John 1 - Preacher's Commentary

The Divine Overture

John 1:1–18

Is there any way one can plumb the depths of John’s prologue to his Gospel? Such intense power in so few words! After brooding over the meaning of these short verses for months, I am more reluctant than ever to put my thoughts on paper. Yet, strangely, I am eager and compelled to do so. I can readily understand why both Augustine and Chrysostom are reported as saying, “It is beyond the power of man to speak as John does in his prologue.” John Calvin has written of the prologue, “Rather should we be satisfied with this heavenly oracle, knowing that it says much more than our minds can take in.”¹

Living with this prologue is like standing in the foothills of an awesome mountain range catching a breathtaking glimpse of massive, snowcapped peaks reaching up through the haze. Or it is like being overwhelmed by haunting melodies that introduce the themes of a mighty symphony. I had such a moment recently when I found myself being swept along by the sheer beauty and power of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony. I came to the concert tired and unexpectant, but left lifted and fulfilled. In the midst of this surprising, spiritual experience my eye caught the words in the program notes, “His [Shostakovich’s] symphonies combine somber tragedy, mordant wit, expressive melody, dramatic development and profound emotion, all under a brilliantly orchestrated surface.” I almost shouted, “Why, that could have been written about John’s prologue.”

John has caught the sweep and wonder of the history of salvation and shared it in hymnic form. All through the prologue he is setting forth the career of the Incarnate Word in simple, powerful phrases—“the light shining in the darkness,” “became flesh and dwelt among us,” “full of grace and truth,” “declaring the Father,” some “did not receive Him,” but others were “born of God.” The prologue is far more than an introduction to the Gospel. It is really a dramatic summary, a revelation, of all that will take place throughout the earthly ministry of our Lord.

But John cannot speak of His career without asking about its Source. When did the story of our salvation really begin? This drives him back to or into the heart of Reality. He must plumb the mystery of His Source if he is to make plain the identity and vocation of the Word dwelling among us. This is like discovering that the refreshing, healing water, which gives life to all around it, comes from a hidden, limitless spring in the bowels of the earth.

1:1-8

The Speech of God: Word and Logos

Eternal, Coexistent, Yet God (vv. 1–2). John begins with a disarmingly simple phrase, “In the beginning was the Word.” Here is the central theme, the grand motif, of the symphony which will come pouring forth with such glory throughout the Gospel narrative. The “Speech of God” John Calvin called it. What a wonder that God should speak. Here is a mystery, not unlike speech among us humans, that unique capacity to use signs and symbols, sounds and touch, and even silence, to communicate with one another.

Think of the power words have among us. It was said of John Knox, the fiery Scottish reformer, “When he preached his words were more powerful than ten thousand trumpets.” And who of us in this generation can forget Martin Luther King crying out in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial, “I have a dream”? Words can fulfill or hurt or bless. They can build up or tear down. There are those tender, healing, affirming words, “Welcome home.” “Congratulations, it’s a girl.” “I love you.” Or those angry, destructive, cutting words, “Divorce is granted.” “I hate you.” “She’s dead.” What meaning they carry—far more than mere sounds hanging in the air.

But when John speaks of “the Word,” he is taking us far beyond the meaning it has for us in general. He is a Hebrew speaking to his own people, and for them, the Word had unique power. For these people, there was a precious quality, a living reality, about words, so they were used sparingly. There were only ten thousand words in Hebrew speech and only two hundred thousand words in the Greek language. The Semitic root for “word,” dabar, also meant “thing,” “affair,” “event,” or “action.” A word spoken was a happening. Once it had been uttered, it could not be torn from the event that it evoked. Thus, when Isaac had blessed Jacob and then later discovered that Jacob had cleverly stolen his twin brother Esau’s birthright, he could not recall his words of blessing, even though Esau pleaded with his aged father to do this. The words had gone forth and the blessing stood (Gen. 27:32–38).

But when God spoke, that was a creative, awesome moment! Thus all creation was called into existence by the word of the Lord. “Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light” (Gen. 1:3). He also spoke at the climax of the creation event, “Then God said, ‘Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness… .‘ So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them” (Gen. 1:26–27).

So the Scripture celebrates over and over again the power of God’s creative Word.

For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven,

And do not return there,

But water the earth,

And make it bring forth and bud,

That it may give seed to the sower

And bread to the eater,

So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth;

It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall
prosper in the thing for which I sent it.

—Isaiah 55:10–11

It was this Word that had called Abraham to leave his familiar, safe surroundings for the insecurity of a far country to become the father of a mighty people. Generations later this same Word broke the shackles of Egyptian bondage and set Israel free to enter into their promised destiny. And in the ebb and flow of later history, the Word came again and again through the prophets— “Thus saith the Lord,” calling a wandering, whoring people back to their first love and vocation.

Little wonder then that when John wrote, “In the beginning was the Word,” he evoked a whole cluster of memories among his Hebrew readers and touched a nerve of understanding.

But John was also reaching out beyond his Hebrew countrymen to a vast Gentile audience dominated by Greek thought. William Barclay has pointed out that by A.D. 60 “there must have been a hundred thousand Greeks in the church for every Jew who was a Christian.”² And for this audience, the Word, for them Logos, was charged with a unique meaning.

As far back as 560 B.C., Heraclitus had asked if there was anything permanent and lasting in the flux of constant change that was all about. His answer was that the Logos, the Reason of God, controlled and guided this stream of change. Later the Stoics held that Logos was the “mind of God,” the eternal principle of order in the universe, that which makes the chaos of the world a cosmos. If John had begun his Gospel by declaring that the Messiah had come it would have had little, if any, meaning for the Greeks. It was the Logos that became the point of contact, and opened the door for a hearing of the Gospel.

So in using “the Word,” the Logos, John was speaking to both the Jewish and Greek worlds—those two widely divergent cultures. The Greeks were sophisticated, inquisitive, and philosophic; the Jews righteous, traditional, and struggling to be faithful to the Law. How amazing that John could share the Gospel narrative with these two cultures at the same time, using a single, simple concept that carried such profound meaning for both.

John understood and empathized with the Hellenistic world. He was aware of the nuances and subtleties of Greek thought and tried constantly to help his Greek audience understand the ways of the Jewish people that they might understand the Gospel more clearly. For example, in telling of Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman, he adds simply, “For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans” (John 4:9b), and thus helps his Greek readers understand how radical Jesus had been in reaching out toward this needy woman. All through the Gospel, John shares helpful insights for his Greek audience. Here is a true evangelist establishing rapport and trust. John did not try to force his Greek readers into an alien point of view, but rather sought to lead them into investigating seriously who Jesus was. This is why that simple invitation Jesus gave the first disciples, “Come and see,” is an opportunity for all readers to check out the evidence. How could the Logos and “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” be one and the same? Surely that kind of honest invitation would appeal to the Greek mind.

John, the writer, was the son of Zebedee, a fairly prosperous Galilean fisherman, through and through a Jew. Nourished on the Law and Prophets, all the Jewish customs and traditions had shaped John’s deepest inner life. There is no way he can shake off or dismiss those roots, nor should he. This is why his appeal to this Gentile audience is so remarkable. Adolf Schlatter has argued persuasively in Der Evangelist Johannes (1930) that “the writer thought in Semitic idiom while he wrote in Greek.”³

Those of us who are eager to be authentic witnesses have much to learn from John. We have been so domesticated and institutionalized within the ghetto of the religious establishment that we have been cut off and alienated from the very people we have been eager to reach. There is no way we can enter into honest dialogue with either the Hebrew or Greek of our day if we hide within our “churchly” groups using the “in” jargon of the initiated. How often I have heard, “Oh, I couldn’t show up there; I don’t know the right words,” or “I don’t have the right clothes,” or “If you only knew what terrible things I’ve done,” in response to an invitation to some church affair.

