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Thus far, in our attempt to listen to Jesus
and thereby to get to know him, we have limited ourselves for the most part
to the witness of the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), while only
occasionally glancing at John. It is therefore time to turn our attention to
the image of Jesus presented by the Fourth Evangelist, an image that in many
respects seems quite different from that of the other Gospels.
Listening to the
Synoptics, we have realized that the mystery of Jesus' oneness with the
Father is ever-present and determines everything, even though it remains
hidden beneath his humanity. On one hand, it was perceived by his sharp-eyed
opponents. On the other hand, the disciples, who experienced Jesus at prayer
and were privileged to know him intimately from the inside, were beginning - step
by step, at key moments with great immediacy, and despite all their
misunderstandings - to recognize this absolutely new reality. In John, Jesus'
divinity appears unveiled. His disputes with the Jewish Temple authorities, taken
together, could be said to anticipate his trial before the Sanhedrin, which
John, unlike the Synoptics, does not mention specifically.
John's
Gospel is different: Instead of parables, we hear extended discourses built
around images, and the main theatre of Jesus' activity shifts from Galilee to
Jerusalem. These differences caused modern critical scholarship to deny the
historicity of the text - with the exception of the Passion narrative and a
few details - and to regard it as a later theological reconstruction. It was
said to express a highly developed Christology, but not to constitute a
reliable source for knowledge of the historical Jesus. The radically late
datings of John's Gospel to which this view gave rise have had to be abandoned
because papyri from Egypt dating back to the beginning of the second century
have been discovered; this made it clear that the Gospel must have been
written in the first century, if only during the closing years. Denial of the
Gospel's historical character, however, continued unabated.
Interpretation
of John's Gospel in the second half of the twentieth century was largely
shaped by Rudolf Bultmann's commentary on John, the first edition of which
appeared in 1941. Bultmann is convinced that the main influences on the
Gospel of John are to be sought not in the Old Testament and the Judaism of
the time, but in Gnosticism. This sentence typifies Bultmann's approach:
"That is not to say that the idea of the incarnation of the redeemer has
in some way penetrated Gnosticism from Christianity; it is itself originally
Gnostic, and was taken over at a very early stage by Christianity, and made
fruitful for Christology" (The Gospel of John, p. 26). Here is
another in the same vein: "Gnosticism is the only possible source of the
idea of absolute Logos" (RGG, 3rd ed., III, p. 846).
The
reader asks: "How does know that?" Bultmann's answer is
breathtaking: "Even if the reconstruction of this kind of thinking has
to be carried out in the main from sources
which are later than John, nevertheless its greater age remains firmly
established" (The Gospel of John, p. 27). On this decisive point
Bultmann is wrong. In his inaugural lecture as professor at Tubingen,
published in expanded form as The Son of God in 1975 (English
translation 1976), Martin Hengel characterized "the hypothetical Gnostic
myth of the sending of the Son of God into the world" as a
"pseudo-scientific development of a myth." He then went on to
remark: "In reality there is no Gnostic redeemer myth in the sources
which can be demonstrated chronologically to be pre-Christian" (p. 33).
"Gnosticism itself is first visible as a spiritual movement at the end
of the first century A.D. at the earliest, and only develops fully in the second
century" (p. 34).
Johannine scholarship in the generation after Bultmann
took a radically different direction; the results have been thoroughly
explored and discussed in Martin Hengel's book The Johannine Question (1989).
If we look back from the vantage point of current scholarship to Bultmann's
interpretation of John, we see how little protection the highly scientific
approach can offer against fundamental mistakes. But what does today's
scholarship tell us?
It has definitively confirmed and elaborated something
that even Bultmann basically already knew: The Fourth Gospel rests on
extraordinarily precise knowledge of times and places, and so can only have
been produced by someone who had an excellent first-hand knowledge of
Palestine at the time of Jesus. A further point that has become clear is that
the Gospel thinks and argues entirely in terms of the Old Testament - of the Torah
(Rudolf Pesch) - and that its whole way of arguing is deeply rooted in the
Judaism of Jesus' time. The language of the Gospel, which Bultmann regarded
as "Gnostic," actually bears unmistakable signs of the book's
intimate association with this milieu. "The work was written in simple
unliterary koine Greek, steeped in the language of Jewish piety. This
Greek was also spoken by the upper classes in Jerusalem . . . [where]
Scripture was read in Hebrew and Greek, and prayer and discussion went on in
both languages" (Hengel, The Johannine
Question, p. 113).
Hengel
also points out that "in Herodian times a special Hellenized Jewish
upper class with its own culture developed in Jerusalem" (ibid.,
p. 114) and he accordingly locates the origin of the Gospel in the priestly
aristocracy of Jerusalem (ibid., pp. 124-35). We can perhaps regard a
brief reference in John 18:15f as corroboration for this thesis. There it is
recounted that after his arrest Jesus is brought to the high priests for
interrogation and that in the meantime Simon Peter and "another
disciple" follow Jesus in order to find out what is going to happen
next. Regarding this "other disciple," it is then said that
"as this disciple was known to the high priest, he entered the court of
the high priest along with Jesus." His connections with the household of
the high priest were such that he was able to secure Peters entry, thereby
engineering the situation that led to Peter's denial. The circle of the
disciples, then, extended as far as the high-priestly aristocracy, in whose
language the Gospel is largely written.
This
brings, us, however, to two decisive questions that are ultimately at stake
in the "Johannine" question: Who is the author of this Gospel? How
reliable is it historically? Let us try to approach the first question. The Gospel
itself makes a clear statement about it in the context of the Passion story.
It is reported that one of the soldiers pierced Jesus' side with a lance
"and at once there came out blood and water" (Jn 19:34). These
weighty words immediately follow: "He who saw it has borne witness - his
testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth - that you also may
believe" (Jn 19:35). The Gospel traces its origins to an eyewitness, and
it is clear that this eyewitness is none other than the disciple who, as we
have just been told, was standing under the Cross and was the disciple whom
Jesus loved (cf. Jn 19:26). This disciple is once again named as the author
of the Gospel in John 21:24. In addition,
we meet this figure in John 13:23, 20:2-10, and 21:7 and probably in Jn 1:35, 40 and 18:15-16 as
well.
These statements concerning the external origin of the
Gospel take on a deeper dimension in the story of the washing of the feet,
which points to its inward source. Here it is said that this disciple
reclined at Jesus' side during the meal and that, when he asked who the
betrayer was, he "leaned back on Jesus' breast" (Jn 13:25). These
words are intended to parallel the end of the prologue of John's Gospel,
where it is said apropos of Jesus: "No one has ever seen God; it
is the only Son, who is nearest to the Father's heart, who has made him
known" (Jn 1:18). Just as Jesus, the Son, knows about the mystery of the
Fadier from resting in his heart, so too the Evangelist has gained his intimate
knowledge from his inward repose in Jesus' heart.
But
who is this disciple? The Gospel never directly identifies him by name. In
connection with the calling of Peter, as well as of other disciples, it
points toward John, the son of Zebedee, but it never explicitly identifies
the two figures. The intention is evidently to leave the matter shrouded in
mystery. The Book of Revelation does, admittedly, specify John as its author
(cf. Rev 1:1, 4), but despite the close connection between this book and the
Gospel and Letters of John, it remains an open question whether the author is
one and the same person.
The
Lutheran exegete Ulrich Wilckens, in his extensive Theologie des Neuen Testaments, has recently presented new arguments for the thesis that the "beloved
disciple" should be thought of not as a historical figure, but as a
symbol for a basic structure of the faith: "Scriptura sola is
impossible without the 'living voice' of the Gospel and that is impossible
without the personal witness of a Christian in the function and authority of
the 'beloved disciple,' in whom office and spirit unite and support each
other" (Theologie, I, 4, p. 158). However correct this may be as
a structural claim, it remains insufficient. If the favorite disciple in the
Gospel expressly assumes the function of a witness to the truth of the events
he recounts, he is presenting himself as a living person. He intends to vouch
for historical events as a witness and he thus claims for himself the status
of a historical figure. Otherwise the statements we have examined, which are
decisive for the intention and the quality of the entire Gospel, would be
emptied of meaning.
Since
the time of Irenaeus of Lyon (d. ca. 202), Church tradition has unanimously
regarded John, the son of Zebedee, as the beloved disciple and the author of
the Gospel. This fits with the identification markers provided by the Gospel,
which in any case point toward the hand of an Apostle and companion of Jesus
from the time of the Baptism in the Jordan to the Last Supper, Cross, and
Resurrection.
In
modern times, it is true, increasingly strong doubts have been voiced
concerning this identification. Can the fisherman from the Lake of Genesareth
have written this sublime Gospel full of visions that peer into the deepest
depths of God's mystery? Can he, the Galilean fisherman, have been as closely
connected with the priestly aristocracy of Jerusalem, its language, and its
mentality as the Evangelist evidently is? Can he have been related to the
family of the high priest, as the text hints (cf. Jn 18:15)?
Now,
the French exegete Henri Cazelles, drawing on studies by J. Colson, J.
Winandy, and M.-E. Boismard, has shown in a sociological study of the Temple
priesthood before its destruction ("Johannes") that such an
identification is actually quite possible. The priests discharged their
ministry on a rotating basis twice a year. The ministry itself lasted a week
each time. After the completion of the ministry, the priest returned to his
home, and it was not at all unusual for him also to exercise a profession to
earn his livelihood. Furthermore, the Gospel makes clear that Zebedee was no
simple fisherman, but employed several day laborers, which also explains why
it was possible for his sons to leave him. "It is thus quite possible
that Zebedee is a priest, but that at the same time he has his property in
Galilee, while the fishing business on the lake helps him makes ends meet. He
probably has a kind of pied-a-terre in or near the Jerusalem
neighborhood where the Essenes lived" ("Johannes," p. 481).
"The very meal during which this disciple rested on Jesus' breast took
place in a room that in all probability was located in the Essene neighborhood
of the city" - in the "pied-a-terre" of the priest
Zebedee, who "lent the upper room to Jesus and the Twelve" (ibid., pp. 480, 481). Another
observation Cazelles makes in his article is interesting in this connection:
According to the Jewish custom, the host or, in his absence, as would have
been the case here, "his firstborn son sat to the right of the guest,
his head leaning on the latter's chest" (ibid., p. 480).
If
in light of current scholarship, then, it is quite possible to see Zebedee's
son John as the bystander who solemnly asserts his claim to be an eyewitness
(cf. Jn 19:35) and thereby identifies himself as the true author of the
Gospel, nevertheless, the complexity of the Gospel's redaction raises
further questions.
The
Church historian Eusebius of Caesarea (d. ca. 338) gives us a piece of
information that is important in this context. Eusebius tells us about a
five-volume work of the bishop of Hierapolis, Papias, who died around 220.
Papias mentions there that he had not known or seen the holy Apostles himself,
but that he had received the teaching of the faith from people who had been
close to the Apostles. He also speaks of others who were likewise disciples
of the Lord, and he mentions the names Aristion and "Presbyter
John." Now, the important point is that he distinguishes between the
Apostle and Evangelist John, on one hand, and "Presbyter John," on
the other. Although he had not personally known the former, he had met the
latter (Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, III, 39).
This
information is very remarkable indeed: When combined with related pieces of
evidence, it suggests that in Ephesus there was somedimg like a Johannme
school, which traced its origins to Jesus' favorite disciple himself, but in
which a certain "Presbyter John" presided as the ultimate
authority. This "presbyter" John appears as the sender and author
of the Second and Third Letters of John (in each case in the first verse of
the first, chapter) simply under the title "the presbyter" (without
reference to the name John). He is evidently not the same as the Apostle,
which means that here in the canonical text we encounter expressly the
mysterious figure of the presbyter. He must have been closely connected with
the Apostle; perhaps he had even been acquainted with Jesus himself. After
the death of the Apostle, he was identified wholly as the bearer of the
latter's heritage, and in the collective memory, the two figures were
increasingly fused. At any rate, there seem to be grounds for ascribing to
"Presbyter John" an essential role in the definitive shaping of the
Gospel, though he must always have regarded himself as the trustee of the
tradition he had received from the son of Zebedee.
