Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 5/31/2026
Ode to Ellen on Trinity Sunday, 31 May 2026
St. David’s Episcopal Church. Southfield, Mich
The Very Rev. Chris Yaw
There are easier Sundays to preach than this one.
Usually on Trinity Sunday the preacher stands up and tries to explain how God can somehow be one and three at the same time, and usually about 3 minutes into the sermon someone compares the Trinity to water, a shamrock, an egg, or a glass of beer - and somewhere deep in the soul of the Church, St. Augustine sighs heavily.
But today we have help.
Because today, as we remember and celebrate the life of Ellen Boyes, we remember someone whose life actually helps us understand what Trinity Sunday is trying to say.
The Trinity is not really a math problem.
It is a relationship.
It is a love story.
Christians believe God comes to us in more than one way because love itself comes to us in more than one way.
Sometimes love creates.
Sometimes love sacrifices.
Sometimes love sustains.
And if you knew Ellen, you know she somehow managed to do all three.
Our readings this morning are full of relationship.
In Genesis, God creates the world not with violence or force, but with delight.
Again and again God speaks creation into being and calls it good.
The stars, the seas, the birds, the creeping things, humanity itself.
God creates life that is meant to exist in connection.
And in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus sends the disciples out in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, reminding them that they are never alone:
“I am with you always.”
Then Paul closes his letter to the Corinthians with one of the loveliest blessings in all of scripture:
“The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.”
Grace.
Love.
Communion.
Relationship at the center of everything.
That is Trinity Sunday.
And honestly, that was Ellen too.
Genesis tells us that in the beginning, God brought order out of chaos, light out of darkness, life out of emptiness.
And in her own very St. David’s kind of way, Ellen spent her life doing exactly that.
She was here from the beginning.
As a child.
As a teenager.
As part of the youth group.
As one of those teenagers apparently causing enough trouble in the choir loft to occasionally get kicked out of worship altogether!
I would go into detail – but a few of her co-conspirators remain with us, whom I would like to spare the embarrassment…
Long before many of us arrived, Ellen was already here helping shape the soul of this parish.
That is what creators do.
They make spaces where life can flourish.
And Ellen did that constantly.
Some people occupy a church.
Other people build them.
Not just with bricks and budgets and committee meetings, though Lord knows Ellen did plenty of those too.
She served as Senior Warden four separate times, which honestly should probably come with a medal, a reserved parking space, and a therapist on retainer.
But what really made Ellen foundational was the way she created belonging.
She knew people.
She remembered people.
She remembered how they were connected, who they were related to, where they came from, what they loved, what they feared, and probably what they ordered at restaurants in 1997.
Ellen was a historian – both with her family and with her church family.
She remembered everything.
Names, relationships, stories, details.
And that is a holy thing.
Because remembering people is one of the deepest forms of love.
In a world where people increasingly feel anonymous, Ellen had this remarkable ability to make people feel seen.
Not managed.
Not processed.
Seen.
She had what I can only describe as a ministry of noticing.
She learned the names of parishioners, choir members, guest musicians, - and then, as she got sick, nurses, aides, doctors, transporters.
Even in the midst of her illness, she was still connecting, still caring, still building relationships.
That kind of presence changes a community.
Over time, it becomes woven into the walls.
And speaking of walls, there is almost not a square inch of this building that Ellen did not somehow help renew.
The kitchen.
The restrooms.
The boiler room.
The choir room that now bears her name.
You can walk through this church physically and practically trace Ellen’s love from room to room.
One of my favorite memories is from after my sabbatical.
Ellen refused to let me enter the building until she arrived.
Which, honestly, was slightly alarming – after a 3-month absence and I could not enter the building because apparently Ellen had done something…
She showed up, practically blindfolded me, walked me into the building, and revealed the newly renovated kitchen herself.
And it was spectacular.
Which feels exactly right.
Part hospitality.
Part construction supervisor.
Part joyful conspirator.
That was Ellen.
And that too is part of what Christians mean when we talk about God the Creator.
Not simply making things.
Renewing things.
Beautifying things.
Making room for people.
Turning spaces into places where life and joy can happen.
But Trinity Sunday also points us to Jesus, the Redeemer, the one who shows us sacrificial love.
Not abstract love.
Not sentimental love.
Useful, self-giving, difficult love.