It is only when we are in a vulnerable, open posture, if we hear the disturbing questions of uprooted, secular man or understand the bankruptcy of his chaotic value system, that we can discover a language that is fresh and alive and true to the Gospel. That language can become a bridge and enter into the mind and heart of our confused, seeking, and often angry generation. How else can we share the Gospel story? John has done this. His Gospel is a passionate evangelistic confession, carefully written that “men may believe.” “The Word” is the cutting edge of that confession.

“In the beginning was the Word.” But what beginning? At creation? When light came and the chaos became cosmos? No, not that beginning, although John’s phrase surely comes from the Genesis account. There are words throughout the prologue that recall the creation event—life, light, darkness.

But John reaches back further and plunges deeper than the beginning of created existence. He is speaking of a new creation, of what God has done in His new dispensation, of salvation history, asking, “When did the story of Jesus really begin?” This takes us beyond our dependent, contingent world of space and time to the wonder and sweep of the “One who inhabits eternity.” Here we are brought to the Source, the Origin of all things, to the “root of the universe,” to use William Temple’s phrase. This is an eternal Gospel.

“The Word” of which John speaks is uncreated. There has never been a time when it was not. Here is existence beyond time, that which was when time and finite being began its course. So created existence can only be understood in the light of this uncreated Word.

But this Word does not dwell in lonely isolation. “And the Word was with God.” The literal translation could be “the Word was towards God.” The whole existence of the Word is oriented toward the Father and is in eternal, active communion with Him. The Word is in the presence of God, face to face with Him. This living intercourse is revealed in the words and deeds of Jesus throughout His earthly existence. “Then Jesus answered and said to them, ‘Most assuredly, I say to you, the Son can do nothing of Himself, but what He sees the Father do; for whatever He does, the Son also does in like manner’” (John 5:19). “‘Do you not believe that I am in the Father, and the Father in Me? The words that I speak to you I do not speak on My own authority; but the Father who dwells in Me does the works’” (John 14:10).

“The Word” and the Father are not identical, yet They are One. There is a creative fullness within God’s being, a wondrous unity, yet a rich diversity, revealed in all that He is and does. Early in Scripture this “mode of being,” this intimacy, is spoken of in the act of creation. “‘Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness’” (Gen. 1:26). It is as if a family decision is made within the very life of God. Little wonder then that the most common name for the Deity in Hebrew is Elohim, a plural form.

It is this reality, the Word being with God, that is the source of and power for all authentic Christian community. It is not worthwhile action projects, nor common goals, nor geographic or ethnic homogeneity, nor a particular theological language that holds us together as believers. Much of our so-called “Christian fellowship” has waded in a shallows of human effort and organization rather than swimming in the deeps of God’s reality. No, it is abiding in the intimate, loving relationship of the Word turned toward the Father that creates our life together.

Every healing of broken relationships within the body of believers is always a new acceptance of that reality. In recent months I have seen two churches, after twenty years of alienation and separation, set free to let God do His new thing through them when they finally dared come together to worship our wondrous God. This did not come to pass without pain and much searching of heart in both congregations. But who in those two congregations can ever forget the power and release that swept through the people that night as they sang the first hymn, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness”? The people reached out to greet one another, with joy and tears. They joined together in holy, cleansing prayer. I know, because I am the pastor of one of these churches. The good news of this healing moved out on the streets, and people wondered what happened. And there was a new openness to believe that the Father had sent the Son because there was new love among God’s people after all these years of misunderstanding and hurt.

“And the Word was God.” Here is the climactic statement in John’s speaking of the Word and God. All that can be said about God can be said about the Word. That Word partakes of the innermost being of God. It is only the One “who is in the bosom of the Father” who can declare Him.

John is saying far more than that “the Word was divine,” as Moffatt and Goodspeed and others have translated this phrase. That is to dilute the high Christology so evident throughout the whole of this Gospel. The believing cry of Thomas, “My Lord and my God,” when he met the risen Christ is but a later testimony of the true identity of the Word.

John came from a people who were fiercely monotheistic. Their faith in one holy living God was no academic affair; it was a life and death matter which no amount of social pressure or cruel persecution could stamp out. So the confession, “the Word was God,” was a startling affirmation of faith that could only be made by one who had accepted the invitation of Jesus to “come and see” and had ended up beholding His glory, which could only have been the glory of “the only begotten of the Father.” John had moved beyond the monotheism of the Law into the rich wonder of the Incarnate Word’s being very God.

Yet the Word is not identical to God. The Greek grammatical construction of this phrase underlines this. Ordinarily the definite article ho is used before Theos, God. Had John done so here, he would have been saying the Word is identical with God. But he says the Word was Theos, with no definite article. Thus the noun, God, almost becomes an adjective. So John is saying that the Word was of the very essence, the very character, of God, while not being identical with God.

“He was in the beginning with God.” John is an excellent teacher. So He continues to underline these crucial facts that are basic to the Gospel. The history of salvation is from eternity, and the intimate, loving relationship between God and the Word is at the heart of all that takes place—forever. This whole Gospel is really a beautiful illustration of that.

But here a new, beautiful fact is introduced. “He was in the beginning.” The Word is personal. We are not dealing with an “it” or an abstraction.

Salvation does not come in concepts, but through the Living Word, who is personal. God’s move toward us is wondrously human and understandable. This Gospel is an account of His intimate dealing with persons—Nicodemus, Mary of Magdala, a lad with loaves and fish, a woman at a well, and at the end, His mother whom He cares for from a cross—how deeply personal!

How desperately we cry out for that personal Word in the midst of TV sets, technological gimmicks, and religion that becomes slick and manipulative and marketable.

The Word that Creates (v. 3). Out of that amazing relationship—“the Word with God”—flowed creation. This is God’s work through His personal Word. God is the Source, but the Word is the living Agent, the Vehicle, through Whom He creates. Paul has clearly stated the same truth. “For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him” (Col. 1:16). This Word which has been hidden in the eternal sanctuary of God now is made known. “The Evangelist’s plan is to show that the Word of God came forth to outward action immediately from the creation of the world. For having previously been incomprehensible in His essence, He was then openly known by the effect of His power.”⁴ And Jesus testifies to this continuing “working” relationship throughout His earthly ministry. “But Jesus answered them, ‘My Father has been working until now, and I have been working’” (John 5:17).

Everything owes its existence to the Word. Not just the whole, but separately—the birds that are singing outside my window just now, the child happily skipping home from school, the vastness of the universe we are now attempting to explain—all these were made by Him. Throughout the Gospel, John often states a truth in negative terms as well as positive, as he does here: “without Him nothing was made that was made.” The form of the verb is the perfect tense. Here is the Word’s continuing creative activity in that which we see all around.

How wonderfully creation becomes the arena of God’s salvation. All through this Gospel, creation and salvation are intertwined. At the time of John’s writing there was a growing school of thought which insisted that all matter was inherently evil. Salvation then really became a denial of creation, a deliverance from all fleshly entanglements. Or at best, it meant a perfect God could approach creation only at a distance, through a series of downward steps or emanations by emissaries or angels, to avoid besmirching His perfection.

