Christ is risen! [Indeed, he is risen!] Christos anesti! [Alithos anesti!] Hristos a-nviat! [Adevarat a-nviat!] Al-Massih qam! [Haqqan qam!] Christos voskrese! [Voistinu voskrese!] Surrexit Christus! [Vere surrexit!] Cristo e risorto! [E veramente risorto!] Christus ist auferstanden! [Er ist wahrhaftig auferstanden!]

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This is the last of our Sundays before Ascension Thursday, the Sunday in which we read the story of the man who was born blind. This story contains central Johannine themes: the light shining in the darkness; the darkness that resists it, cannot comprehend the light; the opposition to Jesus as the Word and Son of God. Those who read the Gospel of John closely observe that this takes place in his description of the feast of Sukkoth, the feast of tabernacles, a feast day which folks in this parish observed pretty strenuously—didn’t they, Stephen? Back in the old days? I remember going over to visit my daughter and her family down on Kolin many years ago, and Dennis had this nice sukkah in the backyard—oh, that was on the porch. That’s right; it was on the porch.

One of the rituals that’s still associated with the feast of Sukkoth is the use made of the pool of Shiloam. During the course of that feast, the high priest went to the pool of Shiloam with a jug, and he filled the jug with the water from the pool of Shiloam, and went and poured the water over the altar of oblation as a sort of a libation, as an offering to God. This pool is very much in evidence in today’s gospel.

Likewise, there are similarities with last Sunday’s stories of the woman at the well. For example, there’s a progressive Christology. She starts by saying, “Jew,” then, “Sir”: “How do you, a Jew, talk to me, a Samaritan woman?” Eventually, he’s a “prophet,” and finally at the end of the gospel, he’s “the Savior of the world.” And today this man starts out with “the man, Jesus,” and he ends up with Jesus as “Messiah” and “Son of God.” And both stories end, at least as we proclaim them in the church, they end in the theophanic revelation and confession of faith. Today’s story is much longer, but we only read it up to that point.

Let me make three points with you today. These three points will be three aspects of philosophy. First, epistemology, which means the study of what we know and how we know it. Secondly, anthropology, which is the study of the human being, anthropology. And the third, which tends not to be included in philosophy courses, alas, and that is history. I was mentioning to somebody last week that I thought the loss of a true humanism was the day back in the 19th century when they shifted history out of literature and put it into social sciences. I’m not sure there is such a thing as social sciences, because I’m not sure you can say that it is subject to scientific laws. I’m not at all convinced on that. But to study history in social sciences is something like studying the trumpet in connection with the steam engine. They both tend to make similar noises, but we wouldn’t think that would be right. I don’ think history belongs in the social sciences at all; I believe it belongs in literature and philosophy—but that’s not in the gospel, by the way; that’s just my opinion. [Laughter] But the third point will be history.

First, let’s talk about epistemology: what we know and how we know it. A major feature of evangelism is this: We testify to facts that we know. If your evangelism is less than that, then don’t bother to evangelize. Don’t bother to evangelize. Certain people should not evangelize. Several people I’ve told in the course of my ministry, “Stop talking to your friends about Jesus! Stop it! Because you’re the kind of person that makes Jesus look bad and sound bad. Don’t talk about Jesus. Keep it to yourself until you iron out some of your problems.” A major feature of evangelism is we testify to facts.

Today’s gospel, beloved, is a story about a trial. It’s full of forensic vocabulary. The English translation we use today disguises that. Words like “subpoena,” for example, don’t get translated literally as “subpoena”; it’s “summons” or something like that. “Subpoena, cross-examination”: all these words appear in the Greek. It’s the story of a trial in which there is special emphasis on the testimony and examination of witnesses. In today’s story, a court is in session, and the one on trial is Jesus. Jesus has violated the sabbath, because he made a plaster, mixed his spittle with mud and he made a plaster. I don’t think he made very much plaster, just enough to put in the eyes, but he made a plaster, something that is forbidden in the Mishnah. He made a plaster.

So the former blind man and his parents are subpoenaed to the Sanhedrin, called as witnesses. Now, the parents, you’ll notice, plead the fifth. “We know this is our son. We know he was born blind. But we don’t know anything else, and we’re not going to incriminate ourselves.” They plead the fifth. The son is indicted for contempt of court. That’s a marvellous dialogue back and forth, between the man born blind and the accusers of Jesus. Now, this is remarkable. “You don’t know where he’s from and ‘he gave me sight.’ ” This is remarkable. “Why do you keep asking me? Maybe you want to become his disciples?” Can you imagine anybody talking back to a judge that way? [Laughter]

In this story, there are two forms of epistemology in play. The prosecution is using an a priori, an argument from principle. What is an argument from principle? Well, if a witness comes forward and they ask him, “Where was the accused hiding?” and he says, “In a corner,” it’s proper for the cross-examination to point out that the room was round; there are no corners in the room. That’s an argument in principle. There are no corners in a room if it’s round. This is called an argument a priori which means there’s something logical about it. This a priori includes the detection of a logical contradiction.