The kind of love that shows up when it’s not comfortable or convenient.
Ellen understood that kind of love deeply.
She joined ministries not because they were glamorous or exciting, but because somebody needed to do them.
Choir.
Bell choir.
Fundraisers.
Altar guild.
The plarn ministry weaving sleeping mats for people experiencing homelessness.
She didn’t seem especially concerned with whether something was prestigious.
She cared whether it mattered.
And honestly, that may be one of the purest forms of Christian discipleship there is.
I still remember her showing up to help at a Haiti fundraiser with a broken leg.
Most people would have interpreted that as a sign from God to stay home.
Ellen apparently interpreted it as nothing more than a logistical complication.
Because if there was work to be done for the church, she was coming.
That kind of devotion can seem extraordinary, but I suspect to Ellen it probably felt normal.
That is the funny thing about saints.
The holiest people are often the least aware of how unusual they are.
They simply develop habits of love over decades until service becomes second nature.
And that kind of sacrificial love is contagious.
It forms communities.
It teaches the rest of us how to live.
Which brings us to the Holy Spirit.
The Spirit is God’s continuing presence among us.
The comforter.
The guide.
The holy whisper reminding us that love is stronger than despair.
The Spirit is what keeps the Church alive across generations.
And honestly, Ellen’s spirit moves through this place in much the same way.
Not as a ghost.
Not as nostalgia.
But as influence.
As momentum.
As the accumulated force of decades of kindness.
There are people in this room who learned how to welcome others because Ellen welcomed them first.
There are people who learned how to serve, because Ellen showed them how.
There are people who learned how to laugh in church because Ellen reminded us that joy is not the opposite of holiness:
Joy is one of its clearest signs.
We all know her insatiable cheer, her laugh, her endless phone calls, and if you were close enough to her you also knew about her nieces and nephews -
What sport were they in? What class were they taking? What city were they working in?
Justin, I’m not the only one in this room who has one of your t-shirts -
And Morgan, I’m not the only one in here who knows that Ellen would set her alarm for the middle of the night just to talk to you on your 2-am car ride home in Kentucky.
We know about the birthday songs – your accolades and your break-ups – and none of you are surprised to hear that!
Why? Because you brought her such joy – joy that spread far beyond her own family.
Because Ellen had a way of turning strangers into cousins.
She called herself “Aunt Ellen” everywhere she went.
To friends, acquaintances, waitstaff, people at the doctor’s office.
Which is honestly both hilarious and deeply theological.
Because that is what the Church is supposed to be.
A place where strangers become family.
A place where love stretches beyond bloodlines.
A place where people discover they belong to one another.
That is Trinity life.
The Trinity tells us that relationship is not something God does occasionally.
Relationship is who God is.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit existing in eternal love, eternal communion, eternal self-giving.
And because we are made in the image of that God, we become most fully ourselves when we live in loving relationship too.
That is why a person like Ellen matters so much.
Because she reminds us what a life shaped by communion actually looks like.
Not perfection.
Not celebrity.
Not power.
Presence.
Service.
Joy.
Faithfulness.
Connection.
The older I get, the more I think holiness often looks less like dramatic spiritual achievement and more like becoming the kind of person others are grateful was there.
And Ellen was deeply, profoundly there.
For decades.
Through ordinary Sundays.
Holy Week Choir rehearsals.
Comedy Castle Fundraisers.
Vestry Meetings.
Flat Roof Renovations.
Zoom calls.
Hear to heart conversations.
And of course – always punctuated with laughter.
All those little acts that slowly become a life.
And now this church bears her imprint because she gave herself to it so fully.
For that we have eternal thanks.#
So on Trinity Sunday we remember that God is bigger than any one image, any one role, any one moment.
Creator.
Redeemer.
Sustainer.
And today, we give thanks for the many ways Ellen reflected that same holy love among us.
She helped create this community.
She sacrificed herself for this community.
And even now, she continues to sustain this community through the life she poured into it.
And maybe that is why Jesus ends the Gospel not with an explanation, but with a promise:
“I am with you always.”
Always.
In songs still sung.
In rooms renewed.
In stories retold.
In habits of kindness passed down.
In communities shaped by decades of devotion.
The love of God does not disappear.
It echoes.
And thanks be to God, so does Ellen.
Amen.