I
entirely concur with the conclusion that Peter Stuhlmacher has drawn from the
above data. He holds "that, the contents of the Gospel go back to the
disciple whom Jesus (especially) loved. The presbyter understood himself as
his transmitter and mouthpiece" (Biblische
Tbeologie, II, p. 206). In a similar vein Stuhlmacher cites E. Ruckstuhl
and P. Dschullnigg to the effect that "the author of the Gospel
of John is, as it were, the literary executor of the favorite disciple"
(ibid., p. 207).
With
these observations, we have already taken a decisive step toward answering
the question of the historical credibility of the Fourth Gospel. This Gospel
ultimately goes back to an eyewitness, and even the actual redaction of the
text was substantially the work of one of his closest followers within the
living circle of his disciples.
Thinking
along similar lines, Peter Stuhlmacher writes that there are grounds for the
conjecture "that the Johannine school carried on the style of thinking
and teaching that before Easter set the tone of Jesus' internal didactic
discourses with Peter, James, and John (as well as with the whole group of
the Twelve) . . . While the Synoptic tradition reflects the way in which the
apostles and their disciples spoke about Jesus as they were teaching on
Church missions or in Church communities, the Johannine circle took this
instruction as the basis and premise for further thinking about, and
discussion of, the mystery of revelation, of God's self-disclosure in the
Son" (Biblische Theologie, II,
p. 207). Against this, though, it could be argued that according to the text
of the Gospel itself, what we find are not so much internal didactic
discourses but rather Jesus' dispute with the Temple aristocracy, in which we
are given a kind of preview of his trial. In this context, the question
"Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?" (Mk 14:61), in its
different forms, increasingly adopts center stage in the whole dispute, so
that Jesus' claim to Sonship inevitably takes on more and more dramatic
forms.
It
is surprising that Martin Hengel, from whom we have learned so much about the
historical rooting of the Gospel in the priestly aristocracy of Jerusalem - and
so in the real context of Jesus' life - nonetheless offers an astonishingly
negative, or (to put it more gently) extremely cautious, judgment of the
historical character of the text. He says: "The Fourth Gospel is not a
completely free 'Jesus poem'. . . Here we must distinguish between those
traits which are historically plausible and others which remain chiefly suppositions.
An inability to prove the historicity of something does not mean that it is
pure unhistorical fiction. Certainly the evangelist is not narrating
historical, banal recollections of the past but the rigorously interpretative
spirit-paraclete leading into truth, which has the last word throughout the
work" (p. 132). This raises an objection: What does this contrast mean?
What makes historical recollection banal? Is the truth of what is recollected
important or not? And what sort of truth can the Paraclete guide into if he
leaves behind the historical because it is too banal?
The
diagnosis of the exegete Ingo Broer reveals even more sharply the problem
with these sorts of contrasts: "The Gospel of John thus stands before us
as a literary work that bears witness to faith and is intended to
strengthen faith, and not as a historical account" (Einleitung,
p. 197). What faith does it "testify" to if, so to speak, it has
left history behind? How does it strengthen faith if it presents itself as a
historical testimony - and does so quite emphatically - but then does not
report history? I think that we are dealing here with a false concept of the
historical, as well as with a false concept of faith and of the Paraclete. A
faith that discards history in this manner really turns into
"Gnosticism." It leaves behind the flesh, incarnation - just what
true history is.
If
"historical" is understood to mean that the discourses of Jesus
transmitted to us have to be something like a recorded transcript in order to
be acknowledged as "historically" authentic, then the discourses
of John's Gospel are not "historical." But the fact that they make
no claim to literal accuracy of this sort by no means implies that they are
merely "Jesus poems" that the members of the Johannine school
gradually put together, claiming to be acting under the guidance of the Paraclete.
What the Gospel is really claiming is that it has correctly rendered the
substance of the discourses, of Jesus' self-attestation in the great
Jerusalem disputes, so that the readers really do encounter the decisive
content of this message and, therein, the authentic figure of Jesus.
We
can take a further step toward defining more precisely the particular sort of
historicity that is present in the Fourth Gospel if we attend to the mutual
ordering of the various elements that Hengel regards as decisive for the
composition of the text. Hengel begins by naming four of the essential
elements of this Gospel: "the theological concern of the author .
. . his personal recollections . . . church tradition and with
them historical reality." Astonishingly, Hengel says that the
Evangelist "altered, indeed we might even say violated" this
history. Finally, as we have just seen, it is not "the recollections of
the past but the rigorously interpretative spirit-paraclete leading into
truth which has the last word" (The Johannine Question, p.
132).
Meaningful synthesis of the elements
Given the way that Hengel
juxtaposes, and in a certain respect contraposes, these five elements, they
cannot be brought into any meaningful synthesis. For how is the Paraclete supposed
to have the last word if the Evangelist has already violated the actual
history? What sort of relation is there between the redactional concern of
the Evangelist, his personal message, and Church tradition? Is redactional
concern more decisive than recollection, so that in its name reality may be
violated? What, then, establishes the legitimacy of this redactional concern?
How does it interact with the Paraclete?
I think that the five elements
listed by Hengel are indeed the essential forces that shaped the composition
of the Gospel, but they have to be seen in a different mutual relation, and
the individual elements have to be differently understood.
First
of all, the second and fourth elements - personal recollection and historical
reality - form a pair. Together they constitute what the Fathers of the
Church call the factum historicum that determines the literal sense of
the text: the exterior side of the event, which the Evangelist knows partly
from personal recollection and partly from Church tradition (no doubt he was
familiar with the Synoptic Gospels in one or another version). His intention
is to act as a "witness" reporting the things that happened. No
one has emphasized this particular dimension of what actually happened - the
"flesh" of history - to such an extent as John. "That which
was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our
eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the
word of life - the life was made manifest, and we saw it, and testify to it,
and proclaim to you the eternal life which was with the Father and was made
manifest to us" (1 Jn 1:1f).
Before we turn to
the great Johanmne figurative discourses, two further general observations
about the distinctive character of John's Gospel may be helpful. Whereas
Bultmann thought the Fourth Gospel was rooted in Gnosticism and was therefore
alien to the soil of the Old Testament and of Judaism, recent scholarship has
given us a new and clearer appreciation of the fact that John stands squarely
on the foundation of the Old Testament. "Moses . . . wrote of me"
(Jn 5:46), Jesus says to his adversaries. But already at the beginning - when
John recounts the calling of the disciples - Philip had said to Nathanael:
"We have found him of whom Moses in the law and also the prophets
wrote" (Jn 1: 45). Providing an explanation and a basis for this claim
is ultimately the aim of Jesus' discourses. He does not break the Torah, but
brings its whole meaning to light and wholly fulfills it. But the connection
between Jesus and Moses appears most prominently, one might say
programmatically, at the end of the prologue; this passage gives us the key
to understanding the Fourth Gospel: "And from his fullness have we all
received, grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses; grace and
truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God; it is the only
Son, who is nearest to the Father's heart, who has made him known" (Jn
1:16-18).
These
two factors - historical reality and recollection - lead by their inner
dynamic, however, to the third and fifth elements that Hengel lists: Church
tradition and the guidance of the Holy Spirit. For, on one hand, the author
of the Fourth Gospel gives a very personal accent to his own remembrance, as
we see from his observation at the end of the Crucifixion scene (cf. Jn
19:35); on the other hand, it is never a merely private remembering,
but a remembering in and with the "we" of the Church:
"that which ... we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes,
which we have looked upon and touched with our hands." With John, the
subject who remembers is always the "we" - he remembers in and with
the community of the disciples, in and with the Church. However much the
author stands out as an individual witness, the remembering subject that
speaks here is always the "we" of the community of disciples, the
"we" of the Church. Because the personal recollection that provides
the foundation of the Gospel is purified and deepened by being inserted into
the memory of the Church, it does indeed transcend the banal recollection of
facts.
There
are three important passages in his Gospel where John uses the word remember
and so gives us the key to understanding what he means by
"memory." In John's account of the cleansing of the Temple, we
read: "His disciples remembered that it was written, 'Zeal for thy house
will consume me' [Ps 69:10]" (Jn 2:17). The event that is taking place
calls to mind a passage of Scripture and so the event becomes intelligible at
a level beyond the merely factual. Memory sheds light on the sense of the
act, which then acquires a deeper meaning. It appears as an act in which
Logos is present, an act that comes from the Logos and leads into it. The
link connecting Jesus' acting and suffering with God's word comes into view,
and so the mystery of Jesus himself becomes intelligible.
The
word remember occurs once again, this time in the description of the
events of Palm Sunday. John recounts that Jesus found a young ass and sat
down on it: "As it is written, 'Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your
king is coming, sitting on an ass's colt!'" (Jn 12:14-15; cf. Zach 9:9).
The Evangelist then observes: "His disciples did not understand this at
first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that this had been
written of him and had been done to him" (Jn 12:16). Once again an event
is reported that at first seems simply factual. And once again the Evangelist
tells us that after the Resurrection the disciples' eyes were opened and they
were able to understand what had happened. Now they "remember." A
scriptural text that had previously meant nothing to them now becomes
intelligible, in the sense foreseen by God, which gives the external action
its meaning.
The
Resurrection teaches us a new way of seeing; it uncovers the connection
between the words of the Prophets and the destiny of Jesus. It evokes
"remembrance," that is, it makes it possible to enter into the
interiority of the events, into the intrinsic coherence of God's speaking and
acting.
By
means of these texts the Evangelist himself gives us the decisive indications
as to how his Gospel is composed and what sort of vision lies behind it. It
rests upon the remembering of the disciple, which, however, is a
co-remembering in the "we" of the Church. This remembering is an
understanding under the guidance of the Holy Spirit; by remembering, the
believer enters into the depth of the event and sees what could not be seen
on an immediate and merely superficial level. But in so doing he does not
move away from the reality; rather, he comes to know it more deeply and thus
sees the truth concealed in the outward act. The remembering of the Church is
the context where what the Lord prophesied to his followers at the Last
Supper actually happens: "When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide
you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own authority, but
whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that
are to come" (Jn 16:13).
What
John says in his Gospel about how remembering becomes understanding and the
path "into all the truth" comes very close to what Luke recounts
about remembering on the part of Jesus' mother. In three passages of the
infancy narrative Luke depicts this process of "remembering" for
us. The first passage occurs in the account of the annunciation of Jesus'
conception by the Archangel Gabriel. There Luke tells us that Mary took
fright at the angel's greeting and entered into an interior
"dialogue" about what the greeting might mean. The most important
passages figure in the account of the adoration of the shepherds. The
Evangelist comments: "Mary kept all these tilings, pondering them in her
heart" (Lk 2:19). At the conclusion of the narrative of the
twelve-year-old Jesus we read once again: "His mother kept all these
things in her heart" (Lk 2:51). Mary's memory is first of all a
retention of the events in remembrance, but it is more than that: It is an
interior conversation with all that has happened. Thanks to this
conversation, she penetrates into the interior dimension, she sees the events
in their inter-connectedness, and she learns to understand them.
It
is on just this sort of "recollection" that the Gospel of John is
based, even as the Gospel takes the concept of memory to a new depth by
conceiving it as the memory of the "we" of the disciples, of the
Church. This remembering is no mere psychological or intellectual process; it
is a pneumatic event [i.e., an event imbued with the Pneuma, or the Holy
Spirit]. The Church's remembering is not merely a private affair; it
transcends the sphere of our own human understanding and knowing. It is a
being-led by the Holy Spirit, who shows us the connectedness of Scripture,
the connection between word and reality, and, in doing that, leads us
"into all the truth."
This
also has some fundamental implications for the concept of inspiration. The
Gospel emerges from human remembering and presupposes the communion of those
who remember, in this case very concretely the school of John and, before
that, the community of disciples. But because the author thinks and writes
with the memory of the Church, the "we" to which he belongs opens
beyond the personal and is guided in its depths by the Spirit of God, who is
the Spirit of truth. In this sense, the Gospel itself opens up a path of
understanding, which always remains bound to the scriptural word, and yet
from generation to generation can lead, and is meant to lead, ever anew into
the depth of all the truth.
This
means that the Gospel of John, because it is a "pneumatic Gospel,"
does not simply transmit a stenographic transcript of Jesus' words and ways;
it escorts us, in virtue of understanding-through-remembering, beyond the
external into the depth of words and events that come from God and lead back
to him. As such, the Gospel is "remembering," which means that it
remains faithful to what really happened and is not a "Jesus poem,"
not a violation of the historical events. Rather, it truly shows us who Jesus
was, and thereby it shows us someone who not only was, but is; who can always
say "I am" in the present tense. "Before Abraham was, I
am" Qn 8: 58). It shows us the real Jesus, and we can confidently
make use of it as a source of information about him.