Notice this morning that there are two implicit syllogisms in use. First syllogism, major: All violators of the Torah are sinners. Major. Minor: Jesus violated the Torah. Ergo, Jesus is a sinner. It’s a classical AII syllogism, perfectly valid, absolutely valid, iron-clad valid. Second syllogism, major: No sinner works miracles. Minor: Jesus is a sinner. (We just proved it.) Ergo, Jesus cannot work miracles. It’s a classical EOO syllogism. These are perfectly valid syllogisms. They’re iron-clad. There’s no escaping the logic. Therefore, this witness is lying! He either was not born blind, and if he was born blind, Jesus could not have healed him. The argument is perfectly valid, the prosecution rests its case, Jesus is guilty, and the blind man has committed perjury. He is expelled from the courtroom; a charge of perjury will be filed a new date by the state’s attorney.

Now, what’s the argument for the defense? If you notice, you read it closely, that’s exactly what’s going on in this discussion. In fact, the word John uses there is schisma. There was a schisma. I think you know the word “schism”: schisma. Notice that that word’s an onomotopoeia. [Noise] It’s Greek: schizo. [Noise] Rip apart! Schisma. It’s a rip in the courtroom.

The argument used by the defense is an a posteriori argument. It’s an argument from evidence. See, I cannot prove, logically, that there is a law of gravity. I can’t prove that, but I can keep testing the theory by throwing a series of things off the top of the Sears Tower. After a while, you start to get the picture. Here’s the argument: “I don’t know whether this man is a sinner or not. One thing I know: whereas I was blind, now I see.” It’s a fact. See, Christians testify to facts. Jesus does not need character witnesses in this world. He needs martyrs. The word “martyr” in Greek means somebody who bears testimony.

What has been, arguably, the best Christian witness in the last few years in this world? An organization called ISIS has brought out the best in the Christian faith. In these villages all over Iraq and Syria, wherever ISIS takes over in these villages, the first thing they do is behead the children, crucify people, ride them around on crosses on trucks. You’ve all seen the pictures of the Coptic martyrs—there’s 20-some—being marched out. Then an ISIS guard, completely hidden, the powers of darkness just show the power of darkness. These men walked out to die, calling on the name of Jesus. That’s the best witness. I mean, that really is what witness means, a martyria, a testimony. These Christians are being persecuted and are perishing, because of their testimony to a fact.

When St. Elisabeth the New Martyr, the day after the assassination of the Romanov royal family, she herself was thrown down a mineshaft with several others. Thrown down a mineshaft, there to die slowly from her wounds and from hunger, and from several days, arising from that mineshaft, people heard a song that was over and over again being sung:

Let us who mystically represent the cherubim and sing the thrice-holy hymn to the life-creating Trinity, now lay aside all earthly cares, that we may receive the King of all, who comes invisibly upborne on the angelic hosts. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

And they heard that over and over again, the voice growing weaker. After a few days they didn’t hear it any more, because the King of glory had come forth, borne on the cherubim.

What is the project of the Johannine gospel? At the end of John’s gospel, he writes: “These things have been written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, and that, believing, you may have life in his name.” The martyrs whose passing I’ve just referenced, were possessed of a life that could not be taken away. Jesus told Martha, “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in me shall never die. He who lives and believes in me shall never die.” There’s a life within us that cannot be taken away. It’s not our physical life; it’s the life of God. It’s the life of the Word of God, of whom God says, “In him was life.” And the life was the light of men. And that’s what we see in this morning’s gospel: the life which is the light of men.

At the beginning of the gospel, Jesus sees somebody. That’s what it says. “Jesus saw a man born blind.” Jesus saw him. The man did not see Jesus. Everything starts with the life and the light of Jesus. Christians then prefer arguments from evidence, based on facts. This is really the argument that’s implied in St. Athanasius’s Life of St. Anthony. How do we know that Jesus is the Son of God? Athanasius says: Look at Anthony. Explain Anthony, please. Explain Anthony! That’s how we know Jesus is the Son of God: Explain Anthony. The fact is the resurrection of Christ. How do we know Jesus is Lord? Look at the lives of Christians. And if, when the world looks at the lives of us Christians, if they don’t see that Jesus is Lord, they are never going to see it. Think of the imperative that lays upon us. This is our martyria in the court of history.

Secondly this morning—and these will be briefer; I number my pages, and sometimes I’ve found that I’m on page eight and I’ve only finished point one, and I know I’m in trouble—the second point is anthropology. Anthropos, the Greek word meaning “human being.” It’s a masculine word; the word for “human being” in all languages is masculine. It’s a second-declension masculine noun, anthropos, o anthropos. [In all the psalms], it means human being, but it’s masculine. Chelovek means human being, but it’s masculine. The word “man” means “human being,” but it’s masculine. No problem about that unless you want to restructure the entire insight of all of history.

