There’s a reason most people hate doing their taxes. It’s not just the numbers—it’s the code. The rules. The exceptions to the rules. The forms you didn’t know you needed, the ones you filled out wrong, the questions you didn’t understand, the boxes you checked that now feel suspicious.
The tax code.
I remember deciding one year to do my taxes myself. The year before, I had gone to an accountant who specializes in clergy taxes. She knew the ins and outs—housing allowance, self-employment rules, all of it. I sat across from her and watched her fill everything out on a screen, line by line, calmly and quickly. I thought: that looks easy enough.
A few weeks later, I got my return from the IRS and a bill from her. That’s when I thought: next year, I’ll handle this myself. Save a little money. How hard can it be?
Next year rolls around. I get out my laptop and open up TurboTax. Answer the questions. Type in the numbers. Submit. A few days later, the results come in: over $7000 refunded.
I felt like a genius. I gave $800 to the church. I gave my grandma $500. I bought a new TV. I still had money left over.
Then I mentioned my big refund to a colleague. He sounded caution. “Sounds like you didn’t pay your Social Security tax.
So I emailed the accountant. She looked at my return and told me what I didn’t want to hear: I had misreported. I hadn’t paid my clergy self-employment tax. I had actually gotten my Social Security taxes refunded. That $7000 wasn’t really mine. I owed it back—plus interest and penalties.
All because of a complicated tax code…and, to be honest, because of my stubborn unwillingness to pay someone smarter than me—my arrogance. I thought I could handle it. But I didn’t really understand it. And it cost me.
That’s how a lot of us feel about the Trinity. Not stubborn unwillingness to engage it, but in over our heads when we try to understand it. We don’t understand it, even if we pretend to, or are arrogant enough to say we do. It’s precisely when we do say we understand it that we’re hoisted by our own petard!
We confess it. We say the words: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We know it’s important. It shows up in the creeds, in baptism, in the blessing at the end of worship. But when it comes to really grasping it—really understanding how three can be one, how one can be three, how this isn’t just divine math—we’re left nodding along, smiling politely, and wondering deep down: do I even get this?
It feels like a system we’re supposed to accept, but not understand. Something lofty, complicated—maybe even out of reach.
But here’s the truth: the Trinity isn’t a code to crack. It’s not a formula, a riddle, or a trap. The Trinity is the living God—showing us just how deep, how broad, how personal divine love really is.
When we talk about the Trinity, we aren’t talking about something God hides from us. We’re talking about something God shows us. Not all at once, not in a textbook, not in spreadsheets or formulas or schedules to fill out—but across time, across Scripture, and most importantly, across the life of Jesus.
Think of it like this. The Trinity is how we name the full story of God’s love: the Father who creates and calls, the Son who redeems and reveals, the Holy Spirit who animates and abides.
We don’t believe in a God who stays far off, inaccessible and cold. We believe in a God who meets us in relationship, who chooses to be known, who acts—again and again—for the sake of love.
The Trinity isn’t static. It’s movement. It’s mission. It’s God, in three persons, working for you.
The Father doesn’t just exist. The Father speaks light into darkness. Orders chaos. Breathes life into dust. Calls a people. Sends a promise.
The Son doesn’t just show up. The Son is born into our flesh. Heals the sick. Embraces outcasts. Carries the cross. Defeats death. Jesus is God among us—God with dirt on his feet and love in his eyes. For us and for our salvation he comes down from heaven…
And the Holy Spirit isn’t just a wind. She’s breath in our lungs. Flame in our hearts. The Spirit stirs the church, comforts the weary, convicts the proud, and reminds us—over and over—that we are beloved, and we are not alone.
One God.
Three persons.
Not a puzzle. A presence. A pulse. A relationship.
If we’re looking for a code to solve, we’ll miss the point. But if we’re looking for a God who shows up, who saves, who stays—then we find ourselves face to face with the Trinity.
You don’t have to understand all the paperwork. You don’t have to know how to diagram divine nature. You don’t need a degree in theology to live in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
You really just need to know this: The Creator made you. And not just once, a long time ago, but every morning when the light comes through the windows and your lungs fill with breath. When you sit down at the kitchen table and drink the coffee you like just the way you like it, that’s the Creator still providing. When your spouse of 40 or 50 years is sitting beside you at the doctor’s office, holding your hand—when your child calls to check in, even if they don’t say much—that’s the Creator sustaining the bonds that make life worth living. When you see tomatoes ripening in the garden, when a war ends, when your knees let you walk around the block without too much pain—that’s the hand of God in the ordinary. You’re not self-made. You’re not forgotten. God holds you like he did the first day he made the world—and he calls it good.
The Savior died for you. Not because you had it all together. But because you didn’t—and don’t. He gave himself for you when you were deep in grief, when the marriage fell apart, when you drank too much, when your kid broke your heart, when you said or did the thing you wish you could take back. He carried that burden, that guilt, that shame—not to scold you, but to free you. He’s the one who sat beside you in the hospital when no one else could visit. He’s the one who saw you crying in the car and didn’t turn away. He’s the one who whispered, “Peace. You’re mine. You’re still mine.” You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be his. And you are.
The Spirit dwells with you. She’s the voice in your head that nudged you to write that sympathy card even though it’s been months. She’s the quiet strength that let you care for your spouse in their final days—when you were exhausted, and no one saw what you were doing, but you did it anyway. She’s what brought you back to church after decades away—when you thought it wouldn’t matter, but it did. She’s the reason you forgave your sister after all those years. She’s the reason you said, “I’m sorry” when it would’ve been easier not to. She’s the hope behind the prayer shawls, the longing for a cure to the scourge of cancer. She’s not a feeling. She’s a force—gentle but strong. Comforting but persistent. And she hasn’t let you go—not once.
That’s not a code. That’s a promise. And it’s the promise that makes your life holy. It’s the name that was spoken over your baptism, the name you bear now, the name that binds the whole church, each and every Christian, each and every disciple called to follow in the footsteps of Jesus—that name that binds us together.
So when you see the Trinity—don’t step back in confusion. Step forward in trust. The Trinity isn’t a riddle. The Trinity isn’t a trick. The Trinity isn’t a convoluted code that needs breaking to understand in order to live and enjoy its benefits. The Trinity is God’s own self. The Trinity is love—for God is love. And that is sufficient for us.
Because the Trinity isn’t an idea we invented.
It’s the love that invented us.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 