But this is a denial of a Gospel that is very earthy and fleshly. For, if God created “all things” through His personal Word and continues to communicate with this creation, then even a fallen, alienated creation is His and ultimately becomes the historical arena for His saving acts. The cross was really driven into the ground. Here He lays claim to His whole creation. There will be in the end not only a new heaven, but a new earth (Is. 65:17; Rev. 21:1).

In Him: Life and Light (vv. 4–5). Here John introduces the fresh, great theme of life in God’s unfolding song. This word “life,” zoe in Greek, is used thirty-five times in this Gospel and the word “to live” or “to have life,” zin, fifteen times. It is this uncreated, everlasting Life that both creates and redeems. Nothing can exist without that Life. Every leaf that comes forth after the long night of winter and every cry at birth and every step toward healing in a psychiatric ward is evidence of that Life.

But His Life also redeems, as an eternal gift, through His Word. Instead of life that merely goes on and on—how tedious that would be—His gift is a quality of existence that is secure in knowing that the Word is eternal. Here is peace and joy, power and love. “The life,” John called it. And Jesus spoke of this gift repeatedly. “‘I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly’” (John 10:10). “Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life” (John 6:54). “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).

This “life was the light of men.” At creation God said, “‘Let there be light’; and there was light” (Gen. 1:3). Out of the very life of God, light shines forth to dispel the chaos and darkness. That light is in man in a particular way. The Lord God has breathed into him His own breath of life. An intimate, personal act which sets man apart, making him uniquely responsible to his Maker. That breath is the source of reason, conscience, and the longing to love and worship—the light that makes us human.

But in that life there is also the light of salvation. The Word has come to give us life and open our eyes. As Jesus gave life to Lazarus (John 11) so He gave sight to the man born blind (John 9). He is the light of the world and whoever follows Him “shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life” (John 8:12).

Now we are suddenly and unexpectedly introduced to darkness, an alien force, the environment into which all men are born. It is a somber, negative theme, “light shines in the darkness.” The song now takes on the tragic dimension of struggle and hostility. If the light unmasks and reveals the darkness for what it is, then the darkness will not remain passive, but will fight back. It is the nature of darkness to try to quench the light. This darkness is never explained, but is accepted as a fact, a strong, but minor, theme in the total symphony. Here there is a change in the verb form, “the light shines,” indicating a continuous action. The light is constantly showing up the darkness for what it is—ignorance, unbelief, rebellion. This struggle is a constant, recurring theme throughout the Gospel. “For everyone practicing evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed” (3:20).

The darkness cannot “comprehend” or overcome the light. The light is always a mystery to darkness. There is a hardness, a stubborn rebellion, which makes it impossible for the darkness to understand or open up to the light. The Pharisees began by refusing to understand, thus their minds were darkened and their hearts were hardened. Finally their rejection of the light was ultimate, and they cried, “Crucify Him!”

But neither can the darkness overcome the light. That single penetrating shaft of light is more powerful than the utter blackness of rejection. Over and over again, this Gospel makes that clear. A simple act, stooping to wash the feet of the confused, worried disciples or a quiet word to a guilt-ridden adulterous woman, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more” (John 8:11), is mightier than the anger and violence of His enemies.

The Witness to That Light (vv. 6–8). In a moment we have moved from the vast stretches of eternity to a simple, solitary person in time. Here the earthiness, the humanity of the whole story begins at a particular place in history. The writer simply calls this witness John without designating him as the Prophet as do the synoptic Gospels. He evidently knew John well, for he had been one of his followers. The writer also must have had a deep sense of gratitude that John had introduced him to Jesus.

The writer was aware of John’s greatness—the last of the prophets, standing between the old and the new, a blazing, courageous spokesman calling men to repentance and righteousness. He refers to John’s being a baptizer only in passing, but emphasizes repeatedly his faithfulness as a witness, identifying and pointing to the One Who was Light and “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29).

But John the apostle is also keenly aware of the danger of followers clinging to a powerful figure like John the Baptist and making him the center of their focus. And there may have been a John the Baptist sect at the time this Gospel was written. At least the church in Ephesus had to contend with this. For when Paul asked the disciples there if they had received the Holy Spirit, their response was they had never heard of the Holy Spirit. “And he said to them, ‘Into what then were you baptized?’ So they said, ‘Into John’s baptism.’” After they heard the whole Gospel from Paul, they were then baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus (Acts 19:1–7). And the gifted preacher, Apollos, “spoke and taught accurately the things of the Lord, though he knew only the baptism of John” (Acts 18:25).

So John makes it clear throughout his writing that the Baptist stands in the shadow of Jesus. He is a witness to Him, but is in no way to be confused with the Christ. So the contrasts are made plain in the prologue. Jesus was “in the beginning.” John “came for a witness.” Jesus is “the Word.” John was “a man.” This Word was “with God.” John was “sent from God.” John is a witness to the Light, but is not the Light. In our time of super churches and ecclesiastical super stars with booking agents and all the rest, one wonders if the witness and the Light do not often become confused.

There is an awesome power in John’s mission. He has been sent from God, a great calling with divine credentials. He is to be a “witness,” another key word in this Gospel. The noun form of “witness” is used fourteen times and the verb form thirty-three times. There is a seriousness, a burden, in being a witness. He is committed all the way—even when doubts tear at him in prison—which finally means his head on a platter at Herod’s party. Here the aorist tense in the Greek is used for the verb “to bear witness,” which means he finished his work.

Do we understand what this means in the church? So often we are in the stands, but not on the playing field. We are an evangelical church, but not a witnessing church. In Hitler’s Germany, the “evangelical church” somehow survived by sticking to an emasculated gospel. But the “confessional church” made its costly declaration that Jesus was Lord even over der Führer, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer was executed, but not before he had written The Cost of Discipleship in which he made it so clear that there is always a costly grace in being a witness.

The end of John’s witness is that “all through him might believe.” The witness is to bring men to the place where they must decide, where they take a definite step of faith. And the witness comes that all may believe. How universal! The invitation is sent out to all creation. Water is turned into wine at a wedding; a cripple is told to pick up his bed and go home after thirty-eight years by the pool; a respectable member of the Council is told his only hope is to be born again; and the Samaritan woman with a bad reputation drinks of everlasting water and hurries away to let her village know whom she has met. All are included.

1:9-13

Rejected, but Also Received

The True Light (v. 9). The Light to which the witness points is the “true” or real Light. There is nothing unreal or shadowy about it. By contrast all other lights are imperfect, transitory, and flickering, only partial rays or reflections.

No man is destitute of the illumination of this light, for God has revealed something of Himself to all men. This is the common light of nature. Paul has also spoken of this light for all men. “For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead” (Rom. 1:20). While this light is universal, for “every man,” yet it is personal. Each one has this gift of light, however faint it may be.

Laurie is a friendly, twenty-four-year-old young lady who had been asked to serve as a ring bearer at the wedding of our son, Joel, and Jeanne Anne. She sat in the front pew with Jeanne Anne’s folks during the early part of the ceremony until I mentioned that a very special friend of Jeanne Anne’s would step forward with the rings. At this point she clapped joyously and with a broad grin gingerly moved forward with the rings.

Our son, Randy, the best man, stepped down to meet her. Then, proud as a peacock, she presented the rings for that part of the service. According to the script, she was then to go back down. But she was enjoying herself too much to leave now, standing there between the groom and the best man. So Randy gently and quite naturally put his arm over her shoulder and every once in awhile she would gently tap Joel and grin as if to say, “Don’t forget me. I’m still here.” Laurie brought an unexpected tenderness, a gift of grace, to the rest of the service, which most people now followed through tear-filled eyes.

