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

Well, beloved, we have had three times this morning in the story of the Transfiguration from the gospel of Luke at matins, and in the Divine Liturgy in the epistle to Peter and the gospel of Matthew. We’ve been hearing about the Transfiguration in all the hymnography, starting at vespers last night and through this morning. And we’re not finished with it yet. You’re going to be getting the Transfiguration at least for the next two hours—well, hour and 45 minutes.

This morning I want to consider this event with you, considering three apostolic verses. I’ll give them to you now. First: “His face became as bright as the sun.” Second: “And, looking up, they saw no one but Jesus only.” And three: “Then shall I know, even as I have been known.” Let’s concentrate our attention around those three verses.

“His face became as bright as the sun.” This is in Matthew. It did not appear—that phrase did not appear in Luke’s gospel in matins. “His face became as bright as the sun.” Now, among the very first things our parents tell us is this: Don’t look at the sun! Some of us, with an adventurous spirit—and that describes at least most little boys that I’ve met—the sun was a bit of a challenge. We were going to look at it! That sun wasn’t going to put anything over on us! We were going to look at it! And our mommies told us, “Don’t do it! It’s bad for you.”

When I was in high school—that’s a long, long time ago—among the authors to whom I was introduced was a man by the name of Gilbert Keith Chesterton, and especially I was taught to read Chesterton in a certain way. You begin, always begin, with the Father Brown stories. Now, that’s Gilbert Keith Chesterton’s Father Brown; it has nothing to do with that stupid TV show! The Fr. Brown on there is an abomination, and even worse is the character Flambeau.  Don’t watch that stupid show; it’ll misguide you. Read the five volumes of the Father Brown stories! You start with “The Blue Cross,” then “The [Secret Garden],” and keep going on and on and you’ll be hooked!

But in volume one of the Father Brown stories is the story called “The Eye of Apollo.” “The Eye of Apollo”! It’s about a cult in which one of the ascetical exercises is gradually to acquire the ability to stare at the sun. I won’t tell you the entire story, except I think I can tell you it involves falling down an elevator shaft, which is something you’re likely to do if you stare at the sun. Chesterton saw that the truth is so luminous we can only take so much of it. The truth is so luminous we only take so much of it.

There are those who believe that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I cannot think of a more dangerous idea!—because it dissolves beauty from truth, because if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then truth is in the mind of man: it’s subjective. That’s when you get all sorts of ideas about art theory and literature theory. Truth and beauty have to do with being, as does goodness. Truth is not a creation of our minds.

Come back to Pilate’s question to Jesus: “What is truth?” Normally if someone asked you, “What is truth?” he’s not the least bit interested in finding out your answer, because he thinks that it’s an unanswerable question—but it’s the wrong question, “What is truth?” And notice when Pilate asked Jesus this question, he turns immediately and walks away; he doesn’t wait for an answer. Jesus had already told the apostles, just earlier that night, “I am the way and the truth and the life.”

Now truth, beloved, is never known except in a revelation; it is not a by-product of logic. God save logic, but logic is no more than a tool. Logic is by no means among the higher operations of the mind; it’s among the lower operations of the mind. Logic by itself does not provide insight or perception. Logic tells us that certain things must be so; by itself it gives no perception that they are so.

I used to ask my philosophy students, “Does the addition of two and two give us four?” The normal answer I got was: “That’s what they’ve already told us.” They didn’t even have the powers of logic; they were just taking it on faith. Didn’t even have the powers of logic. Logic tells us that two plus two is four, so logic itself just gives us no perception of this. Let me take this with you in some detail: logic gives us no perception of mathematical truth even.

Please pay close attention to follow this: logic gives us no perception of the truth. The computer is completely equipped with logic. The laws and structure of valid syllogisms are directed simply to attaining valid assertions, but a valid assertion is not a perception. A computer can make a valid argument, but the computer knows nothing of truth, the truth that is goodness and beauty. Truth: the computer knows nothing about it! And I fear that one of the great dangers of contemporary education is to make our children’s minds work like computers. Now, that would be no mean blessing, because I’m afraid that otherwise they might not work at all! [Laughter] But the integrity of a syllogism, wonderful as it is, falls infinitely short of the luminous coherence of truth.

Among the thinkers over the centuries most insistent on this—and I have to tell you, I wasn’t even aware of that problem until I started teaching philosophy 30 years ago. The man who perhaps saw this clearest, at least expressed the insight clearest, was a Christian bishop of a very small town in north Africa, by the name of Augustine. The small town’s name was Hippo: St. Augustine of Hippo. Is he a good writer? Is he a sound writer? Three Ecumenical Councils said so! Three Ecumenical Councils said he was an Orthodox writer worthy to be followed. He distinguishes between the perception of a truth and the knowledge of a necessity. Two and two are four because they must be four; there’s no freedom in there at all. There’s a better truth. You see, the truth, it is not known from logic, the truth that is revealed to the conscience. If you want to know more about this, I recommend a wonderful book by Étienne Gilson, G-i-l-s-o-n: The Christian Philosophy of St. Augustine.