We
began this book with Moses' prophecy: "The Lord your God will raise up
for you a prophet like me from among you, from your brethren - him you shall
heed" (Deut 18:15). We saw that the Book of Deuteronomy, which contains
this prophecy, ends with the observation: "and there has not arisen a
prophet since in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face"
(Deut 34:10). Until that hour, the great promise had remained unfulfilled.
Now He is here, the one who is truly close to the Father's heart, the only
one who has seen him, who sees him and who speaks out of this seeing - the
one of whom it is therefore fittingly said: "him you shall heed"
(Mk 9:7; Deut 18:15). The promise to Moses is fulfilled superabundantly, in
the overflowmgly lavish way in which God is accustomed to bestow his gifts.
The One who has come is more than Moses, more than a prophet. He is the Son.
And that is why grace and truth now come to light, not in order to destroy
the Law, but to fulfill it.
The
second observation concerns the liturgical character of John's Gospel. It has
a rhythm dictated by Israel's calendar of religious festivals. The major
feasts of the People of God articulate the inner structure of Jesus' path and
at the same time display the foundation on which the edifice of his message
rises.
Right
at the beginning of Jesus' activity we read of the "Passover of the
Jews," which suggests the motif of the true Temple, and thus of the
Cross and Resurrection (cf. Jn 2:13-25). The healing of the paralytic, which
occasions Jesus' first major public discourse in Jerusalem, is once again
connected with a "feast of the Jews" (Jn 5:1) - probably the
"Feast of Weeks," or Pentecost. The multiplication of the loaves
and its interpretation in the "bread of life" discourse, which is
the great eucharistic discourse in John's Gospel, occur in the context of
Passover (cf. Jn 6:4). Jesus' next major discourse, where he promises
"rivers of living water" (Jn 7:38c), is set at the time of the
Feast of Tabernacles. Finally, we meet Jesus again in Jerusalem in wintertime
at the Feast of the Dedication of the Temple (Hanukkah) (cf. Jn 10:22).
Jesus' path is brought to completion during his last Passover (cf. Jn 12:1),
when he himself becomes the true Paschal Lamb who pours out his blood on the
Cross. We shall see, moreover, that Jesus' high-priestly prayer, which
contains a subtle eucharistic theology in the form of a theology of his
sacrifice on the Cross, is built up entirely in terms of the theological
content of the Feast of the Atonement. This fundamentally important feast of
Israel thus also feeds crucially into the crafting of Jesus' words and works.
In the next chapter, furthermore, we shall see that the event of Jesus'
Transfiguration recounted by the Synoptics is set in the framework of the
Feast of the Atonement and the Feast of Tabernacles and therefore reflects
the same theological background. Only if we constantly keep in mind the
liturgical context of Jesus' discourses, indeed of the whole structure
of John's Gospel, will we be able to understand its vitality and depth.
All
Jewish festivals, as we shall see below in greater detail, have a triple
basis. The initial stratum is composed of feasts of nature religion, which
connect with creation and with man's search for God through creation; this
then develops into feasts of remembrance, of the recollection and
making-present of God's saving deeds; finally, remembering increasingly takes
on the form of hope for the coming definitive saving deed that is still
awaited. Clearly, then, Jesus' discourses in John's Gospel are not disputes
occasioned by metaphysical questions, but they contain the whole dynamic of
salvation history and, at the same time, they are rooted in creation. They
are ultimately pointers to the One who can simply say of himself: "I
am." It is evident that Jesus' discourses direct us toward worship and
in this sense toward "sacrament," at the same time embracing the
questioning and seeking of all peoples.
After
these introductory considerations, it is time to take a somewhat closer look
at some of the principal images that we find in the Fourth Gospel.
Principal Johannine Images
Water
Water
is the primordial element of life and is therefore also one of the primordial
symbols of humanity. It appears to man in various forms and hence with
various meanings.
The
first form is the spring, water that bursts forth fresh from the womb of the
earth. The spring is origin, beginning, in its as yet unclouded and unspent
purity. The spring thus figures as a truly creative element, as well as being
a symbol of fruitfulness, of maternity.
A
second form is flowing water. The great rivers - the Nile, the Euphrates, and
the Tigris - are the major, seemingly almost godlike sources of life in the
vast lands surrounding Israel. In Israel it is the Jordan River that bestows
life on the land. In connection with Jesus' Baptism, though, we saw that
river symbolism shows another side as well: A river is deep, and so embodies
danger; descent into the deep can therefore signify descent into death, just
as ascent from it can signify rebirth.
The
final form is the sea. It is a power that evokes admiration; its majesty
calls forth amazement. Above all, though, it is feared in its guise as the
counterpart to the earth, the domain of human life. The Creator has assigned
the sea its limits, which it may not transgress: It is not permitted to swallow
up the earth. The crossing of the Red Sea was above all a symbol of salvation
for Israel, but of course it also points to the danger that proved to be the
destiny of the Egyptians. If Christians consider the crossing of the Red Sea
as a prefiguring of Baptism, there in the immediate foreground is the symbolism
of death: It becomes an image of the mystery of the Cross. In order to be
reborn, man must first enter with Christ into the "Red Sea," plunge
with him down into death, in order thus to attain new life with the risen
Lord.
But
let us now turn from these general remarks about water symbolism in religious
history to the Gospel of John. Water symbolism pervades the Gospel from
beginning to end. We meet it for the first time in Jesus' conversation with
Nicodemus in chapter 3. In order to be able to enter the Kingdom of God, man
must be made new, he must become another person - he must be born again of
water and the Spirit (cf. Jn 3:5). What does this mean?
Baptism,
the gateway into communion with Christ, is being interpreted for us here as
rebirth. This rebirth - by analogy with natural birth from the begetting of
the man and the conception of the woman - involves a double principle: God's
spirit and "water, the 'universal mother' of natural life - which grace
raises up in the sacrament to be a sister-image of the virginal Theotokos"
(Rech, Inbild, II, p. 303).
Rebirth
- to put it another way - involves the creative power of God's Spirit, but it
also requires the sacrament of the maternal womb of the receiving and
welcoming Church. Photina Rech cites Tertullian: "Never was Christ
without water" (Tertullian, De baptismo, IX, 4). She then gives
this somewhat enigmatic saying of the early Church writer its correct
interpretation: "Christ never was, and never is, without the Ekklesia"
(Rech, Inbild, II, p. 304). Spirit and water, heaven and earth, Christ
and the Church, belong together. And that is how "rebirth" happens.
In the sacrament, water stands for the maternal earth, the holy Church, which
welcomes creation into herself and stands in place of it.
Immediately
after the conversation with Nicodemus, we meet Jesus at Jacob's well in
chapter 4. The Lord promises the Samaritan woman water that becomes in the
one who drinks it a source springing up into eternal life (cf. Jn 4:14), so
that whoever drinks it will never be thirsty again. In this scene, the
symbolism of the well is associated with Israel's salvation history. Earlier,
at the calling of Nathanael, Jesus had already revealed himself as the new
and greater Jacob. In a nocturnal vision Jacob had seen the angels of God
ascending and descending above the stone he was using for a pillow. Jesus
prophesies to Nathanael that his disciples will see heaven open and the
angels of God ascending and descending above him (cf. Jn 1:51). Here, at
Jacob's well, we encounter Jacob as the great patriarch who by means of this
well had provided water, the basic element of life. But there is a greater
thirst in man - it extends beyond the water from the well, because it seeks a
life that reaches out beyond the biological sphere.
We
will come across this same inner tension in man once more when we come to the
section on bread. Moses gave manna, bread from heaven. But it was still just
earthly "bread." The manna is a promise: The new Moses is also
expected to give bread. Once again, however, something greater than manna has
to be given. Once again we see man reaching out into the infinite, toward
another "bread" that will truly be "bread from heaven."
The
promise of new water and the promise of new bread thus mirror each other.
They both reflect the other dimension of life, for which man can only yearn. John
distinguishes between bios and zoe - between biological life (bios)
and the fullness of life (zoe) that is itself a source and so is not
subject to the dying and becoming that mark the whole of creation. In the
conversation with the Samaritan woman, then, water once again - though now in
a different way - functions as the symbol of the Pneuma, the real life-force,
which quenches man's deeper thirst and gives him plenitude of life, for which
he is waiting without knowing it.
In
the next chapter, chapter 5, water appears more or less in passing. It makes
its appearance in the story of the man who has lain sick for thirty-eight
years. He hopes to be healed by wading into the pool of Bethzatha, but there is
no one to help him into the water. Jesus heals the man by his supreme
authority; he accomplishes for the sick man the very thing the man had hoped
to receive from the healing water. In chapter 7, which, according to a
convincing hypothesis of modern exegesis, in all likelihood originally
followed directly after chapter 5, we find Jesus attending the Feast of
Tabernacles, which involves a solemn ritual of water libation. We will have
to treat this in detail presently.
We
come across water symbolism again in chapter 9, where Jesus heals the man
born blind. The process of healing involves the sick man, on Jesus'
instructions, washing in the Pool of Siloam. In this way he obtains his
sight. "Siloam means, being translated: the One Sent" (Jn 9:7), as
the Evangelist notes for the reader who knows no Hebrew. But this is more
than a philological observation. It is a way of identifying the real cause
of the miracle. For "the One Sent" is Jesus. When all is said and
done, Jesus is the one through whom and in whom the blind man is cleansed so
that he can gain his sight. The whole chapter turns out to be an
interpretation of Baptism, which enables us to see. Christ is the giver of
light, and he opens our eyes through the mediation of the sacrament.
Water
appears with a similar, yet further shade of meaning in chapter 13 - at the
hour of the Last Supper - in connection with the washing of the feet. Jesus
gets up from the table, takes off his upper garment, girds himself with a
linen cloth, pours water into a bowl, and begins to wash the feet of the
disciples (cf. Jn ij^E). The humility of Jesus, in making himself his
followers' slave, is the purifying foot washing that renders us fit to take
our places at God's table.
Finally,
water appears before us again with a mysterious grandeur at the end of the
Passion. Since Jesus is dead, his bones are not broken (Jn 19:31), but one of
the soldiers "pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out
blood and water" (Jn 19:34). There is no doubt that John means to refer
here to the two main sacraments of the Church - Baptism and the Eucharist - which
spring forth from Jesus' opened heart and thus give birth to the Church from
his side.
Now,
John later goes back to the motif of blood and water in his First Letter and
there gives it a new twist: "This is he who came by water and blood,
Jesus Christ, not with the water only but with the water and the blood. . . .
There are three witnesses, the Spirit, the water, and the blood; and these
three are one" (1 Jn 5:6-8). Here John very obviously gives the motif a
polemical turn against a form of Christianity that acknowledges Jesus'
Baptism as a saving event but does not acknowledge his death on the Cross in
the same way. He is responding to a form of Christianity that, so to speak,
wants only the word, but not flesh and blood. Jesus' body and his death
ultimately play no role. So all that is left of Christianity is mere
"water" - without Jesus' bodilmess the word loses its power.
Christianity becomes mere doctrine, mere moralism, an intellectual affair,
but it lacks any flesh and blood. The redemptive character of Jesus' blood is
no longer accepted. It disturbs the intellectual harmony.
Who
could fail to recognize here certain temptations threatening Christianity in
our own times? Water and blood belong together; Incarnation and Cross,
Baptism, word, and sacrament are inseparable from one another. Not only that,
but the Pneuma is needed to complete this triple testimony.
Schnackenburg rightly points out that what is intended here is "the
witness of the Spirit in the church and through the church, as in John 15:26,
16:10" (Johannine Epistles, p. 234).
Let
us turn now to Jesus' words of revelation in the context of the Feast of
Tabernacles that John transmits to us at 7:37-39. On the last day of the
feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and proclaimed, 'If anyone thirst, let
him come to me and drink. He who believes in me, as the Scripture has said, Out
of his heart shall flow rivers of living water.' In the background is the
ritual of the feast, which prescribed that participants should draw water
from the spring at Siloam in order to offer a water libation in the Temple on
each of the seven days of the feast. On the seventh day, the priests
processed seven times around the altar holding a golden water vessel before
ritually pouring out its contents. These water rituals are in the first place
indications of the origin of the feast in the nature religions: The feast
began as an invocatory petition for rain, which was so vitally necessary in a
land chronically threatened by drought. But the ritual was then transformed
into a remembrance of a piece of salvation history, of the water from the
rock that, in spite of all their doubts and fears, God gave the Jews as they
wandered in the desert (cf.. Num 20:1-13).
