respect, deference, trust, hospitality, communion, peace. The
word communion is reinforced by their use of a single chalice of
wine. It is, of course, the Eucharistic cup, which stands for
love poured out by a profound sacrifice of the one for another.
This sign of Christ’s crucifixion therefore says that at the centre of
the relations between Father, Son and Spirit is a mutual self-giving
for the other, a laying down of life that the others might be made
alive. God, then, is a circle-dance of love where each is constantly
being enlivened by the sacrifice of another. In this view, God
continues to be God only by a never-ending movement of mutual
hospitality and giving.
Third, the painting invites its observers—that's you and me—to take our
place at the table with Father, Christ, and Spirit. There is a
space spare, and its shape is a chalice filled with Jesus. Here
Rublev, who is from the Orthodox tradition, wants us to understand that
we, too, may become part of the divine community: if only we will
accept the grace of God which overflows into the world in the shape of
Christ crucified; if only we will take the cup of sacrifice and receive
from it the renewing life of God; if only we will accept the
cruciform mission of the Trinity, to lay down our own lives for the
sake of another. The message is clear. We may all
become children of God if we will walk the way of the Christ; if, in
baptism, we are willing to put aside the life of self-aggrandizement,
and embrace a new existence controlled by Christ’s neighbour-directed
compassion and mercy. There's something in there, I think, about
changing the world, about becoming involved in a revolution of radical
hospitality. Perhaps if Christians were to take that seriously,
then the bloodshed in the Sudan could indeed be stopped . . .?
Perhaps we could put aside our differences as Roman or non-Roman
Christians, and share at the Eucharist together?
But what of those objects in the background of the icon? The
house of God, which is the church? The tree of life, which is at
the end of our journeys? The mountain of revelation, where we
meet the Lord and hear his word? Each is there to remind us
that God is forever present, to be encountered in any number of places
along the way. The trick is to make one's way with eyes and ears
open and expectant. Otherwise a house might just be a house, and
a tree just a tree, and a mountain just a mountain. It is the
life of daily prayer, prayer immersed in the stories of God in the
bible, which enables us to recognise God in all the business of
life. How is your prayer life going? Have anyone ever
taught you to pray?
Finally, Rublev's icon remind us of the Trinitarian form of that ritual
we call the Lord's Supper or Holy Communion. He wants to show us
that wherever or whenever the supper is taken, the Trinitarian God is
present and active in both church and world. Have you ever
noticed that the classical Communion prayer, sometimes known as the
Great Prayer of Thanksgiving, has three key elements? The first
is a prayer of thanksgiving to the Father-Creator (eucharistia) for
everything that he has done to save us from our sins and make us whole
once more. The second is a remembering of Christ (anamnesis) and
his sacrifice for the sake of the world. This part culminates in
the narrative of the last supper which Jesus shared with his
disciples. The final part invokes the creativity of the Holy
Spirit (epiclesis), to make real the presence of Christ in the bread
and wine, and make that presence real and effective in the mission and
discipleship of the people of God, who go out from the feast as the
newly constituted body of Christ.
A picture paints a thousand words. But I hope this icon will
inspire us to move beyond words and into an active communion with the
Trinity of love. Use it in prayer. Allow God to draw you
into the divine community, there to experience its grace and its
love. Allow God to send you out into the world, there to serve
the poor and despised as Christ did; there to make your sacrifices for
the sake of love and of peace.
Glory be to God - Earth-maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver - as in the
beginning, so now and for ever, world without end. Amen.
Garry
J. Deverell
Trinity Sunday 2005.
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