The anthropology in this morning’s gospel emerges during the cross-examination of the witness. “Who heals you?” There’s the question. “Who heals you?” And his answer: “Ho anthropos ho legomenos Iesus. The man who is called Jesus.” The man who was called Jesus; the human being who is called Jesus. The former blind man provided the basis for the Council of Chalcedon, which we’re going to celebrate next month. We celebrate Chalcedon always in July, just a couple of weeks before the feast of the Transfiguration. There’s a recent book about that, by the way, and I know all of you have that book…

The man, Jesus; the human being, Jesus. St. Paul speaks of that mystery in this way: There is one mediator (mesitis) between God and human beings: the human being, Jesus Christ. I’m sure glad he said that, because I know so many Christians who don’t believe it, or they believe it only in some sort of formal sense. I’ve seen some of the reviews of a book on that subject.

In the gospel of John, this expression, ho anthropos, has a special reference to the passion of Christ. When Jesus has been scourged and mocked and beaten and completely degradated, Pilate brings him out before the crowd, and what does he say? “Idou ho anthropos! Behold the man!” In other words, he’s not just a man, but he’s a man in his worst state. He’s a man suffering, he’s a man humiliated, a man killed. God’s Word became a human being, which means that he freely assumed all that pertains to our humanity, including our death. Now, this is the vocabulary of the New Testament, the vocabulary of the Church.

Our Creed does not say that God’s Son became human. Several years ago a translation committee, appointed by what was in those days called SCOBA, made a new translation of the Nicene Creed. My family had just joined the Orthodox Church. In that translation, that’s what it said in the Nicene Creed: “The Word became flesh and became human.” That’s what it said. And those translators were going to foist this upon the whole Church, until a recent convert to the Church wrote a 35-page review of that book, at the end of which I suggested not only that the SCOBA bishops reject it but that they also disband the committee who formed it. The next meeting, they rejected it and they disbanded the committee that formed it. I thought, “Well, maybe the Orthodox do listen to reason.”

The Creed does not say he became human. He became a human being, that that’s the sense of the Greek word I have no doubt because of the Latin. “Homo factus est.” He became human, became a human being. That is to say, the Word of God did not simply take on human characteristics; he took on a full human existence. The Council of Chalcedon in 451 says he became homoousios with us, became of one being with us. Homoousios, the same word used by Nicaea back in 325: he’s of one being with the Father. Chalcedon says he’s one being also with us. One with the Father, one with us: that’s how he makes himself the mediator.

The Word’s assumption of our humanity, beloved, gives a sacramental quality to human nature and gives a sacramental quality to all human beings. This, I believe, is the burden of the final story in Matthew 25 about the Last Judgment, where he assumes a brotherhood to every single human being. He assumes a brotherhood.

Third, let’s talk about history. Back in the old days—they’re old simply because I’m old—it was understood that the basis of all theology was grammar. If you did not understand grammar, you could not understand theology. You had to study grammar. So a great deal of attention, when I was coming through school, was placed on the learning of grammar. We had to learn how to parse sentences, for example, and things of this sort. That gradually disappeared from the educational system. By the time I was teaching philosophy, I could not presume even a scintilla of grammar in my students any more. It made it very difficult to teach—so I finally gave it up and became a priest.

I want to point out one little piece of grammar in this morning’s gospel. “While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Talk about that word “while”: during which. The Greek word hotan, “while.” That is a rich word. This simple subordinating conjunction carries the weight of a thesis. “While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” Let’s question the text on that. Is Jesus not always the light of the world? Is he not always the light of the world? Yes, but this is not the whole truth. He is also the light of the world in a restrictive and more defined sense. He is the light of the world in a special way during his earthly life, during that sequence of human life. He’s the light of the world there, during that anthropological sequence of human life, during this specific period covered by the narratives of the gospel.

We treat the gospel stories, therefore, as having a theophanic quality. This morning, when our deacon chanted the gospel to you, we all stood for the gospel, we crossed ourselves as he began to read them. We were about to have a theophanic experience. “These things,” says John, “were written that you may have life.” These stories are the source and foundation of our life. When the Gospel is read, even if you read it at home by yourself, Jesus is just as present as he was when the events themselves first took place. In John, the light shines in the world for a while. Jesus says to them, “You do not always have me.” In a special sense: “You do not always have me,” he says that. “The poor you have with you always, but you do not always have me.”

The light was in the world for a while, a period, a hotan. This was the short period of history around which all history revolves. This insertion into history of a specific lifetime, a particular while that gives redemption to every life. The whileness is a quality of every human life, and God’s Son and Word assumed this basic quality of human existence. Like every one of us, he appears in this world for a while. We are not permanent residents. And he assumed that impermanence that weighs upon us all, because we are in this world for just a while. The first inference to be drawn from that is: We are not God. And if we are not God, then everything is reversed.

A professor I had many years ago, a wonderful man, a Baptist, by the name of Penrose St. Amant, from New Orleans. I took a course in American literature and theology from Penrose St. Amant. I remember his remarking one day in a seminar; he said, “You know what the real crisis in life is? Suddenly to realize that you’re not God. You’re not God.” That was the crisis of Eve, wasn’t it? To realize that.

You’re here for a while—to see Jesus assume that experience. He’s here for just a while. Amen.