Humanly speaking, Laurie is a badly retarded young lady, abused much of her early life. She is now a precious student of Jeanne Anne’s. Jeanne Anne lovingly teaches retarded adults. And having no one in the world to claim her, Laurie has spent much time at Jeanne Anne’s home. Can any one of us measure the gift of God-given light in Laurie that blessed us all that day?

This true Light is always coming into the world, continuously in action, never static, but alive and dynamic, penetrating all existence, surprising us under microscopes or in libraries, in the exploration of space or in the quiet, honest conversation of friends. And our restless search for further light, at whatever level, always leads us to Him—that personal, living Presence, always with us.

In the World, but Not Known (v. 10). “He was in the world.” The Light is with us. He has not paid us a fleeting visit, dropped in and then gone on. But stayed with us in this world which owes its existence to Him. So Professor Westcott has written, “The Word acts by his Presence as well as by His special Advent.”⁵

“And the world did not know Him.” Now there is a subtle shift in the use of “world.” It no longer means simply creation; now a sense of indifference, ignorance, and alienation is introduced. Specifically, man is addressed here rather than the whole of creation, including inanimate objects. John often uses “world” with this negative connotation throughout the Gospel. Here is the darkness and disobedience of mankind, a rebellion which affects the whole of the cosmos. This rebellion does not consist of isolated acts of ignorance and unbelief here and there, but an organized, cosmic unwillingness to recognize the Light. The music has become strange and dissonant.

So this rebellious world did not know Him. Not in that personal, believing, saving way, for it had chosen the darkness, not knowing Him.

Not Received by His Own (v. 11). This phrase brings us nearer home, and the tragedy deepens. Note how John moves in, becomes more personal, as He speaks of the coming of the Word. At first, the “Light was,” then “He was in the world,” and finally “He came to His own.” He did not come as an outsider, but as One Who belonged. The phrase “to His own” is the same one that is used in John 19:27, “And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home” when from the Cross, Jesus commits His mother to John.

He came to His own particular people and dwelled in their own land. These were a people who had been prepared for His coming for centuries. They had been schooled and taught through the law and the prophets and through God’s gracious acts of deliverance and provision. Surely these people would “receive” Him! The Greek word used for “receive” here is an intimate, relational word like that expressed when Joseph “took” Mary to be his wife in obedience to the command of the Lord (Matt. 1:24). But then He was not received by His own in that tender, loving way. Anything but!

For rather than welcoming Him, His people refused to understand Him, then became more and more suspicious, and finally rejected Him in blind anger, even accusing Him of being the child of a devil. Then they killed Him. All through the Gospel there are angry, suspicious accusations made by the very religious leaders who should have received Him with great joy.

But Some Receieved (vv. 12–13). However, there were some who received Him, who took that which was within reach. Those first eager disciples joined Him and remained with Him—Nicodemus making His cautious defense before the Council, then becoming His disciple; that stubbornly independent blind man, who after being healed refused to change his confession one iota, discovering that his Healer was the Son of God. What surprising acceptances!

And to these “He gave.” Here is God’s grace of giving. “The right” is the full authority to have one’s status changed to that exalted place of being adopted into the heavenly family. “To become children of God.” Incredibly, those who received Him shared His divine nature. Notice the plural—children. This is a community of those who share in God’s very nature.

These are the ones “who believe in His name.” In antiquity, the name given to someone was not the result of a casual choice, as it often is today, because the name revealed the person’s character. Thus, when God gives “His name” to His people, He graciously allows them to know who He is. “Let those also who love Your name be joyful in You” (Ps. 5:11).

Throughout the Gospel of John, the verb “believe” is emphasized as an activity, something men do. There is also the idea of possession in belief. When we believe, we yield ourselves up to be possessed by the One in whom we believe. The New English Bible makes this clear. “To those who have yielded him their allegiance, he gave the right to become children of God” (John 1:12, NEB).

Now John uses an earthy, highly suggestive word, “born.” There is a richness, a depth, in sharing in the nature of God—first “received,” then “believe,” and now “born.”

However, when John speaks of being “born of God,” he eliminates all possibility of this happening by human initiative or achievement. “Not of blood,” he says. The ancients held that the power of birth was in the intermingling of blood or bloods, the activity of life in the blood of the father and mother. But this is not the source of spiritual birth. Nor could this birth come through the Jewish blood line, even though there was a sense of pride among them in being a chosen people, the children of Abraham.

Neither is this birth by the “will of the flesh,” the sexual desire that comes out of our bodily constitution. This desire may often reveal our frailty and weakness, but also manifests the creative goodness of God. But no one can be “born of God” by the flesh.

Nor is this birth by the “will of man.” No human decision to be “born of God” can bring us into His family. Neither can man-centered planning or ingenuity or urgent attempts to “build the kingdom” produce a single divine birth.

No, this birth is a sheer miracle of God’s sovereign grace who gives birth to His own children. John has used a bold, earthy verb here to make unmistakably clear the unique meaning of being “born of God.” It is the sexual action of the male that begets children; likewise, we are born in response to God’s initiative.

Again there is the plural, “who were born.” While each birth is personal and unique, these children are of one family, members of a new community.

1:14-18

The Word Became Flesh

We Beheld His Glory (v. 14). Here is God’s greatest surprise. John now makes the bold, sweeping declaration that the “Word became flesh.” This is the major theme of the overture. A deepening intensity of movement throughout the prologue has finally brought us to this climax. The Word that was, the Word that was with God, and the Word that was God—that Word has become flesh.

John does not say He became man or even body, but “flesh”—a crude, blunt word for sophisticated Greeks who assumed that the body would eventually be cast aside. The living God has made His great, decisive move in coming among us in the flesh! Salvation did not come through “intermediaries” or “emanations” as the early Gnostic sect, the Docetists, insisted it must. To them, the humanity of Jesus was an illusion. He only “seemed” to have a real body. Thus, John answers them boldly, “And the Word became flesh.” In this act of incarnation, eternity and time, the divine and the human, salvation and creation, are reconciled. No longer can we divide the sacred and the secular. God has proclaimed His rightful ownership of all that He has created.

However, in becoming flesh, the Word did not cease to be God. There is a unity in His person before and after the Incarnation. He is divine. Yet He became flesh. By this act, He became subject to all the conditions of human existence—the weakness, dependence, and mortality which is our common lot. He was subject to temptation, and He could have sinned. His humanity is real and complete. All through this Gospel, we see both His human weakness and His divine majesty. The eternal Word and the Jesus of history are one. There is a mystery here beyond which we cannot go. Suffice it to say that our only hope of sharing in the life of God is that the Word has really become flesh.

A contemporary illustration of all this may well be found in that remarkable motion picture Chariots of Fire. How well I recall praising God when it was announced that this film had been chosen to receive the Academy Award as the “Best Picture of the Year” for 1981. Who would have thought that a book with the dry, unappealing title of The Official History of the Olympics could become the basis for a thrilling, sensitive film? But this was the only book David Puttnam, an imaginative British producer, could find while he was rummaging through the big, empty house he had just rented in Los Angeles. Something clicked in Puttnam when he came on the story of Eric Liddell, a gifted, dedicated Scottish runner, who had won the 400-meter gold medal in the 1924 Olympic games—a race in which he had never competed before. But this became his only opportunity to participate, after years of training, because he stubbornly refused to run trial heats for his regular 100-meter distance on a Sunday. He would not yield to any pressure, including requests from the Prince of Wales.