Finally,
the gift of water from the rock increasingly became a motif of messianic
hope. Moses had given Israel bread from heaven and water from the rock as the
people wandered in the desert. On this pattern, the new Moses, the Messiah,
was expected to give these two essential gifts of life as well. This
messianic interpretation of the gift of water is reflected in Saint Paul's
First Letter to the Corinthians: "All ate the same spiritual food and
all drank the same spiritual drink; for they drank from the spiritual rock
that went with them. But the rock was Christ" (1 Cor l0:f).
In
the words that Jesus speaks during the water ritual, he responds to this
hope: He is the new Moses. He himself is the life-giving rock. Just as in the
bread discourse he reveals himself as the true bread that comes from heaven,
he shows himself here - just as he had done with the Samaritan woman - as the
living water that is the goal of man's deeper thirst, the thirst for life,
for "life in abundance" (Jn 10:10): This life is no longer
conditioned by need that must constantly be satisfied, but it springs up from
within, from deep inside itself. Jesus also answers the questions as to how
one drinks this living water, how one gets to the well and draws from it, by
saying, "He who believes in me . . ." Faith in Jesus is the way we
drink the living water, the way we drink life that is no longer threatened by
death.
But
now we must listen more carefully to the text. It continues: "As the
Scripture has said, Out of his body shall flow rivers of living water"
(Jn 7:38). Out of whose body? Since the earliest times there have been two
different answers to this question. The tradition started by Origen, which is
associated with Alexandria, though the great Latin Fathers Jerome and
Augustine also subscribe to it, reads the text thus: "He who believes .
.. out of his body . . ." The believer himself becomes a spring, an
oasis out of which bubbles up fresh, uncontami-nated water, the life-giving
power of the Creator Spirit. Alongside this tradition there is another,
albeit much less widespread, from Asia Minor, which is closer to John in its
origins. It is documented by Justin (d. 165), Irenaeus, Hippolytus, Cyprian,
and Ephraim of Syria. It punctuates the text differently: "He who
thirsts, let him come to me, and let him who believes in me drink it. As the
Scripture says: out of his body rivers will flow." "His body"
is now applied to Christ: He is the source, the living rock, from which the
new water comes.
From
the purely linguistic point of view, the first interpretation is more
convincing. It has accordingly been adopted by the majority of modern
exegetes - along with the great Church Fathers. In terms of the content,
though, there is more to be said for the second, "Asia Minor"
interpretation, to which Schnackenburg, for example, subscribes, though it
need not be considered to exclude the "Alexandrian" reading. An
important key to the interpretation of this passage lies in the phrase
"as the Scripture says." Jesus attaches great importance to being
in continuity with the Scripture, in continuity with God's history with men.
The whole Gospel of John, as well as the Synoptic Gospels and the entirety of
the New Testament writings, justify faith in Jesus by showing that all the
currents of Scripture come together in him, that he is the focal point in
terms of which the overall coherence of Scripture comes to light - everything
is waiting for him, everything is moving toward him.
A thematic
vision of the Scriptures
But
where does Scripture speak of this living spring? John is obviously not
thinking of any one particular passage, but precisely of "the
Scripture," of a vision that runs through its texts. We have just come
across one of the principal clues: The story of the water issuing from the
rock, a story that became an image of hope in Israel. Ezekiel 47:1-12
furnishes us with the second major clue, the vision of the new Temple:
"And behold, water was issuing from below the threshold of the Temple
toward the east" (Ezek 47:1). A good fifty years later Zechariah
returned to this image: "On that day there shall be a fountain opened
for the house of David and the inhabitantsof Jerusalem to cleanse them from
sin and uncleanness" (Zech 13:1), "On that day living waters shall
flow out from Jerusalem" (Zech 14:8). The final chapter of the Bible
reinterprets these images and at the same time manifests their full greatness
for the first time: "Then he showed me the river of the water of life,
bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb" (Rev
22:1).
Our
brief consideration of the cleansing of the Temple has already shown us that
John sees the risen Lord, his body, as the new Temple, which is awaited not
just by the Old Testament, but by all peoples (cf. Jn 2:21). We thus have
good reason to hear a reference to the new Temple echoing through Jesus'
words about the streams of living waters: Yes, this Temple exists. The
promised river of life that decontaminates the briny soil and allows the
fullness of life to ripen and bear fruit really does exist. It is He who, in
"loving to the end," endured the Cross and now lives with a life
that can never again be threatened by death. It is the living Christ.
Accordingly, Jesus' words during the Feast of Tabernacles not only point
forward to the new Jerusalem where God himself lives and is the fountain of
life, but also point immediately ahead to the body of the Crucified, out of
which blood and water flow (cf. Jn 19:34). It shows the body of Jesus to be
the real Temple, built not of stone nor by human hands; hence - because it
signifies the living indwelling of God in the world - it is, and will
remain, the source of life for all ages.
A river
flowing through the ages
If
one looks at history with a keen eye, one can see this river flowing through
the ages from Golgotha, from Jesus crucified and risen. One can see that,
wherever this river reaches, the earth is decontaminated and fruit-bearing
trees grow up; one can see that life, real life, flows from this spring of
love that has given itself and continues to give itself.
The
application of this passage primarily to Christ - as we saw earlier - does
not have to exclude a secondary interpretation referring to the believer. A
saying from the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas (108) points in a
direction compatible with John's Gospel: "Whoever drinks from my mouth
shall become as I am" (Barrett, Gospel, p. 328). The believer
becomes one with Christ and participates in his fruitfulness. The man who
believes and loves with Christ becomes a well that gives life. That, too, is
something that is wonderfully illustrated in history: The saints are oases
around which life sprouts up and something of the lost paradise returns. And
ultimately, Christ himself is always the well-spring who pours himself forth
in such abundance.
Vine and
Wine
Whereas
water is a basic element of life for all creatures on earth, wheat bread,
wine, and olive oil are gifts typical of Mediterranean culture. The creation
Psalm 104 first of all mentions the grass that God has appointed for the
cattle and then goes on to speak of the gifts God gives to men through the
earth: the bread that man produces from the earth, the wine that gladdens his
heart, and finally the oil that makes his face shine. It then returns to
speak of the bread that strengthens man's heart (cf. Ps 104:14^. Along with
water, the three great gifts of the earth subsequently became the basic
elements of the Church's sacraments, in which the fruits of creation are
transformed into bearers of God's historical action, into "signs,"
in which he bestows upon us his special closeness.
Each
of the three gifts has a special character that sets it apart from the
others, so that each one functions as a sign in its own way. Bread, in its
simplest form prepared from water and ground wheat - though the element of
fire and human work clearly have a part to play - is the basic foodstuff. It
belongs to the poor and the rich alike, but especially to the poor. It
represents the goodness of creation and of the Creator, even as it stands for
the humble simplicity of daily life. Wine, on the other hand, represents
feasting. It gives man a taste of the glory of creation. In this sense, it
forms part of the rituals of the Sabbath, of Passover, of marriage feasts.
And it allows us to glimpse something of the definitive feast God will
celebrate with man, the goal of all Israel's expectations: "On this
mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of fat things, a
feast of wine on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on the lees
well refined" (Is 25:6). Finally, oil gives man strength and
beauty; it has the power to heal and nourish. It signifies a higher calling
in the anointing of prophets, kings, and priests.
As
far as I can see, olive oil does not figure in John's Gospel. The precious
"oil of nard" that Mary of Bethany uses to anoint the Lord before
he enters upon his Passion (cf. Jn 12:3) was thought to be of Oriental
origin. In this scene, it appears, first, as a sign of the sacred
extravagance of love and, second, as a reference to death and Resurrection.
We come across bread in the scene of the multiplication of the loaves, which
the Synoptics also document in great detail, and immediately after that in
the great eucharistic discourse in John's Gospel. The gift of new wine
occupies a central place in the wedding at Cana (cf. Jn 2:1-12), while in his
Farewell Discourses Jesus presents himself to us as the true vine (cf. Jn
15:1-10).
Let
us focus on these two texts. The miracle of Cana seems at first sight to be
out of step with the other signs that Jesus performs. What are we supposed to
make of the fact that Jesus produces a huge surplus of wine - about 520
liters - for a private party? We need to look more closely to realize that
this is not at all about a private luxury, but about something much greater.
The first important detail is the timing. "On the third day there was a
marriage at Cana in Galilee" (Jn 2:1). It is not quite clear what
previous date this "third day" is related to - which shows all the
more plainly that what matters to the Evangelist is precisely the symbolic
time reference, which he gives us as a key to understanding the event.
Cana as
theophany
In
the Old Testament, the third day is the time for theophany, as, for example,
in the central account of the meeting between God and Israel on Sinai:
"On the morning of the third day there were thunders and lightnings. . .
. The Lord descended upon it in fire" (Ex 19:16-18). At the same time
what we have here is a prefiguring of history's final and decisive
theophany: the Resurrection of Christ on the third day, when God's former
encounters with man become his definitive irruption upon earth, when the
earth is torn open once and for all and drawn into God's own life. What John
is hinting at here, then, is that at Cana God first reveals himself in a way
that carries forward the events of the Old Testament, all of which have the
character of a promise and are now straining toward their definitive
fulfillment. The exegetes have reckoned up the number of the preceding days
in John's Gospel that are taken up with the calling of the disciples (e.g.,
Barrett, Gospel, p. 190). The conclusion is that this "third
day" would be the sixth or seventh day since Jesus began calling the
disciples. If it were the seventh day, then it would be, so to speak, the day
of God's feast for humanity, an anticipation of the definitive Sabbath as
described, for example, in the prophecy of Isaiah cited above.
Jesus' hour
There
is another basic element of the narrative linked to this timing. Jesus says
to Mary that his hour has not yet come. On an immediate level, this means
that he does not simply act and decide by his own lights, but always in
harmony with the Father's will and always in terms of the Father's plan. More
particularly, the "hour" designates his "glorification,"
which brings together his Cross, his Resurrection, and his presence
throughout the world in word and sacrament. Jesus' hour, the hour of his
"glory," begins at the moment of the Cross, and its historical
setting is the moment when the Passover lambs are slaughtered - it is just
then that Jesus, the true lamb, pours out his blood. His hour comes from God,
but it is solidly situated in a precise historical context tied to a
liturgical date - and just so it is the beginning of the new liturgy in
"spirit and truth." When at this juncture Jesus speaks to Mary of
his hour, he is connecting the present moment with the mystery of the Cross
interpreted as his glorification. This hour is not yet come; that was the first
thing that had to be said. And yet Jesus has the power to anticipate this
"hour" in a mysterious sign. This stamps the miracle of Cana as an
anticipation of the hour, tying the two together intrinsically.
How
could we forget that this thrilling mystery of the anticipated hour continues
to occur again and again? Just as at his mother's request Jesus gives a sign
that anticipates his hour, and at the same time directs our gaze toward it,
so too he does the same thing ever anew in the Eucharist. Here, in response
to the Church's prayer, the Lord anticipates his return; he comes already
now; he celebrates the marriage feast with us here and now. In so doing, he
lifts us out of our own time toward the coming "hour."
We
thus begin to understand the event of Cana. The sign of God is overflowing
generosity. We see it in the multiplication of the loaves; we see it again
and again - most of all, though, at the center of salvation history, in the
fact that he lavishly spends himself for the lowly creature, man. This
abundant giving is his "glory." The superabundance of Cana is
therefore a sign that God's feast with humanity, his self-giving for men, has
begun. The framework of the event, the wedding, thus becomes an image that
points beyond itself to the messianic hour: The hour of God's marriage feast
with his people has begun in the coming of Jesus. The promise of the last
days enters into the Now.