The symmetry of a theorem is something quite different from the symmetry of a face. Take mathematics. Mathematics, in fact, gives us a view into the very being of God. It’s not the best view, not the highest view. Although Franz Schubert certainly employed mathematics when he composed his String Quintet in C Major, the truth revealed in the Adagio movement of that work infinitely exceeds the structure of mathematics. If someone listens to that work and perceives that truth, I don’t care if he does not yet know the name of Christ; I will not give up hope for that man. I will not give up hope for that person. That means that there’s something in him of purity of heart. To listen with a pure heart to the sounds of Schubert’s strings is an experience on the order of mysticism.

During this past week, as I traveled to and from God’s country, that is to say, the state of Kentucky, there was a bunch of things I listened to: a lot of Purcell, for example; I listened to a great deal of Purcell. But when I was listening to Schubert, I had the feeling that Schubert was holding back, not saying all he could say. I felt he was giving us only as much as we were able to bear. Schubert declines, as it were, to overwhelm our senses with the dangerous rays of the sun. Sometimes it felt that way, looking at El Greco’s Crucifixion, or certain paintings of Caravaggio. The truth there is a very high order of truth.

To know the truth, beloved, in any form, is to receive a revelation. All truth, starting with the truth inherent in the order of creation, is a manifestation of the Logos, in whom and from whom all things hold their being. This is why Peter and the sons of Zebedee, when they beheld on the holy mountain, they were presented with the eternal light, the light of the Logos, the light that’s behind the light that says, “Let there be light.” This is why the transfigured Jesus is accompanied by Moses and Elijah, the two prophetic figures who had climbed Mount Horeb to arrive, with their faces veiled, in the presence of infinite Truth.

The face of Jesus, says Matthew today, became as bright as the sun, and only the mercy of God tempered the experience, as much as they were able to bear. What are we going to be looking at in heaven? In what does the joy of heaven consist? Gazing upon the transfigured face of Christ, and going from glory to glory, as much as we are able to bear. St. Gregory of Nyssa even speculates that the joy will keep increasing for all eternity, and there will never be a decrease; it would never be the same. The joy would just keep going from joy to joy—infinite joy! The joy of God for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.  And what is the pain of hell? Being deprived of that, never seeing that.

Point two: “And, looking up, they saw no one but Jesus only.” Now this is after the Transfiguration. They get back to plain old Jesus. He’s not plain, he’s not old, but it’s the earthly Jesus. The light of the sun is not clear any more. This is the Jesus in whose company the apostles spent their time and the Jesus in whose company we ourselves spend the days of our lives. He is our Companion: com-panion. Please look at that word, “companion.” What’s the central syllable? Pan. That’s not the Greek pan, by they way. Panis, which means bread. He’s our Companion. He is the One who sits at the table with us and shares the bread.

We had last week the story of the multiplication of the loaves. Jesus’ presence provides the bread that sustains our journey through life, and if we are fortunate on our deathbeds to receive his body and blood—and there’s a far better chance of you having that blessing than me, since you have a priest looking out for you—we’re going to call it the viaticum, the holy viaticum. Via is the way: it’s travel food. The holy viaticum: food for the via. Because God’s eternal Logos made flesh is the way, the truth, and the life. We fix our gaze on him.

Last week, I spoke about always clinging, adhering to the center, not the periphery. The center is the point of focus. What the Transfiguration does for us is bring things into focus. Let me come back to Simon Peter. Review in your minds the story of Peter walking on the water. “If it is you, Lord, bid me come to you, walking on the water.” If it is you: there’s this question of Christology. “If it is you, bid me come to you, walking on the water.” What does Jesus say? “Have at it.” Peter steps out of the boat and he places his foot firmly on a wave and begins to walk toward the Lord. And everything’s going just fine until when? He looks down and sees the water and says, “This can’t be happening.” See, faith is like that—this can’t be happening, but it is happening. He takes his eyes, for just a few seconds, off of Jesus, and begins to sink.

Come to Mary Magdalene at the tomb. The gospel says she saw Jesus standing there, but did not know that it was Jesus. Ah! She saw him, but did not recognize him. There’s another aspect of truth, another aspect of faith. He does not always appear to be transfigured. In fact, sometimes he does not appear to be Jesus at all! Sometimes he appears to be a poor man, a sick person; sometimes he does not appear to be Jesus at all. It’s still Jesus. For a believer, he is always present.

Now, he is always present, but notice this about the Jesus of the gospels. He does not elicit fear! He solicits faith. He does not elicit fear; he solicits faith. That’s why we put our complete trust in him, in life and in death. We all hope to die with his name on our lips. We have a much better chance of doing that if we live with his name on our lips. We draw near in confidence to him. Let me give you another way of saying the Jesus Prayer when you are disconsolate, when you’re discouraged, when you’re tempted to despair. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, I place my trust in thee!” Say that any time there’s darkness or fear or discouragement. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, I place my trust in thee!” We come with boldness, says the epistle to the Hebrews: parrhesia; we come with boldness to the throne of grace.