As Puttnam read of Liddell’s untarnished convictions, memories of his own childhood stirred—days of simpler values of right and wrong. Would people respond to this kind of a story on film? Well, it was worth a try.

He gathered a rather amazing assortment of people to finance, produce, and distribute this picture—Dodi Fayed, an Arab shipping magnate; Alan Ladd, Jr., son of the actor, Alan Ladd, Sr., and a film distributor; officials from Twentieth Century Fox and Warner Brothers; Colin Welland, the writer who had written the script for Straw Dogs; and a host of others. The picture was put together not to be a moral preachment, but because this was a good story to tell, and there was hope it might make some money.

Many of us know what happened. Running all through this “non-Christian” film was a shining integrity and the winsome beauty of a quiet Christian witness that struck a responsive chord deep in our seeking, secular society, so jaded by sex and violence on the screen. People lined up at theaters all across the country and left grateful because they had seen and heard the truth. Surely in some wondrous way, God had been at work in all this, right in the middle of an industry that multitudes of good people have written off as a hopeless cause. Dare we not believe that the Word had once again been revealed in flesh in a place where people least expected it?

We in the church, the “religious people,” have taken far too lightly, or turned our backs on, great areas of real, fleshly life. We have said by attitude and style of life that the care of the earth, the intimacy of human sexuality, those artistic impulses expressed in painting and music and dance, or the meaning and significance of work, and all the other great human ventures, are really not our concern. We have more “spiritual” things to look after. So the false gods of the secularists, really demonic forces, move into the vacuum that we have left in vital areas, and life becomes cheapened and vulgarized, a barren wasteland.

The Orthodox Church in Russia during the rule of the czars is a tragic case in point. Rich and powerful, but callously unconcerned about injustice and poverty, its leaders debated the color of the clerical vestments while Kerensky and Lenin planned the Marxist revolution to “liberate the people.” In our own country, vast church buildings, TV programs, and burgeoning statistics could blind us from accepting the reality and implications of the Word that has become flesh. But the presence of the Living God in flesh opens endless possibilities for all creation.

And in our time there are illustrations of that Word becoming flesh in many differing places—Bob Dylan writing gospel songs that challenge our false values; John Perkins establishing an economic base for the powerless people of Mississippi; the dream of Millard Fuller becoming Habitat for Humanity, personally owned housing giving new dignity to the desperately poor; Bill Leslie and his LaSalle Street congregation offering free legal help for the dispossessed of Cabrini Green in Chicago; Sojourners Community of Washington challenging the whole war-making madness of our times. The list goes on and on—those who “recover lost provinces,” who reclaim the earth, in the name of Jesus who has come in flesh.

“And dwelt among us.” John is speaking of the historical life of the Incarnate Word. He has literally dwelt among us as God dwelt among His people in their wanderings through the wilderness, particularly in the tent which housed the ark of the covenant and the tablets of the commandments (Ex. 40:34). Here His special presence was known; this presence is different from his omnipresence. But even then He could be known at best in a partial, mystical way, and this could pass away if the tabernacle, and later the temple, were destroyed.

But now God has come to dwell among His people, in His Living Word. Not at the edge of life, for a passing time, but at the center of everything, in the flesh of Jesus, for all time. Those who believe become the abiding place for the Living Word. The company of believers now become the tabernacle, the body in which the Living Word can dwell through His Spirit. God has guaranteed His presence, His settling down permanently in one place, as the Word dwells in us.

There is a glory in the Word dwelling among us. This is the visible presence of God among men—the same majestic splendor and power that appeared in the cloud when God heard the murmuring of His people (Ex. 16:10) or when that glory of the Lord settled “like a consuming fire on the top of the mountain in the eyes of the children of Israel” as Moses received the instruction at Sinai for the building of the tabernacle (Ex. 24:16–17) or when His glory “filled the tabernacle” (Ex. 40:34). This was His Shekinah, His visible Presence among His people. But even then, the glory was partial, unfulfilled, and even sporadic. The final tabernacle, the ultimate place of God’s dwelling, became the flesh of Jesus. And here His glory is fulfilled!

John has “beheld” that glory with his physical eyes. He is reporting events he has seen. The word “beheld” is the same as used elsewhere in the Gospel when people see with the bodily eye. “Look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest!” (John 4:35). This is the way John has seen a specific Man involved in concrete, day-to-day events. There is the ring of historical validity in his testimony. He is not reporting visions of mystical insights.

It is in unexpected happenings in the midst of life that John sees glory break forth in the ministry of the Word, such as the turning of water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana. “This beginning of signs Jesus did in Cana of Galilee, and manifested His glory; and His disciples believed in Him” (John 2:11). Or in the powerful, climactic sign of Jesus calling Lazarus forth from his grave. “Did I not say to you that if you would believe you would see the glory of God?” (John 11:40). But it is in Jesus accepting the shame and death of the cross that John sees the glory revealed most profoundly. “The hour has come that the Son of Man should be glorified” (John 12:33).

John is not the only one who has seen and believed. There is a company of apostolic witnesses, a community of believers, who have seen that glory revealed in the earthly career of the Word. When John writes “we beheld,” He is speaking out of that community.

Now this is the glory of the “only begotten of the Father.” The “only begotten” is the unique One, the beloved One. Abraham offered up Isaac, his beloved son, “his only begotten son” (Heb. 11:17). The glory seen in the Son is the glory of the Father, yet it is uniquely His own. This is one of the great themes of the Gospel.

John and the other disciples saw “grace and truth” in the ministry of Jesus. They saw “grace” in His dealing with people, for there was compassion and uncalculating love revealed in all that He did. But the “truth” seen in His words and teaching was intertwined with these acts of mercy. We have in the ministry of Jesus perfect redemption in His “grace” and perfect revelation in His “truth.”⁶ His grace comes from the One who is Life. And the Truth revealed in Jesus comes from the One who is Light. Here is the character of the Incarnate Word, the fullness of “grace and truth”! How urgently we need the whole of this. An emphasis on grace by itself can dissipate into a shallow and sentimental fellowship, and stressing truth alone can become hardened dogma. But in the Living Word there is both grace and truth.

Law by Moses, but Grace and Truth by Jesus Christ (vv. 15–17). The identity of John the Baptist in relation to this One who is full of grace and truth is crucial. We are reminded throughout the prologue that John is “a witness,” “a voice,” that he came to “bear witness.” He declares with a loud, clear voice that the One who comes after him in time is preferred before him in position. Only He can take center stage—not the Baptist—because only He is the only begotten of the Father, the One of superior power.

This is a costly and a humbling act, for surely there burned within John the Baptist natural ambitions. Were not “greater opportunities,” as we call them, larger crowds and an increase in baptisms perfectly legitimate? After all, he had much at stake. But no, the Baptizer knows his place and the limitations of his ministry. He is not the one who will usher in God’s kingdom. His calling is to point to that One, and this he does with faithfulness and integrity.

How much we so-called “spiritual leaders” have to learn from John the Baptist. We have so many clever, camouflaged ways of keeping ourselves in the middle of things and have so often forgotten who we are and who it is that is to have the glory!

But it is not only Christ’s position of preeminent authority which makes Him central to everything. He is the One who supplies all the needs of His people. “And of His fullness.” Here John uses the Greek word pleroma, “that which fills,” “full to overflowing,” a term that is common in Paul’s writings. All the fullness of God is found in Him, and all that is in Him is available for all believers. Notice again, “we have all received.” This fullness is for all the children of God, for Christ’s whole family. Here the riches of Christ are shared freely with the new community.