"Bridegroom"
of his people
This
links the story of Cana with Saint Mark's account of the question posed to
Jesus by the disciples of John the Baptist and the Pharisees: Why don't your
disciples fast? Jesus answers: "Can the wedding guests fast so long as
the bride-groom is among them?" (Mk 2:18f.). Jesus identifies himself
here as the "bridegroom" of God's promised marriage with his people
and, by doing so, he mysteriously places his own existence, himself, within
the mystery of God. In him, in an unexpected way, God and man become one,
become a "marriage," though this marriage - as Jesus subsequently
points out - passes through the Cross, through the "taking away" of
the bridegroom.
There
remain two aspects of the Cana story for us to ponder if we wish in some
sense to explore its Christological depth - the self-revelation of Jesus and
his "glory" that we encounter in the narrative. Water, set aside
for the purpose of ritual purification, is turned into wine, into a sign and
a gift of nuptial joy. This brings to light something of the fulfillment of
the Law that is accomplished in Jesus' being and doing.
The
Law is not denied, it is not thrust aside. Rather, its inner expectation is
brought to fulfillment. Ritual purification in the end is just ritual, a
gesture of hope. It remains "water," just as everything man does on
his own remains "water" before God. Ritual purification is in the
end never sufficient to make man capable of God, to make him really
"pure" for God. Water becomes wine. Man's own efforts now encounter
the gift of God, who gives himself and thereby creates the feast of joy that
can only be instituted by the presence of God and his gift.
The
Dionysus story
The
historical study of comparative religion likes to claim the myth of Dionysus
as a pre-Christian parallel to the story of Cana. Dionysus was the god who was
supposed to have discovered the vine and also to have changed water into wine
- a mythical event that was also celebrated liturgically. The great Jewish
theologian Philo of Alexandria (ca. 13 B.C. - A.D. 45/50) gave this story a
demythologizing reinterpretation: The true giver of wine, Philo says, is the
divine Logos; he is the one who gives us the joy, the sweetness, and the
cheerfulness of true wine. Philo then goes on to anchor his Logos theology
onto a figure from salvation history, onto Melchisedek, who offered bread and
wine. In Melchisedek it is the Logos who is acting and giving us the gifts
that are essential for human living. By the same token, the Logos appears as
the priest of a cosmic liturgy (Barrett, Gospel, p. 188).
Whether
John had such a background in mind is doubtful, to say the least. But since
Jesus himself in interpreting his mission referred to Psalm no, which
features the priesthood of Melchisedek (cf. Mk 12:35 - 37); since the Letter
to the Hebrews, which is theologically akin to the Gospel of John, explicitly
develops a theology of Melchisedek; since John presents Jesus as the Logos of
God and as God himself; since, finally, the Lord gave bread and wine as the
bearers of the New Covenant, it is certainly not forbidden to think in terms of
such connections and so to see shining through the Cana story the mystery of
the Logos and of his cosmic liturgy, which fundamentally transforms the myth
of Dionysus, and yet also brings it to its hidden truth.
The Lord's
Vineyard
While
the Cana story deals with the fruit of the vine and the rich symbolism
that goes with it, in chapter 15 - in the context of the Farewell Discourses -
John takes up once more the ancient traditional image of the vine itself, and
brings to fulfillment the vision that is presented there. In order to
understand this discourse of Jesus, it is necessary to consider at least one
foundational Old Testament text based on the vine motif and to ponder briefly
a related parable in the Synoptics that takes up and refashions the Old Testament
text.
Isaiah
5:1 - 7 presents us with a song about a vineyard. The Prophet probably sang
it in the context of the Feast of Tabernacles, in the context of the
cheerful atmosphere characteristic of this eight-day feast (cf. Deut 16:14).
It 's easy to imagine many different sorts
of performances going on in the areas between the booths built of leaves and
branches, and the Prophet himself mingling with the celebrating people and
announcing a love song about his friend and his vineyard.
Everyone
knew that "vineyard" was an image for a bride (cf. Song 2:15,
7:12f), so they were expecting some entertainment suited to the festive
atmosphere. And the song does start off on a good note: The friend had a
vineyard on rich soil, planted choice grapes on it, and did everything he
could to make them flourish. But then the mood suddenly changes: The vineyard
is a disappointment, and instead of choice fruit, it produces nothing but
inedible sour grapes, small and hard. The audience understands what that
means: The bride was unfaithful, disappointing the trust and hope, disappointing
the love that the friend had expected. How will the story continue? The
friend hands over his vineyard to be plundered - he repudiates the bride,
leaving her in the dishonor for which she has no one but herself to blame.
It
suddenly becomes clear that the vineyard, the bride, is Israel - it is the
very people who are present. God gave them the way of justice in the Torah,
he loved them, he did everything for them, and they have answered him with
unjust action and a regime of injustice. The love song has become a threat of
judgment. It finishes with a gloomy prospect - that of God's abandonment of
Israel, with no sign at this stage of any further promise. Isaiah points to
the situation that the Psalmist later describes in a lament before God in
deep anguish at its having come to pass: "Thou didst bring a vine out of
Egypt; thou didst drive out the nations and plant it. Thou didst clear the
ground for it. ... Why then hast thou broken down its walls, so that all who
pass along the way plunder its fruit?" (Ps 80:9-13). In the Psalm,
lament leads into petition: "Have regard for this vine, the stock which
thy right hand planted. . . . Restore us, O Lord God of hosts! let thy face
shine, that we may be saved!" (Ps 80:16-20).
Despite
everything that had happened to Israel since the Exile, it found itself again
in essentially the same situation at the time when Jesus lived and spoke to
the heart of his people. In a late parable, told on the eve of his Passion,
he takes up the song of Isaiah in a modified form (cf. Mk 12:1-12). His
discourse no longer uses the vine as the image of Israel, however. Rather,
Israel is now represented by the tenants of a vineyard whose owner has gone
on a journey and from a far country demands the fruits owed him. The history
of God's constantly renewed struggle for and with Israel is depicted in a
succession of "servants" who come at the owners behest to collect
the rent, the agreed-on portion of the fruits, from the tenants. The history
of the Prophets, their sufferings, and the futility of their efforts appear
through the narrative, which tells that the servants are manhandled, even
killed.
Finally,
the owner makes a last-ditch effort: He sends his "beloved son,"
who, being the heir, can also enforce the owners claim to the rent in court
and for that reason is entitled to hope for respect. Just the opposite
happens. The tenants kill the son, precisely because he is the heir; his
death, they think, will pave the way for them to take possession of the
vineyard once and for all. Jesus continues the parable thus: "What will
the owner of the vineyard do? He will come and destroy the tenants, and give
the vineyard to others" (Mk 12:9).
At
this point, as in Isaiah s song, the parable that seemed to be just a story
about the past crosses over into the situation of the audience. History
suddenly enters the present. The audience knows he is saying to them: Just as
the Prophets were abused and killed, so now you want to kill me: I'in talking
about you and about me (cf. verse 12).
The
modern interpretation ends at this point. It thus relegates the parable to
the past again; the parable, it seems, speaks only of what happened back
then, of the rejection of Jesus' message by his contemporaries, of his death
on the Cross. But the Lord always speaks in the present and with an eye to
the future. He is also speaking with us and about us. If we open our eyes,
isn't what is said in the parable actually a description of our present
world? Isn't this precisely the logic of the modern age, of our age? Let us
declare that God is dead, then we ourselves will be God. At last we no
longer belong to anyone else; rather, we are simply the owners of ourselves
and of the world. At last we can do what we please. We get rid of God; there
is no measuring rod above us; we ourselves are our only measure. The
"vineyard" belongs to us. What happens to man and the world next?
We are already beginning to see it. ...
Let
us return to the text of the parable. When Isaiah arrived at this point,
there was no promise in sight; in the Psalm, just as the threat was being
fulfilled, suffering turned to prayer. This, again and again, is the
situation of Israel, of the Church, and of humanity. Again and again we find
ourselves in the darkness of trial and have no recourse but to call upon God:
Raise us up again! But Jesus' words contain a promise - the beginning of an
answer to the prayer: "take care of this vineyard." The Kingdom is
handed over to other servants - this statement is both a threat of judgment
and a promise. It means that the Lord stands by his vineyard, without being
bound to its present servants. This threat-promise applies not only to the
ruling classes, about whom and with whom Jesus is speaking. It continues to
apply among the new People of God as well - not, of course, to the whole
Church, but repeatedly to the particular churches, as the Risen Lord's words
to the Church at Ephesus show: "Repent and do the works you did at
first. If not, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its
place" (Rev 2:5).
The
threat and promise that the vineyard will be handed over to other servants is
followed, though, by a promise of a much more fundamental nature. The Lord
cites Psalm 118:226 "The stone which the builders rejected has become
the cornerstone." The death of the son is not the last word. He is
killed, but he does not remain in death, he does not remain
"rejected." He becomes a new beginning. Jesus gives his audience to
understand that he himself will be the Son who is killed; he foretells his
Cross and Resurrection and prophesies that upon him, when he has been killed
and has risen, God will erect a new building, a new Temple in the world.
God's new
Temple
The
image of the vine is abandoned and replaced by the image of God's living
building. The Cross is not an end, but a new beginning. The song of the
vineyard does not end with the killing of the son. It opens the prospect that
God will do something new. The affinity with John 2, which speaks of the
destruction of the Temple and its reconstruction, is impossible to overlook.
God does not fail; we may be unfaithful, but he is always faithful (cf. 2 Tim
2:13). He finds new and greater ways for his love. The indirect Christology
of the early parables is transcended here into a fully open Christological
statement.
The
parable of the vine in Jesus' Farewell Discourses continues the whole history
of biblical thought and language on the subject of the vine and discloses its
ultimate depth. "I am the true vine," the Lord says (Jn 15:1). The
word true is the first important thing to notice about this saying.
Barrett makes the excellent observation that "fragments of meaning,
obscurely hinted at by other vines, are gathered up and made explicit by him.
He is the true vine" (Gospel, p. 473). But the really
important thing about this saying is the opening: "I am." The Son
identifies himself with the vine; he himself has become the vine. He has let
himself be planted in the earth. He has entered into the vine: The mystery of
the Incarnation, which John spoke of in the prologue to his Gospel, is taken
up again here in a surprising new way. The vine is no longer merely a
creature that God looks upon with love, but that he can still uproot and
reject. In the Son, he himself has become the vine; he has forever identified
himself, his very being, with the vine.
This
vine can never again be uprooted or handed over to be plundered. It belongs
once and for all to God; through the Son God himself lives in it. The promise
has become irrevocable, the unity indestructible. God has taken this great
new step withm history, and this constitutes the deepest content of the
parable. Incarnation, death, and Resurrection come to be seen in their full
breadth: "For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, whom we preached among you .
. . was not Yes and No; but in him it is always Yes. For all the promises of
God find their Yes in him" (2 Cor 1:19f), as Saint Paul puts it.
The
idea that through Christ the vine has become the Son himself is a new one,
and yet the ground for it has been prepared in biblical tradition. Psalm
80:18 closely associates the "Son of Man" with the vine.
Conversely: Although the Son has now himself become the vine, this is
precisely his method for remaining one with his own, with all the scattered
children of God whom he has come to gather (cf. Jn 11:52). The vine is a
Christological title that as such embodies a whole ecclesiology. The vine
signifies Jesus' inseparable oneness with his own, who through him and with
him are all "vine," and whose calling is to "remain" in
the vine. John does not make use of the Pauline image of the "Body of
Christ." But the parable of the vine expresses substantially the same
idea: the fact that Jesus is inseparable from his own, and that they are one
with him and in him. In this sense, the discourse about the vine indicates
the irrevocability of the gift God has given, never to take it back again. In
becoming incarnate, God has bound himself. At the same time, though, the
discourse speaks of the demands that this gift places upon us in ever new
ways.
Purification
to produce Fruit
The
vine, we said, can no longer be uprooted or handed over to be plundered. It
does, however, constantly need purification. Purification, fruit, remaining,
commandment, love, unity - these are the key words for this drama of being in
and with the Son in the vine that the Lord's words place before our soul.
Purification - the Church and the individual need constant purification.
Processes of purification, which are as necessary as they are painful, run
through the whole of history, the whole life of those who have dedicated
themselves to Christ. The mystery of death and resurrection is ever present
in these purifications. When man and his institutions climb too high, they
need to be cut back; what has become too big must be brought back to the
simplicity and poverty of the Lord himself. It is only by undergoing such
processes of dying away that fruitfulness endures and renews itself.