Third point. Third point is: “Then shall I know, even as I have been known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12, right? I noticed something recently, that in 1 Corinthians 13:12, Paul shifts from the plural to the singular verb. He had just written, previous verse, “We now see, blepomen”—first person plural: blepomen gar arti; we now see. Then in the next verse he shifts to the singular. When he shifts to the future, he shifts to the singular. Epignosomai: first person singular, “I shall know.” I shall know; epignosomai. Now, why this grammatical shift? Because Paul is speaking of a personal experience. “I shall know,” he says, “even as I have been known: epignosthen. I shall know even as I have been known.” For Paul, the experience of the Christian life is being known by Christ.

I told you before, at least on a former occasion, one day in Grand Rapids, I was having lunch with a very famous Jewish writer, and he was describing his experience to me. Like so many American Jews, he was raised in an atheistic household. Indeed, he was raised in a Marxist household. But he found in his 20s that his life was falling apart. Marxism produces a very, very bad economy. It produces an even worse psychology. He was raised without God, and his marriage fell apart—everything was disintegrating! But he remembered some things he had heard when he was a child. He even remembered some Hebrew from Hebrew school—a great blessing there. He started reciting the psalms.

He described this experience to me, an experience he had in his 20s for the first time in his life. He started praying the psalms, and he became aware that Someone was listening. That was conveyed in the psalms itself. He became aware that Someone was listening. He said, “You know, Pat, if he’d answered back, I would have checked myself into a psychiatric ward. He was not going to reveal himself that much, but revealed himself to the conscience as someone who was listening.” And this very devout Jew spoke about how his whole life was transformed. He gave up Marxism. He gave up his membership in a certain political party. Gave up a whole bunch of things, and concentrated entirely on God.

What does it mean to be in Christ? Let me take you to the epistle to the Galatians 4:9. What does it mean to be in Christ? Here’s what Paul says, and I’m just going to give you a phrase, not the whole sentence. “Now, knowing God,” he says, “knowing God, but more mallon, but more: being known by God.” There it is. Genosthentes: same verb, same form as we had in 1 Corinthians 13: being known by God.

You see, beloved, we know Christ because Christ first knows us: priority of grace. Indeed, we can know God only as he is knowing us. I’ll take you back to the word to Abraham in Genesis 17. The English text says, “Walk in my presence.” The Hebrew text says, “Walk before my face.” Now this, beloved, is the call placed on every man’s life: to walk under the direct gaze of God. And notice that in the gospels, every begins when Jesus sees people. It all begins not when people see Jesus, but when he sees them.

There’s a traffic jam at the gate of the little village of Nain. A funeral procession is coming out, and Jesus and his disciples are coming there. Read that incredible story from Luke 7. This traffic jam at the gate at Nain, narrow gate. Jesus—what breaks up the traffic jam? Jesus looks, and he sees the mother of the man who’s dead. Everything begins when Jesus sees. Jesus, when he walks through Jericho, he looks up, and he sees Zacchaeus in the tree. Jesus gazes at Peter, in the gospel of Luke, when the roosters crowed; Jesus turns and looks at Peter. It’s only in Luke: Jesus turns and looks at Peter. Jesus from the cross, says the gospels, looks down, and he sees his mother standing, and the disciple whom he loved. He sees this. It all begins when Jesus sees.

I will not ask for a show of hands this morning, but just answer this question in your heart: Do each of you want to see Jesus? Does your heart ache and long to see Jesus? Then know this: he is already looking at you. That’s the priority of grace. We do not start with man’s quest for God. C.S. Lewis says to talk about man’s quest for God is on the order of talking about the mouse’s search for the cat! The mouse is not searching for the cat; he’s trying to avoid the cat! When Adam and Eve were hiding in those bushes with their bare behinds hanging out, God comes down with a couple of fig leaves. They’re not looking for God; they’re trying to avoid him.

Humanity is not looking for God; humanity is trying to avoid him. We’ve got whole institutions set up for the avoidance of God. Much of modern education and almost all contemporary entertainment is set up for that purpose: to avoid God. But if anyone is truly seeking God, he should reflect seriously on this truth: God already has his focus on that person. I say this to everyone within the reach of my voice. If you are disconsolate, my words this morning are directed to anyone oppressed by sensations of despair. If you want to see Jesus, it is only because, at this moment, he is already gazing at you. Any time you’ve ever called upon his name, it’s because he was already calling forth your faith.

We don’t sing this song in the Orthodox Church—probably we shouldn’t—but let me remind you of the words. “Turn your eyes upon Jesus. Look full at his wonderful face.” Amen.