This is not a one-time sharing of His fullness or a now-and-then experience, but “grace for grace.” Each blessing is the foundation for a greater blessing. God’s grace is given to His people continuously and is never exhausted. Every wonder leads to a new discovery, differing gifts of grace for differing times in life.

There is a great contrast between the law and the new age of grace. John makes it clear at the outset that Someone vastly superior to Moses has come. This is important, for all through the Gospel the Jews insist that Moses has the last word. They repeatedly attempt to downgrade Jesus by claiming that He is a flagrant blasphemer, constantly breaking the law of Moses. Yes, John says, the Law was given by Moses, although it really came through him from God, the true Author. But it came for a special purpose. It was a “shadowy form,” an image of that divine reality which was to come. It was a “school teacher” which would eventually bring us to grace.

As a matter of fact, Moses anticipated the coming of One who would be superior to the law. John emphasizes this in the way he quotes Jesus: “For if you believed Moses, you would believe Me; for he wrote about Me” (John 5:46).

Now that new era has come, a time in which “grace and truth” are brought in their fullness by “Jesus Christ.” Here the name of the Word Incarnate is given for the first time. How central, how wondrous is that name! “Jesus,” the earthly name for the Word in our midst was used 237 times in this Gospel, and “Christ,” “the Anointed, Chosen One,” was used 19 times in this Gospel always at significant junctures.

And grace and truth came by Him. This is the last time the word “grace” is used in this Gospel, although we see its real meaning in all of Jesus’ ministry—so full of beauty and winsomeness. However, “truth” is mentioned 25 times throughout the Gospel.

He Has Declared the Father (v. 18). The prologue comes to a beautiful conclusion by stressing again the close, intimate relationship between the Father and the Son. Only the One “who is in the bosom of the Father” can make Him known. One tender, human image that this brings to mind is a husband and a wife clinging to each other in love (Deut. 13:6). The Son lives in that state all during His earthly ministry as He has done throughout all eternity. It is only the One who lives in intimate fellowship with the Father who can make Him known.

And Christ has “declared” Him. He has given us a full account of the Father. The revelation He has shared with us is altogether adequate, and therefore, we can have confidence in Him. “Declare” is a technical word used in the mystery religions meaning the revelation of divine secrets. And the Word, who has come from the Father, even His only begotten Son, has declared to us the inmost heart and character of God. This is the only way we can know the Father.

It is impossible for us humans, however, to use our natural capacities to see God as God—whether through theophanies, or visions, or reasoned concepts. At best they are only fleeting and partial. But praise God that in Jesus we can know Him!

1:18

The Beginnings

John 1:19–51

Scripture Outline

Not the Christ, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet, but a Voice Crying in the Wilderness (1:19-28)

The One Who Baptizes with the Holy Spirit: Revealed to John (1:29-34)

Those Who Followed and Remained with Him (1:35-39)

Andrew Brought His Brother (1:40-42)

Passing It On (1:43-49)

“Hereafter You Shall See Heaven Open” (1:50-51)

1:19-28

Not the Christ, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet, but a Voice Crying in the Wilderness

The “now”at the start of this section brings us from the vast sweep of the prologue straight into the historical narrative. In John 1:19–2:12 is recorded a series of earthly happenings, really crucial events, which usher in the New Creation, Jesus Christ, in a manner not unlike the week of creation found in Genesis. John, an eyewitness of these events, gives us a chronological account of these early beginnings: “the next day” (v. 29), “the following day” (v. 43), six days of creative happenings if we include the wedding in Cana where Jesus manifested His glory for the first time.

At the outset there is a confrontation between John the Baptist and a delegation of priests and Levites sent by “the Jews,” a phrase used 70 times in the Gospel, not so much to identify a racial or religious group, as to designate the organized ecclesiastical opposition to Jesus’ ministry.

There were great happenings at the river and much talk about this dramatic new preacher who was baptizing all kinds of people as a sign of repentance. No wonder there was much wondering and debate about the Messiah, who had delayed His coming so long. Both danger and expectation were in the air. Every movement and cause had to be checked out. Could it be that something momentous had already happened? Perhaps this John at the river had a clue to what was going on or knew what was about to take place.

The official delegation sent to John consisted of priests and Levites. Since John was the son of the priest Zacharias, they did not beat around the bush. Their question was direct and to the point, “Who are you?” The manner in which John answers is crucial. He is standing in a place of transition, between two worlds, the old and the new. Here there is a great opportunity to confess Christ, but also a subtle temptation to hedge a bit on his identity, to hold back a little, to create a false impression. But his answer is unequivocal and decisive, “He confessed, and did not deny, but confessed, ‘I am not the Christ’” (v. 20). The language is strong. He has dealt with the situation head on.

The delegation then asks about other possibilities for his identity. “What then? Are you Elijah?” Elijah was popularly associated in people’s thinking with the coming of the Messiah. He had been taken to heaven, mysteriously and dramatically, in a fiery chariot. Perhaps he would return in the same manner. Now John’s answer is even more terse, “I am not.” Then could he be “the Prophet”? There was talk of the return of Jeremiah or some other great prophet who would be a forerunner of the Messiah. The answer is even more brief, simply, “No.” John’s dialogue with the Jews has been painfully negative, a forthright declaration of who he is not, as it must be, because of the false expectation of the delegation.

But the delegation pushes on since they must give an answer to those who sent them. One senses almost a fear, a pressure, in their seeking for some kind of word they can take back—“Who are you, that we may give an answer to those who sent us? What do you say about yourself?” Now John quotes the great prophecy of Isaiah. He is a “voice,” a herald of the glory of God which is to be revealed in Jesus Christ. He is the one who points, the preacher who prepares the way.

But if John is only “a voice,” not one of the other men they supposed him to be, then why did he baptize? The Pharisees, also involved in sending this delegation, had a special interest in this sacred rite. After all, they spent all their time studying and interpreting the Law and the Tradition. They were well-versed in baptism, which was a cleansing act for proselytes, not for Jewish people who were already God’s people. But here was John baptizing all kinds of people, including Jews, identifying them with the unwashed Gentiles and sinners. There was no privileged class; all must repent and prepare the way for the coming of the Chosen One. So the Pharisees were disturbed. How could this man take over this solemn act and claim it was a sign of preparation for a new movement?

John brushed this concern aside, saying that his baptism is only by water. While his baptism was a formal call to repentance, to turn from old ways, there was something incomplete about it. It necessitates a fulfillment, a life-giving baptism in the Spirit by One who will inaugurate God’s rule.

John then announces that there is One among them whom the delegation does not know. What an indictment! Although they are seeking for the Messiah, they cannot see nor understand who He is because they bring false, self-centered expectations to John. On the one side is the Baptizer, the faithful voice who prepares the way, and the author of this Gospel, the evangelist who confesses that all may believe. On the other side is the opposition, the close-minded religious establishment. Edwyn Hoskyns says that here is the “ultimate gulf between faith and belief, between sight and blindness, between life and death.”¹ The terror and darkness of that chasm deepens throughout the Gospel.

In verse 27 we are brought face to face with the Baptist’s incredible humility. He has burned his bridges and accepted his calling all the way. For not only is this One among them preferred before him, but John says he is not even worthy to loose His sandal strap. It is an arresting statement, for this was the most menial of all tasks, one which no disciple would do regardless how much he loved his teacher. No, this was a despicable act of service done only by the slave of the house, one whose life was not his own. And John says he is not worthy to do even that. His status is lower than a slave! What task is comparable in our society? Carrying out the garbage? Emptying a bedpan? Cleaning up someone’s vomit? Who of us would say we are not worthy to do that?