The
goal of purification is fruit, the Lord tells us. What sort of fruit is it
that he expects? Let us begin by looking at the fruit that he himself has
borne by dying and rising. Isaiah and the whole prophetic tradition spoke of
how God expected grapes, and thus choice wine, from his vine. This was an
image of the righteousness, the rectitude that consists in living within the
Word and will of God. The same tradition says that what God finds instead are
useless, small, sour grapes that he can only throw away. This was an image of
life lived away from God's righteousness amid injustice, corruption, and
violence. The vine is meant to bear choice grapes that through the process of
picking, pressing, and fermentation will produce excellent wine.
The Vine
and the Eucharist
Let
us recall that the parable of the vine occurs in the context of Jesus' Last
Supper. After the multiplication of the loaves he had spoken of the true
bread from heaven that he would give, and thus he left us with a profound
interpretation of the eucharistic bread that was to come. It is hard to believe
that in his discourse on the vine he is not tacitly alluding to the new wine
that had already been prefigured at Cana and which he now gives to us - the
wine that would flow from his Passion, from his "love to the end"
(Jn 13:1). In this sense, the parable of the vine has a thoroughly
eucharistic background. It refers to the fruit that Jesus brings forth: his
love, which pours itself out for us on the Cross and which is the choice new
wine destined for God's marriage feast with man. Thus we come to understand
the full depth and grandeur of the Eucharist, even though it is not
explicitly mentioned here. The Eucharist points us toward the fruit that we,
as branches of the vine, can and must bear with Christ and by virtue of
Christ. The fruit the Lord expects of us is love - a love that accepts with
him the mystery of the Cross, and becomes a participation in his self-giving -
and hence the true justice that prepares the world for the Kingdom of God.
Purification
and fruit belong together; only by undergoing God's purifications can we
bear the fruit that flows into the eucharistic mystery and so leads to the
marriage feast that is the goal toward which God directs history. Fruit and
love belong together: The true fruit is the love that has passed through the
Cross, through God's purifications. "Remaining" is an essential
part of all this. In verses i-10 the word remain (in Greek meneiri)
occurs ten times. What the Church Fathers call perseverantia - patient
steadfastness in communion with the Lord amid all the vicissitudes of life - is
placed center stage here. Initial enthusiasm is easy. Afterward, though, it
is time to stand firm, even along the monotonous desert paths that we are
called upon to traverse in this life - with the patience it takes to tread
evenly, a patience in which the romanticism of the initial awakening
subsides, so that only the deep, pure Yes of faith remains. This is the way
to produce good wine. After the brilliant illuminations of the initial moment
of his conversion, Augustine had a profound experience of this toilsome
patience, and that is how he learned to love the Lord and to rejoice deeply
at having found him.
If the fruit we are to bear is love, its prerequisite
is this "remaining," which is profoundly connected with the kind of
faith that holds on to the Lord and does not let go. Verse 7 speaks of prayer
as an essential element of this remaining:
Those who pray are promised that they will
surely be heard. Of course, to pray in the name of Jesus is not to make an ordinary
petition, but to ask for the essential gift that Jesus characterizes as
"joy" in the Farewell Discourses, while Luke calls it the Holy
Spirit (cf. Lk 11:13) - tne two being ultimately the same.
Jesus' words about remaining in his love already point ahead to the last
verse of his high-priestly prayer (cf. Jn 17:26) and thus connect the vine
discourse with the great theme of unity, for which the Lord prays to the
Father at the Last Supper.
Bread
We
have already dealt extensively with the bread motif in connection with Jesus'
temptations. We have seen that the temptation to turn the desert rocks into
bread raises the whole question of the Messiah's mission, and that through
the devil's distortion of this mission Jesus' positive answer can already be
glimpsed; this answer then becomes explicit once and for all in the gift of
his body as bread for the life of the world on the eve of his Passion. We
have also encountered the bread motif in our exposition of the fourth
petition of the Our Father, where we tried to survey the different dimensions
of this petition, and thus to explore the full range of the bread theme. At
the end of Jesus' activity in Galilee, he performs the multiplication of the loaves;
on one hand, it is an unmistakable sign of Jesus' messianic mission, while on
the other, it is also the crossroads of his public ministry, which from this
point leads clearly to the Cross. All three Synoptic Gospels tell of a
miraculous feeding of five thousand men (cf. Mt 14:13 - 21; Mk 6:32 - 44; Lk
9:10b-17); Matthew and Mark tell of an additional feeding of four thousand
(cf. Mt 15:32-38; Mk 8:1-9).
The two stories have a rich
theological content that we cannot enter into here. I will restrict myself to
John's story of the multiplication of the loaves (cf. Jn 6:1-15), not
in order to study it in depth, but rather to focus upon the interpretation
that Jesus gives of this event in his great bread of life discourse the
following day in the synagogue on the other side of the lake. One more
qualification is in order: We cannot consider the details of this discourse,
which the exegetes have discussed at length and analyzed thoroughly. I would
merely like to draw out its principal message and, above all, to situate it
in the context of the whole tradition to which it belongs and in terms
of which it has to be understood.
The
fundamental context in which the entire chapter belongs is centered upon the
contrast between Moses and Jesus. Jesus is the definitive, greater Moses - the
"prophet" whom Moses foretold in his discourse at the border of the
Holy Land and concerning whom God said, "I will put my words in his
mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I command him" (Deut 18:18).
It is no accident, then, that the following statement occurs between the
multiplication of the loaves and the attempt to make Jesus king: "This
is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world!" (Jn 6:14). In a
very similar vein, after the saving about the water of life on the Feast of
Tabernacles, the people say: "This is really the prophet" (Jn
7:40). The Mosaic background provides the context for the claim that Jesus
makes. Moses struck the rock in the desert and out flowed water; Jesus
promises the water of life, as we have seen. The great gift, though, which
stood out in the people's memory, was the manna. Moses gave bread from
heaven; God himself fed the wandering people of Israel with heavenly bread.
For a people who often went hungry and struggled to earn their daily bread, this
was the promise of promises, which somehow said everything there was to say:
relief of every want - a gift that satisfied hunger for all and forever.
Before
we take up this idea, which is the key to understanding chapter 6 of John's
Gospel, we must first complete the picture of Moses, because this is the only
way to focus upon John's picture of Jesus. The central point from which we
started in this book, and to which we keep returning, is that Moses spoke
face-to-face with God, "as a man speaks to his friend" (Ex 33:11;
cf. Deut 34:10). It was only because he spoke with God himself that Moses
could bring God's word to men. But, although this immediate relationship with
God is the heart and inner foundation of Moses' mission, a shadow lies over
it. For when Moses says, "I beg you, show me thy glory," at the
very moment when the text affirms that he is God's friend who has direct
access to him, he receives this answer: "While my glory passes by I will
put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I
have passed by; then I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back; but
my face shall not be seen" (Ex 33:18, 22f). Even Moses sees only God's
back - his face "shall not be seen." The limits to which even Moses
is subject now become clear.
Revealing
God
The
saying at the end of the prologue is the decisive key to the image of Jesus
in John's Gospel: "No one has ever seen God; it is the only Son, who is
nearest to the Father's heart, who has made him known" (Jn 1:18). Only
the one who is God sees God - Jesus. He truly speaks from his vision of
theFather, from unceasing dialogue with the Father, a dialogue that is his
life. If Moses only showed us, and could only show us, God's back, Jesus, by
contrast, is the Word that comes from God, from a living vision of him, from
unity with him. Connected with this are two further gifts to Moses that
attain their final form in Christ. First, God communicated his name to Moses,
thereby making possible a relationship between himself and human beings; by handing
on the name revealed to him, Moses acts as mediator of a real relationship
between men and the living God. We have already reflected on this point in
our consideration of the first petition of the Our Father. Now, in his
high-priestly prayer Jesus stresses that he has revealed God's name, that he
has brought to completion this aspect too of the work begun by Moses. When
we consider the high-priestly prayer, we will have to investigate this claim
more closely: In what sense has Jesus gone beyond Moses in revealing God's
"name"?
The
other gift to Moses - which is closely connected with the vision of God and
the communication of his name, as well as with the manna - is the gift that
gives Israel its identity as God's people in the first place: the Torah, the
word of God that points out the way and leads to life. Israel realized with
increasing clarity that this was Moses' fundamental and enduring gift, that
what really set Israel apart was this knowledge of God's will and so of the
right path of life. The great Psalm 119 is a single outburst of joy and
gratitude for this gift. A one-sided view of the Law, arising from a
one-sided interpretation of Pauline theology, prevents us from seeing this
joy of Israel: the joy of knowing God's will, and so of being privileged to
live in accordance with God's will.
The Bread
as Sign
This
observation brings us back to the bread of life discourse, surprising as that
may seem. For as Jewish thought developed inwardly, it became increasingly
plain that the real bread from heaven that fed and feeds Israel is precisely
the Law - the word of God. The Wisdom Literature presents the wisdom that is
substantially accessible and present in the Law as "bread" (Prov
9:5); the rabbinic literature went on to develop this idea further (Barrett, Cospel,
p. 290). This is the perspective from which we need to understand Jesus'
dispute with the Jews assembled in the synagogue at Capernaum. Jesus begins
by pointing out that they have failed to understand the multiplication of
the loaves as a "sign," which is its true meaning. Rather, what
interested them was eating and having their fill (cf. Jn 6:26). They have
been looking at salvation in purely material terms, as a matter of universal
well-being, and they have therefore reduced man, leaving God out altogether.
But if they see the manna only as a means of satisfying their hunger, they
need to realize that even the manna was not heavenly bread, but only earthly
bread. Even though it came from "heaven," it was earthly food - or
rather a food substitute that would necessarily cease when Israel emerged
from the desert back into inhabited country.
But
man hungers for more. He needs more. The gift that feeds man as man must be
greater, must be on a wholly different level. Is the Torah this other food?
It is in some sense true that in and through the Torah, man can make God's
will his food (cf. Jn 4:34). So the Torah is "bread" from God,
then. And yet it shows us only God's back, so to speak. It is a
"shadow." "For the bread of God is that which comes down from
heaven, and gives life to the world" (Jn 6:33). As the audience still
does not understand, Jesus repeats himself even more unambiguously: "I
am the bread of life; he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who
believes in me shall never thirst" (Jn 6:35).
The Law has
become a person
The
Law has become a person. When we encounter Jesus, we feed on the
living God himself, so to speak; we truly eat "bread from heaven."
By the same token, Jesus has already made it clear that the only work God demands
is the work of believing in him. Jesus' audience had asked him: "What
must we do, to be doing the works of God?" (Jn 6:28). The text uses here
the Greek word ergdzesthai, which means "to perform a work"
(Barrett, Gospel, p. 287). Jesus' listeners are ready to work, to do
something, to perform "works," in order to receive this bread. But
it cannot be "earned" by human work, by one's own achievement. It
can only come to us as a gift from God, as God's work. The whole of
Pauline theology is present in this dialogue. The highest things, the things
that really matter, we cannot achieve on our own; we have to accept them as
gifts and enter into the dynamic of the gift, so to speak. This happens in
the context of faith in Jesus, who is dialogue - a living relationship with
the Father - and who wants to become Word and love in us as well.
Nourished
on God
But
the question as to how we can "feed" on God, live on God, in such a
way that he himself becomes our bread - -this question is not yet fully
answered by what has just been said. God becomes "bread" for us
first of all in the Incarnation of the Logos: The Word takes on flesh. The
Logos becomes one of us and so comes down to our level, comes into the sphere
of what is accessible to us. Yet a further step is still needed beyond even
the Incarnation of the Word. Jesus names this step in the concluding words of
his discourse: His flesh is life "for" the world (Jn 6:51). Beyond
the act of the Incarnation, this points to its intrinsic goal and ultimate
realization: Jesus' act of giving himself up to death and the mystery of the
Cross.
This
is made even clearer in verse 53, where the Lord adds that he will give us
his blood to "drink." These words are not only a manifest allusion
to the Eucharist. Above all they point to what underlies the Eucharist: the
sacrifice of Jesus, who sheds his blood for us, and in so doing steps out of
himself, so to speak, pours himself out, and gives himself to us.
