“Things are seldom what they seem,” cheerfully sings Buttercup, in Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta H. M. S. Pinafore. That’s my theme song too on this Trinity Sunday as I contemplate a mystery that has caused untold theological speculation over the ages.

Contemplation: that’s the best I can do, since I am not a theologian, but rather a teacher of literature. And so it is that instead of analyzing definitions, I like to look beneath the surface, to catch a glimpse of metaphors lurking in unexpected places, symbols dancing on the edges of words. I love the double-sidedness of parables, in which the story on the surface hides the lesson underneath.

Perhaps that is why I also love origami, the art of making something out of nothing, of taking a flat piece of paper and creating a three-dimensional figure. Just an ordinary piece of paper—it’s nothing, really;

only . . .

it once was part of a living tree

bearing fruit in the sunlight and air

cradling in its arms the nests of birds,

digging its roots into the dust of the earth

that God the Creator breathed life into.

Just an ordinary piece of paper, with the mystery of the universe pressed into a single sheet. Talk about infinite variety. Look at the texture, the creaminess of real rag stock; the gently ruffled pages of old books. Look at the translucency of rice paper or the unassuming smoothness of plain stock.

And then, consider what that sheet becomes. Celtic monks in their austere cells on Iona put pen to paper, celebrating the Gospels with letters that curled around themselves into fantastic shapes and designs. They penned the precious Word with care and beauty, overlaying rich reds and greens and blues with gold leaf. And so from the dust breathed on by God’s Spirit comes the tree, comes the paper, comes the Book of Kells.

Things are seldom what they seem.

Last week, someone showed me a lovingly preserved family notebook, frayed at the edges—just an unassuming notebook, just a riffle of old paper. But look at it closely, and through the elegant penmanship, through the stories recounted in that small, bound volume, a wonderfully courageous and gracious ancestor takes shape. Holding that paper, tracing that penmanship, you can see her, you can know her.

Things really are seldom what they seem. This piece of paper, for instance; inexpensive, absolutely flat, a neat square—it’s a notepad; it’s a coaster for a dripping cup of coffee; tucked in a volume, it’s a bookmark.

But—fold it; and it’s still square, but there’s more about it than meets the eye Give it a few more twists, turn it inside out—something that no self-respecting flat piece of paper would ever contemplate on its own—give it wings, blow life into it—and—behold! A Crane.

There are many “flat” things, “flat” places that the spirit of creation transforms utterly. How do we describe that experience, that mystery of transformation? Eventually, words fail. Dante, in his great work La Divina Commedia, comes face to face with God and says at the end,

But oh how much my words miss my conception,

. . . Yet , as I wished, the truth I wished for came

cleaving my mind in a great flash of light.. . .

already I could feel my being turned—

instinct and intellect balanced equally

as in a wheel whose motion nothing jars—

by the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

It is the great flash of light, the turning of one’s being that counts; it is being moved with the sun and the stars by Love itself.

And that, dear friends, leaves me speechless too. I, who have worked with words all my life, am in need of a hot, live coal to touch my lips, am in need of a guide, a Comforter, the Holy Spirit, to help me bear the truth, to help me grow into God’s Love.

To help me understand that things are really not what they seem. What seems to be flat, like an ordinary piece of paper, may have many layers. The unity is the trinity; God’s Word became flesh; and Love came down to us in the form of a tiny, naked baby born to an obscure village girl.

Came down to us as a carpenter, as an itinerant preacher, as one who offended the rich and powerful, who walked the earth and cured the incurable, fed the hungry, comforted the poor.

God came down to us as flesh and blood, and His Spirit is with us still. And for us, today, this Trinity Sunday, what does that mean?

I think that to God we are like paper

and no matter how creased we become,

no matter what we are made of,

we are taken and shaped and recreated,

given wings, given the breath of life;

And that is sometimes hard to bear.

When His hot coal touches our lips,

and His Spirit makes our heart sing out, “Here I am—send me!”

What do we say “yes” to?

Just an ordinary person

touched by God’s word

can change the world,

can feed the hungry,

house the  homeless,

comfort the sick.

Just an ordinary person

hearing the Spirit of Truth

is transformed by the hand of Love—

reshaped

turned inside out

given wings, given the breath of life.

Just an ordinary person, flesh and blood, filled with the Holy Spirit.

And where that spirit is, is the very Christ Himself, is God Himself.

Amen.