When we see that kind of utter selflessness shine forth, we know we are in the presence of something very precious. I will never forget how the tears of embarrassment welled up at first and then a wave of unashamed gratitude flooded over me when Gene Herr, a dear Mennonite pastor, knelt to wash my feet. It was a completely unexpected gift given to me well over twenty years ago. It occurred at the closing celebration of a marvelous Faith at Work gathering—a movement which introduced many people to a whole new style of life—open and vulnerable, risky and hilarious, fulfilling and costly, all at the same time. The power of that moment, confronting a gentle, loving man who stooped to let me know he cared, has blessed my life all these years. It is the poor in spirit who inherit the kingdom.

In verse 28, the writer speaks of the place of John’s baptizing. He seems to be saying, “I was there. I saw it happen.” It is important to learn that John was baptizing, but also that he was baptizing at a particular place and time for a particular purpose. The Gospel is history that took place in time and space. Apparently the name of this place was really Bethany.

1:29-34

The One Who Baptizes with the Holy Spirit: Revealed to John

When Jesus comes toward John “the next day,” it is not their first meeting. Jesus has already been baptized and passed through the struggle of the wilderness. These are crucial events, spoken of in some detail in the synoptic Gospels, which John assumes are common knowledge among the believers. He goes on to deal with the wonder of Jesus’ true identity being revealed to the Baptist.

“Behold! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” What a mystery that John is able to make this startling announcement, so fraught with meaning, at this stage in Jesus’ ministry. This is a good example of how the Lord opens truths to His servants that are beyond their natural understanding. The Baptist is God’s chosen vessel, and He will make known to him whatever is necessary and appropriate at this time. Who knows how the Almighty can move through the memories and longings and insights of this faithful spokesman to reveal the ultimate truth about His Son?

This was near the time of the Passover, the celebration of God’s mighty deliverance of His people from captivity. At the center of this joyous occasion was the sacrifice of the Paschal Lamb. This must have been in the Baptist’s mind as Jesus came. Also, there may have been flocks of lambs being driven to Jerusalem through this area to be offered in this act of national worship. Furthermore, John was the son of Zacharias, the priest, and he knew well the command of the Lord to offer a lamb upon the altar every morning and evening. “This shall be a continual burnt offering throughout your generations at the door of the tabernacle of meeting before the Lord, where I will meet you to speak with you” (Ex. 29:42). John knew well that there could be no forgiveness without sacrifice.

We know that these words of the prophet Isaiah which speak of the suffering One, who will bear the sins of His people, were familiar to John since he had just quoted from the same prophet in speaking of his own calling. “He was led as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so He opened not his mouth” (Is. 53:7). John seems to be affirming here at the beginning, the consecration of Jesus as the sacrificial Lamb, who will be offered for the sin of His people.

He is the Lamb that God provides, and in this sacrifice, He takes away the sin of the world. This is a theme throughout this Gospel. The Lamb is our substitute. He takes upon Himself our infirmities. The vicarious nature of His death is made clear in the cry of John.

It is not simply our individual sins He bears, but the “sin of the world.” We sin because our nature is sinful. How often we have been naive and superficial in our understanding of sin, minimizing its cosmic nature. It is not simply a wrongdoing now and then with which we have to contend, but a pervasive “sickness unto death” which affects all existence. Rebellious, hostile warfare is waged in all creation against its Maker. “We have been caught with the weapons in our bloody hands,” as Emil Brunner said long ago. Unless this awful sickness in human existence is dealt with, there is no salvation, no hope of a new creation. John’s declaration here in v. 29 makes it clear this is exactly what Jesus came to do.

John did not know this Man, as he says in verses 31 and 33. In verse 30 he calls Jesus “a Man.” He speaks of Him with dignity underlining the richness of His humanity, again stressing that He is preferred before him in status and position. John may have known this Man in some casual way as a cousin. Surely John the Baptist knew some of the ordinary facts about Jesus’ life. Mary and Elizabeth, the mothers of Jesus and John, had visited so joyfully about their sons before they were born, and they surely would not lose touch with one another completely as the destinies of their two sons unfolded. One wonders if the two—Jesus and John—ever met in their growing years.

But none of this could be enough—casual, external acquaintance. John did not know Jesus in that intimate way. It was in the act of baptism that John came to see and know who Jesus really was, the Eternal Word in flesh. John’s calling men to repentance and baptism was a preparation for Jesus’ coming, and it was in the act of Jesus Himself being baptized that His true identity was revealed.

The sign of the dove made it clear that the Holy Spirit was descending upon Jesus. John saw with the physical eye, but he also saw what no physical eye could see. Here the eternal relationship between Father and Son was revealed, an intimate union that is seen all through Jesus’ earthly ministry. The Son utterly depended upon the Father, and the Father abided in the Son.

Jesus was consecrated to a life of obedience and sacrifice when the Spirit came on Him. Archbishop Temple has written of this beautifully. “The dove was a poor man’s sacrifice (Luke 2:24) and was commonly reputed to be the only sacrificial victim that offered its own neck to the sacrificial knife. That is the spirit that descends upon Him: that is His kingly anointing: that is what marks Him as Son of God.”²Jesus offers Himself as a dove, the declaration of His divine vocation.

Twice John says that the Spirit remains on Him. This descent of the Spirit is no flash of inspiration for a few moments. The Spirit has taken up His permanent home in the Son. Thus, Jesus baptizes those who believe, who receive Him, and who follow Him, not with water, but with the Holy Spirit. To “baptize” means to “dip” or “submerge.” So he “floods” or “saturates” our lives with the Holy Spirit. We are inaugurated through this baptism into the life of God and into His ministry in the world. We, too, are to offer ourselves as doves in obedient, sacrificial service.

1:35-39

Those Who Followed and Remained with Him

It is the “next day,” and now the movement begins. It is as if John and two of his disciples were standing around waiting for something to happen. They are not disappointed, for Jesus comes walking. (There is an amazing timing in all this, as there always is when we are open to God’s dealings with us.) Again John declares Him to be “the Lamb of God!” When the two disciples hear this, they follow Jesus. It is almost as if John is presenting them to Jesus and saying to them, “You are prepared. Now go! He is the One we have been waiting for.” We have much to learn from John about turning disciples over to Jesus. So often we want to cling to them, keep them dependent upon us. But a manipulative, self-serving game is not our business in the church. Our calling is to introduce people to the Teacher, to prepare the way for them, then to hand them over to Him so that He can do His work of discipling.

The initiative is His. He chooses His disciples, which is always a work of sovereign grace. “Therefore I have said to you that no one can come to Me unless it has been granted to him from My Father” (John 6:65). Jesus later prayed with loving concern for these who have been given Him, “I have manifested Your name to the men whom You have given Me out of the world. They were Yours, You gave them to Me, and they have kept Your word” (John 17:6). Surely we need to continually evaluate our style of calling forth disciples in church life.

When Jesus sees these two following Him, He speaks His first words recorded in this Gospel. “What do you seek?” What a penetrating question. “Are you seeking for security or a new cause?” he was asking. “Do you really have any idea of what I’m about? Who I really am? Do you realize the cost of leaving John to follow Me?” He is still asking the same question today!