In
this chapter, then, the theology of the Incarnation and the theology of the
Cross come together: the two cannot be separated. There are thus no grounds
for setting up an opposition between the Easter theology of the Synoptics and
Saint Paul, on one hand, and Saint John's supposedly purely incarnational
theology, on the other. For the goal of the Word's becoming-flesh spoken of
by the prologue is precisely the offering of his body on the Cross, which the
sacrament makes accessible to us. John is following here the same line of
thinking that the Letter to the Hebrews develops on the basis of Psalm
40:6-8: "Sacrifices and offerings you did refuse - you have prepared a
body for me" (Heb 10:5). Jesus becomes man in order to give himself and
to take the place of the animal sacrifices, which could only be a gesture of
longing, but not an answer.
Eucharist
as unceasing encounter
Jesus'
bread discourse, on one hand, points the main movement of the Incarnation and
of the Paschal journey toward the sacrament, in which Incarnation and Easter
are permanently present, but conversely, this has the effect of integrating
the sacrament, the Holy Eucharist, into the larger context of God's descent
to us and for us. On one hand, then, the Eucharist emphatically moves right
to the center of Christian existence; here God does indeed give us the manna
that humanity is waiting for, the true "bread of heaven" - the
nourishment we can most deeply live upon as human beings. At the same time,
however, the Eucharist is revealed as man's unceasing great encounter with
God, in which the Lord gives himself as "flesh," so that in him,
and by participating in his way, we may become "spirit." Just as
he was transformed through the Cross into a new manner of bodili-ness and of
being-human pervaded by God's own being, so too for us this food must become
an opening out of our exis-tence, a passing through the Cross, and an
anticipation of the new life in God and with God.
This
is why at the conclusion of the discourse, which places such emphasis on
Jesus' becoming flesh and our eating and drinking the "flesh and blood
of the Lord," Jesus says: "it is the spirit that gives life, the
flesh is of no avail" (Jn 6:63). This may remind us of Saint Paul's
words: "The first man Adam became a living being; the last Adam became a
life-giving spirit" (1 Cor 15:45). This in no way diminishes the realism
of "becoming-flesh." Yet the Paschal perspective of the sacrament
is underlined: Only through the Cross and through the transformation that it
effects does this flesh become accessible to us, drawing us up into the
process of transformation. Eucharistic piety needs to be constantly learning
from this great Christological - indeed, cosmic - dynamism.
The grain
of wheat
In
order to understand the full depth of Jesus' bread discourse, we must finally
take a brief look at one of the key sayings of John's Gospel. Jesus
pronounces it on Palm Sunday as he looks ahead to the universal Church that
will embrace Jews and Greeks - all the peoples of the world: "Unless a
grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it
dies, it bears much fruit" (Jn 12:24). What we call "bread"
contains the mystery of the Passion. Before there can be bread, the seed - the
grain of wheat - first has to be placed in the earth, it has to
"die," and then the new ear can grow out of this death. Earthly
bread can become the bearer of Christ's presence because it contains in
itself the mystery of the Passion, because it unites in itself death and
resurrection. This is why the world's religions used bread as the basis for
myths of death and resurrection of the godhead, in which man expressed his
hope for life out of death.
In
this connection, Cardinal Christoph Schonborn reminds us of the conversion of
the great British writer C. S. Lewis; Lewis, having read a twelve-volume work
about these myths, came to the conclusion that this Jesus who took bread in
his hands and said, "This is my body," was just "another corn
divinity, a corn king who lays down his life for the life of the world."
One day, however, he overheard a firm atheist remarking to a colleague that
the evidence for the historicity of the Gospels was actually surprisingly
good. The atheist then paused thoughtfully and said: "About the dying
God. Rum thing. It almost looks as if it really happened once" (Schonborn,
Weihnacht, pp. 23f).
Jesus is no
myth
Yes,
it really did happen. Jesus is no myth. He is a man of flesh and blood and he
stands as a fully real part of history. We can go to the very places where he
himself went. We can hear his words through his witnesses. He died and he is
risen. It is as if the mysterious Passion contained in bread had waited for
him, had stretched out its arms toward him; it is as if the myths had waited
for him, because in him what they long for came to pass. The same is true of
wine. It too con-tains the Passion in itself, for the grape had to be pressed
in order to become wine. The Fathers gave this hidden language of the
eucharistic gifts an even deeper interpretation. I would like to add just one
example here. In the early Christian text called the Teaching of the Twelve
Apostles, also known as the Didache (probably composed around the year
ioo), the following prayer is recited over the bread intended for the
Eucharist: "As the bread was scattered on the mountains and brought into
unity, so may the Church be gathered from the ends of the earth into your
Kingdom" (IX, 4).
The Shepherd
The
image of the shepherd, which Jesus uses to explain his mission both in the
Synoptics and in the Gospel of John, has a long history behind it. In the ancient
Near East, in royal inscriptions from both Sumer and the area of Babylonia
and Assyria, the king refers to himself as the shepherd instituted by God.
"Pasturing sheep" is an image of his task as a ruler. This image
implies that caring for the weak is one of the tasks of the just ruler. One
could therefore say that, in view of its origins, this image of Christ the
Good Shepherd is a Gospel of Christ the King, an image that sheds light upon
the kingship of Christ.
Of
course, the immediate precedents for Jesus' use of this image are found in
the Old Testament, where God himself appears as the Shepherd of Israel. This
image deeply shaped Israel's piety, and it was especially in times of need
that Israel found a word of consolation and confidence in it. Probably the
most beautiful expression of this trustful devotion is Psalm 23: "The
Lord is my shepherd . .. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me" (Ps 23:1, 4). The image
of God as Shepherd is more fully developed in chapters 34-37 of Ezekiel,
whose vision is brought into the present and interpreted as a prophecy of
Jesus' ministry both in the Synoptic shepherd parables and in the Johannine
shepherd discourse. ' Faced with the self-seeking shepherds of his own day,
whom he challenges and accuses, Ezekiel proclaims the promise that God
himself will seek out his sheep and care for them. "And I will bring
them out from the peoples, and gather them from the countries, and will bring
them into their own land. ... I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and
I will make them lie down, says the Lord God. I will seek the lost, and I
will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the crippled, and I will
strengthen the weak, and the fat and the strong I will watch over" (Ezek
34:13, 15-16).
The lost
sheep
Faced
with the murmuring of the Pharisees and scribes over Jesus' table fellowship
with sinners, the Lord tells the parable of the ninety-nine sheep who
remained in the fold and the one lost sheep. The shepherd goes after the lost
sheep, lifts it joyfully upon his shoulders, and brings it home. Jesus puts
this parable as a question to his adversaries: Have you not read God's word
in Ezekiel? I am only doing what God, the true Shepherd, foretold: I wish to
seek out the sheep that are lost and bring the strayed back home.
The slain
Shepherd
At
a late stage in Old Testament prophecy, the portrayal of the shepherd image
takes yet another surprising and thought-provoking turn that leads directly
to the mystery of Jesus Christ. Matthew recounts to us that on the way to the
Mount of Olives after the Last Supper, Jesus tells his disciples that the
prophecy foretold in Zechariah 13:7 is about to be fulfilled: "I will
strike the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered" (Mt
26:31). Zechariah does in fact present in this passage the vision of a
Shepherd "who by God's will patiently suffers death and in so doing
initiates the final turn of events" (Jeremias, TDNT, VI, pp.
500-1).
This
surprising vision of the slain Shepherd, who through his death becomes the
Savior, is closely linked to another image from the Book of Zechariah:
"And I will pour out on the house of David and the inhabitants of
Jerusalem a spirit of compassion and supplication. And they will look on him
whom they have pierced. They shall mourn for him, as one mourns for an only
child, and weep bitterly over him, as one weeps over a firstborn. . . . On
that day the mourning in Jerusalem will be as great as the mourning for Hadad-Rimmon
in the plain of Megiddo.... On that day there shall be a fountain opened for
the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem to cleanse them from sin
and uncleanness" (Zech 12:10, 11; 13:1). Hadad-Rimmon was one of the
dying and rising vegetation deities whom we encountered earlier when we were
explaining that bread presupposes the death and resurrection of the grain.
The death of the god, which is then followed by resurrection, was celebrated
with wild ritual laments; these rituals impressed themselves upon those who
witnessed them - as the Prophet and his audience evidently did - as the
absolute archetype of grief and lamentation. For Zechariah, Hadad-Rimmon is
one of the nonexistent divinities that Israel despises and unmasks as
mythical dreams. And yet, through the ritual lamentation over him, he
mysteriously prefigures someone who really does exist.
An
inner connection with the Servant of God in Deutero-Isaiah is discernible
here. In the writings of the later Prophets, we see the figure of the
suffering and dying Redeemer, the Shepherd who becomes the lamb, even if some
of the details are yet to be filled in. K. Elliger comments apropos of this:
"On the other hand, however, his [Zechariah's] gaze penetrates with
remarkable accuracy into a new distance and circles around the figure of the
one who was pierced on the Cross at Golgotha. Admittedly, he does not clearly
discern the figure of Christ, although the allusion to Hadad-Rimmon does
come remarkably close to the mystery of the Resurrection, albeit no more than
close . . . and above all without clearly seeing the real connection between
the Cross and the fountain that cleanses sin and impurity" ("Das
Buch," AID, 25, p. 172). While in Matthew's Gospel, Jesus himself
cites Zechariah 13:7-the image of the slain Shepherd - at the beginning of
the Passion narrative, John, by contrast, concludes his account of the Lord's
Crucifixion with an allusion to Zechariah 12:10: "They shall look on him
whom they have pierced" (Jn 19:37). Now it becomes clear: the one who is
slain and the Savior is Jesus Christ, the crucified one.
Blood and
water flow
John
associates this with Zechariah's prophetic vision of the fountain that
purifies from sin and impurity: Blood and water flow forth from Jesus'
wounded side (cf. Jn 19:34). Jesus himself, the one pierced on the Cross, is
the fountain of purification and healing for the whole world. John connects
this further with the image of the Paschal Lamb, whose blood has purifying
power: "Not a bone of him shall be broken" (Jn 19:36; cf. Ex
12:46). With that, the circle is closed, joining the end to the beginning of
the Gospel, where the Baptist - catching sight of Jesus - said: "Behold,
the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world" (Jn 1:29). The
image of the lamb, which in a different way plays a decisive role in the Book
of Revelation, thus encompasses the entire Gospel. It also points to the
deepest meaning of the shepherd discourse, whose center is precisely Jesus'
act of laying down his life.
Door of the
sheep
Surprisingly,
the shepherd discourse does not begin with the words: "I am the Good
Shepherd" (Jn 10:11), but with another image: "Truly, truly, I say
to you, I am the door of the sheep" (Jn 10:7). Jesus has already said:
"Truly, truly, I say to you, he who does not enter the sheep-fold by the
door but climbs in by another way, that man is a thief and a robber; but he
who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep" (Jn 10:1f). This
can only really mean that Jesus is establishing the criterion for those who
will shepherd his flock after his ascension to the Father. The proof of a
true shepherd is that he enters through Jesus as the door. For in this way it
is ultimately Jesus who is the Shepherd - the flock "belongs" to
him alone.
"Feed
my lambs" and "Follow me"
In
practice, the way to enter through Jesus as the door becomes apparent in the
appendix to the Gospel in chapter 21 - when Peter is entrusted with Jesus'
own office as Shepherd. Three times the Lord says to Peter: "Feed my
lambs" (or sheep - cf. Jn 21:15-17). Peter is very clearly being
appointed as the shepherd of Jesus' sheep and established in Jesus' office as
shepherd. For this to be possible, however, Peter has to enter through the
"door." Jesus speaks of this entry - or, better, this being allowed
to enter through the door (cf. Jn 10:3) - when he asks Peter three times:
Simon, son of John, do you love me? Notice first the utterly personal aspect
of this calling: Simon is called by name - both by his own personal name,
Simon, and by a name referring to his ancestry. And he is asked about the
love that makes him one with Jesus. This is how he comes to the sheep
"through Jesus": He takes them not as his own - Simon Peter's - but
as Jesus' "flock." It is because he comes through the
"door," Jesus, it is because he comes to them united with Jesus in
love, that the sheep listen to his voice, the voice of Jesus himself - they
are following not Simon, but Jesus, from whom and through whom Simon comes to
them, so that when he leads them it is Jesus himself who leads.