They come back with their own question, addressing Him as “Rabbi,” meaning “great one” or “teacher.” In verse 38 John, the writer, translated “Rabbi” for his Greek readers. John’s disciples ask, “Where are you staying?” Far more than a street number is involved. They are asking, “Where is Your dwelling place? Where did You come from? What is Your purpose? Can we come to know You?”

Jesus meets them where they are, and issues an invitation, “Come and see,” that is, “Ask your questions. Let me help you find out who I am.” C. S. Lewis had this peculiar evangelistic gift of encouraging people to “come and see.” He understood the hopes, longings, and misgivings of sophisticated, thinking people and urged them to check it out all the way. How different our evangelistic style would be if we allowed people to set their own pace while they are seeking for the answers.

These two came and remained until the tenth hour—four o’clock in the afternoon. Here again is the detail in John’s Gospel. No one will ever become an authentic follower, a disciple, without remaining. It must have been a long, deep, fruitful time, full of amazing discoveries.

1:40-42

Andrew Brought His Brother

At least one of the two seekers, if not both of them, became an evangelist out of that first encounter. Andrew moved out on a special mission to his brother. And we can be almost certain that the writer, who is beautifully modest, could have told his own story of reaching out to his brother James. He may have been so well known that he did not need to identify himself.

Andrew is referred to as Simon Peter’s brother. Andrew never seems to resent taking second place to his brother, even when Peter is included in that intimate group of three so close to Jesus, nor when he becomes the leader of the twelve. Nothing in the later records reflects any jealousy.

Andrew has that wonderful gift of being an introducer. He brings the boy with the loaves and fish to Jesus. “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two small fish, but what are they among so many?” (John 6:9). That simple act is used by our Lord to feed a hungry multitude. And when Philip does not seem to know what to do with the Greeks who come to Jesus, he brings them to Andrew who then takes them to Jesus (12:22). It was no small thing to bring non-Jews in those last hours so close to the cross, when Jesus’ first mission was to the house of Israel.

Out of that first meeting with Jesus, Andrew does what it is very difficult for most of us to do. He hurries off to find his brother! Where was he? At home? Fishing? Can you imagine Andrew finding Simon in a fish market when he blurts out his first beautiful confession, “We have found the Messiah”? Again the writer helps his Greek readers, “(which is translated, the Christ),” the anointed One who will fulfill all the longings of Israel.

“And he brought him to Jesus.” Isn’t this the heart of all our evangelistic endeavor? Jesus looked at Simon—searchingly and penetratingly—and saw what no one else could see. He saw not only what Peter could become, but who he would become. This big, blustering, erratic fisherman would become a leader among men, the first among the apostles, and finally, a martyr because of his love for Jesus. Jesus claims him with a new name, Cephas, which signifies what he will become, a stone. “In designating him by his new name, Jesus takes possession of him and consecrates him, with all his natural qualities, to the work which He is going to entrust to him.”³

Recently I watched Larry Rapp, a thoughtful young attorney, heed the invitation “come and see,” then begin to cautiously check it out, and finally decide to follow Him all the way. I remember how intently he listened as I was teaching at a men’s Bible luncheon. He had been brought by a deeply concerned friend, Gary Ayers, another attorney in the same law firm who had tipped me off, “I’d really like for you to get together with Larry, this friend of mine. He’s got a lot of questions.”

That was the start. Then he and his wife came to church and sat so near the front it surprised me. They listened as if their lives depended upon it. She was weeping quietly as I greeted them at the door after the service. Then Larry and I had two or three visits in the office, and Larry aired his questions freely. “What about inconsistencies in the Scriptures?” “How could a loving God allow or even command all that killing in the Old Testament?” “Why was there so much suffering in the world?” “I can’t seem to deal with my impure thoughts.” But he was willing to take the primary source, the Gospel, the “come and see” accounts of Jesus, seriously. Then there came that sacred moment several weeks later. He said, “Before we get started today I have something I want to say. On the basis of this reading and what I’ve experienced in this church and in my own struggle to pray, I want to declare that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.” Both of us sat there silent for a moment. He was like a witness on the stand in the courtroom. We knelt and Larry surrendered it all to the One who first gave the invitation “come and see,” as did his dear wife, Dianne. Eating in their home some weeks later with their dear friends Gary and Charleen, who had brought their brother and sister, was a holy, hilarious celebration. Since then, Larry has begun a quiet work of evangelism among his fellows in the law office.

1:43-49

Passing It On

The next day Jesus sought out Philip who came from the same city as Andrew and Peter. The Greek name Philip was not uncommon among Jewish families. It is interesting that there should be a cluster of followers from the same community, but eager disciples always have their own contagion. As Jesus’ ministry unfolds much of it seems to have been centered in this city.

1:50-51

“Hereafter You Shall See Heaven Open”

So Jesus marks Nathanael as the first one to believe in Him when He asks, “Do you believe?” But Jesus says Nathanael will be given far deeper grounds for belief than Jesus’ perception of who he is. For as Jesus’ ministry unfolds, he will see mighty works, great and wondrous surprises, revealing the glory of God.

Seeing these “greater things” with the physical eye will open the door to eternal realities through Jesus. The language here is reminiscent of Jacob’s dream of a ladder that reached from earth to heaven with angels “ascending and descending.” And the Lord was standing “above it” affirming again that He is the God of his forefathers and that He will fulfill all the promises made to them. Jacob called this an “awesome place,” the “house of God,” and the “gate of heaven.” Here Jacob consecrated a stone and renewed his vow (Gen. 28:10–22).

Now the time has come when grace is fulfilled. Jesus truly is the “House of God,” the place of meeting with the Father, not only for Nathanael and Philip and those first disciples, but for all who believe. To them He has become the very “gate of heaven,”for through the life and ministry of the Word made flesh, all the resources of heaven are available to all believers. Angels are ascending and descending upon “the Son of Man.” Here Jesus identifies Himself for the first time—“the Son of Man”—a rich, suggestive, yet simple title.

John the Gospel writer has given us a vast and varied understanding of who Jesus is in these opening verses. “The Word,” “life and light,” “all things made by Him,” “the Word made flesh,” “the One by whom grace and truth have come,” “the only begotten of the Father,” “the Lamb of God,” “a man,” “the One on whom the Spirit descends,” “the Son of God,” “Jesus Christ,” “Rabbi,” “the Messiah,” “Jesus of Nazareth,” “the King of Israel.” What a rich meaning there is in these titles. And the Gospel narrative defines and gives substance to these names.

But Jesus calls Himself simply, “the Son of Man,” His most common way of identifying Himself. The title is not associated with any particular messianic expectation, nor is there a nationalistic emphasis in its use. There is a freshness, an openness about “Son of Man.” Listeners can give this title whatever content they wish.

But surely, in this first reference to Himself, Jesus is making His humanity evident. He is one of us. This is where love has brought Him. Here He will live, share Himself, and finally suffer and die. Only thus can the door to heaven be opened for all of us. There is a wondrous glory in Jesus’ costly offering of Himself for our salvation that runs all through this Gospel.

Jesus is not only “Son of Man,” but “the Son of Man.” He is our Pattern. In Him we see what God intended for each of us in creation. And even though we have fallen, squandered our destiny in angry disobedience, God has not given up on us. Jesus brings the possibility of a new creation. We see in “the Son of Man” what we can become. Here is the “finished product.” Here is what it means to be truly human.

When Jesus speaks of Himself as “the Son of Man” throughout the Gospel, it is sometimes veiled with eschatological meanings. But here at the outset Jesus says simply, “As the Son of Man I stand on your side. I am with you.”