The
whole investiture scene closes with Jesus saying to Peter, "Follow
me" (Jn 21:19). It recalls the scene after Peter's first confession,
where Peter tries to dissuade the Lord from the way of Cross, and the Lord
says to him, "Get behind me," and then goes on to invite everyone
to take up his cross and "follow him" (cf. Mk 8:33ff.). Even the
disciple who now goes ahead of the others as shepherd must "follow"
Jesus. And as the Lord declares to Peter after conferring upon him the office
of shepherd, this includes accepting the cross, being prepared to give his
life. This is what it means in practice when Jesus says: "I am the
door." This is how Jesus himself remains the shepherd.
Good
Shepherd: Four essential points
Let
us return to the shepherd discourse in chapter 10 of John's Gospel. It is
only in the second part that Jesus declares: "I am the Good
Shepherd" (Jn 10:11). He takes upon himself all the historical
associations of the shepherd image, which he then purifies, and brings to its
full meaning. Four essential points receive particular emphasis. First, the
thief "comes only to steal and kill and destroy" (Jn 10:10). He
regards the sheep as part of his property, which he owns and exploits for
himself. All he cares about is himself; he thinks the world revolves around
him. The real Shepherd does just the opposite. He does not take life, but
gives it: "I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly"
(Jn 10:10).
This
is Jesus' great promise: to give life in abundance. Everyone wants life in
abundance. But what is it? What does life consist in? Where do we find it?
When and how do we have "life in abundance"? When we live like the
prodigal son, squandering the whole portion God has given us? When we live
like the thief and the robber, taking everything for ourselves alone? Jesus
promises that he will show the sheep where to find "pasture" - something
they can live on - and that he will truly lead them to the springs of life.
We are right to hear echoes of Psalm 23 in this: "He makes me lie down
in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. . . . Thou preparest a
table before me in the presence. . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow
me all the days of my life" (Ps 23:2, 5fi). There is an even more
immediate echo of the shepherd discourse from Ezekiel: "I will feed them
with good pasture, and upon the mountain country of Israel shall be their
pasture" (Ezek 34:14).
But
what does all this mean? We know what sheep live on, but what does man live
on? The Fathers saw Ezekiel's reference to the mountain country of Israel and
the shady and well-watered pastures on its uplands as an image of the heights
of Holy Scripture, of the life-giving food of God's word. Although this is
not the historical sense of the text, in the end the Fathers saw correctly
and, above all, they understood Jesus himself correctly. Man lives on truth
and on being loved: on being loved by the truth. He needs God, the God who
draws close to him, interprets for him the meaning of life, and thus points
him toward the path of life. Of course, man needs bread, he needs food for
the body, but ultimately what he needs most is the Word, love, God himself.
Whoever gives him that gives him "life in abundance," and
also releases the energies man needs to shape the earth intelligently and to
find for himself and for others the goods that we can have only in common
with others.
In
this sense, there is an inner connection between the bread discourse in chapter
6 and the shepherd discourse: In both cases the issue is what man lives on.
Philo, the great Jewish philosopher of religion and contemporary of Jesus,
said that God, the true Shepherd of his people, had appointed his
"firstborn Son," the Logos, to the office of Shepherd (Barrett, Gospel,
p. 374). The Johanmne shepherd discourse is not immediately connected with
the understanding of Jesus as Logos, and yet - in the specific context of the
Gospel of John - the point the discourse is making is that Jesus, being the
incarnate Word of God himself, is not just the Shepherd, but also the food,
the true "pasture." He gives life by giving himself, for he is
life (cf. Jn 1:4, 3:36, 11:25).
Knowing the
Shepherd
This
brings us to the second motif in the shepherd discourse. It reveals the
novelty that leads us beyond Philo - not by means of new ideas, but by means
of a new event, the Incarnation and Passion of the Son: "The Good
Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep" (Jn 10:n). Just as the bread
discourse does not merely allude to the word, but goes on to speak of the
Word that became flesh and also gift "for the life of the world"
(Jn 6:51), so too the shepherd discourse revolves completely around the idea
of Jesus laying down his life for the "sheep." The Cross is at the
center of the shepherd discourse. And it is portrayed not as an act of
violence that takes Jesus unawares and attacks him from the outside, but as a
free gift of his very self: "I lay down my life, that I may take it
again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord" (Jn
ionyf). Here Jesus interprets for us what happens at the institution of the
Eucharist: He transforms the outward violence of the act of crucifixion into
an act of freely giving his life for others. Jesus does not give something,
but rather he gives himself. And that is how he gives life. We will have to
return to these ideas and explore them more deeply when we speak of the
Eucharist and the Paschal event. A third essential motif of the Shepherd
discourse is the idea that the shepherd and his flock know each other:
"He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. . . . The sheep
follow him, for they know his voice" (Jn 10:4f). "I am the Good
Shepherd; I know my own and my own know me, as the Father knows me and I know
the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep" (Jn 10:14f.). These
verses present two striking sets of interrelated ideas that we need to consider
if we are to understand what is meant by "knowing." First of all,
knowing and belonging are interrelated. The Shepherd knows the sheep because
they belong to him, and they know him precisely because they are his. Knowing
and belonging (the Greek text speaks of the sheep as the shepherd's
"own," ta tdia) are actually one and the same thing. The
true shepherd does not "possess" the sheep as if they were a thing
to be used and consumed; rather, they "belong" to him, in the
context of their knowing each other, and this "knowing" is an
inner acceptance. It signifies an inner belonging that goes much deeper than
the possession of things.
Let
us illustrate this with an example from our own lives. No human being
"belongs" to another in the way that a thing does. Children are not
their parents' "property"; spouses are not each other's
"property." Yet they do "belong" to each other in a much
deeper way than, for example, a piece of wood or a plot of land, or whatever
else we call "property." Children "belong" to their
parents, yet they are free creatures of God in their own right, each with his
own calling and his own newness and uniqueness before God. They belong to
each other, not as property, but in mutual responsibility. They belong to
each other precisely by accepting one another's freedom and by supporting one
another in love and knowledge - and in this communion they are
simultaneously free and one for all eternity.
In
the same way, the "sheep," who after all are people created by God,
images of God, do not belong to the shepherd as if they were things - though
that is what the thief and robber thinks when he takes possession of them.
Herein lies the distinction between the owner, the true Shepherd, and the
robber. For the robber, for the ideologues and the dictators, human beings
are merely a thing that they possess. For the true Shepherd, however, they
are free in relation to truth and love; the Shepherd proves that they belong
to him precisely by knowing and loving them, by wishing them to be in the
freedom of the truth. They belong to him through the oneness of
"knowing," through the communion in the truth that the Shepherd
himself is. This is why he does not use them, but gives his life for
them. Just as Logos and Incarnation, Logos and Passion belong together, so
too knowing and self-giving are ultimately one.
Let
us listen once more to these decisive words: "I am the good shepherd; I
know my own and my own know me, as the Father knows me and I know the Father;
and I lay down my life for the sheep" (Jn 10:14f). This statement
contains a second set of interrelated ideas that we need to consider. The
mutual knowing of shepherd and sheep is interwoven with the mutual knowing of
Father and Son. The knowing that links Jesus with "his own" exists
within the space opened up by his "knowing" oneness with the
Father. Jesus' "own" are woven into the Trinitarian dialogue; we
will see this again when we consider the high-priestly prayer. This will help
us to see that Church and Trinity are mutually interwoven. This
mterpenetration of two levels of knowing is crucial for understanding the
essence of the "knowing" of which John's Gospel speaks.
Beyond the
empirical and the tangible
Applying
all of the above to the world in which we live, we can say this: It is only
in God and in light of God that we rightly know man. Any
"self-knowledge" that restricts man to the empirical and the
tangible fails to engage with man's true depth. Man knows himself only when
he learns to understand himself in light of God, and he knows othersonly when
he sees the mystery of God in them. For the shepherd in Jesus' service, this
means that he has no right to bind men to himself to his own little
"I." The mutual knowing that binds him to the "sheep"
entrusted to his care must have a different goal: It must enable them to lead
one another into God, toward God; it must enable them to encounter each other
in the communion formed around knowing and loving God. The shepherd in Jesus'
service must always lead beyond himself in order to enable others to find
their full freedom; and therefore he must always go beyond himself into unity
with Jesus and with the Trinitarian God.
Jesus'
own "I" is always opened into "being with" the Father; he
is never alone, but is forever receiving himself from and giving himself back
to the Father. "My teaching is not mine"; his "I" is
opened up into the Trinity. Those who come to know him "see" the
Father; they enter into this communion of his with the Father. It is
precisely this transcendent dialogue, which encounter with Jesus involves,
that once more reveals to us the true Shepherd, who does not take possession
of us, but leads us to the freedom of our being by leading us into communion
with God and by giving his own life.
The motif
of unity
Let
us turn to the last principal motif of the shepherd discourse: the motif of
unity. The shepherd discourse in Ezekiel emphasizes this motif: "The
word of the Lord came to me: 'Son of Man, take a staff and write on it,
"For Judah, and the children of Israel associated with him"; then
take another staff and write upon it, "For Joseph (the staff of Ephraim)
and all the house of Israel associated with him"; and join them together
into one staff, that they may become one in your hand. . . . "Thus says
the Lord God: Behold, I will take the people of Israel from the nations .. .
and I will make them one nation in the land, upon the mountains of Israel . .
. And they shall be no longer two nations, and no longer divided into two
kingdoms'"" (Ezek 37:15-17, 2if). God is the Shepherd who reunites
divided and scattered Israel into a single people.
Jesus'
shepherd discourse takes up this vision, while very decidedly enlarging the
scope of the promise: "I have other sheep, that are not of this fold; I
must bring them also, and they will heed my voice. So there shall be one
flock, one Shepherd" (Jn 10:16). Jesus the Shepherd is sent not only to
gather the scattered sheep of the house of Israel, but to gather together all
"the children of God who are scattered abroad" (Jn 11:52). In this
sense, Jesus' promise that there will be one Shepherd and one flock is
equivalent to the risen Lord's missionary command in Matthew's Gospel:
"Go therefore and make all nations my disciples" (Mt 28:19); the
same idea appears again in the Acts of the Apostles, where the risen
Lord says: "You shall be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and
Samaria and to the end of the earth" (Acts 1:8).
This
brings to light the inner reason for this universal mission: There is only
one Shepherd. The Logos who became man in Jesus is the Shepherd of all men,
for all have been created through the one Word; however scattered they may
be, yet as coming from him and bound toward him they are one. However widely
scattered they are, all people can become one through the true Shepherd, the
Logos who became man in order to lay down his life and so to give life in
abundance (cf. Jn 10:10).
Shepherd:
typical image for the Christian world
From
very early on - the evidence goes back to the third century - the vision of
the shepherd became a typical image of the Christian world. In the
surrounding culture, the Christian people encountered the figure of a man
carrying a sheep, which to an overstressed urban society expressed the
popular dream of the simple life. But the Christian people were immediately
able to reinterpret this figure in light of Scripture. Psalm 23 is an example
that comes to mind directly: "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;
he makes me lie down in green pastures. . . . Even though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil... . Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of
the Lord for ever." They recognized Christ as the Good Shepherd who
leads us through life's dark valleys; the Shepherd who himself walked through
the valley of the shadow of death; the Shepherd who also knows the way through
the night of death and does not abandon me in this final solitude, but leads
me out of this valley of death into the green pastures of life, to the place
of "light, happiness and peace" (Roman Canon). Clement of
Alexandria expressed this trust in the Shepherd's guidance in verses that
convey something of the hope and confidence felt by the early Church in the
midst of frequent sufferings and constant persecutions: "Lead, holy
Shepherd, your spiritual sheep: Lead, king, your pure children. Christ's footsteps
are the way to heaven" (Paedogogus, III, 12, 101; Van der Meer, Menschensohn,
p. 23).
But naturally, Christians were also reminded
of the parable of the shepherd who follows after the lost sheep, lifts it
onto his shoulders, and brings it home, as well as the shepherd discourse of
John's Gospel. For the Church Fathers, the two texts flowed into each other.
The Shepherd who sets off to seek the lost sheep is the eternal Word himself,
and the sheep that he lovingly carries home on his shoulders is humanity, the
human existence that he took upon himself. In his Incarnation and Cross he
brings home the stray sheep, humanity; he brings me home, too. The incarnate
Logos is the true "sheep-bearer" - the Shepherd who follows after
us through the thorns and deserts of our life. Carried on his shoulders, we
come home. He gave his life for us. He himself is life.
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