This is at once one of my favorite stories and one of the most troublesome to me. A Caedmon’s Call song captures the essence of what I love about it:

Spit in the clay, when washed away
Gave the blind man sight
New eyes couldn’t comprehend the sun
That by light ended the night
Shackled in blindness since his birth
Whose sin, was it him, what’s it all worth?

Now with eyes wide open
They interrogate him
Saying “Who is he?”
“Do you believe what that man is saying?”
“Who do you say is he?”

“All I know
Is I was blind,” he said,
“And now I see.”
“All I know is he healed me.”

I sit here today
So I say that I believe in Him
Yet I cannot fathom the wind-like way
That’s made me new again
Shackled in darkness since my birth
Whose sin, was it me, what’s it all worth

Now new from the womb
They interrogate me
Saying “Who is he?”
“Do you believe what that book is saying?”
“How gullible can you be?”

Darwin may tend to disagree
I don’t know
Marx is writing a drug I need
Still I don’t know
Freud analyzes in my head
Nietzsche’s saying God is dead
But I’m saying

“All I know
Is I was blind,” I say,
“And now I see.”
“All I know is he healed me.”

I’m not a big fan of fideism, but there is such convincing beauty in the man’s statement. In fairness, it follows a revelatory experience and is followed by a simple but vital exchange:

Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and when he found him, he said, Do you believe in the Son of Man? He answered, “And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him.” Jesus said to him, “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he” (vv. 35–37).

The man’s response: He said, “Lord, I believe. And he worshiped him” (v. 38).

Perfect.

The disturbing part, for me, is what’s at stake theologically for the story’s characters: cosmology. The opening question is, Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? A number of statements follow that indicate a complex of beliefs about the way the world works. Theirs seems to be a mechanistic, retributive system of cause and effect that gives unquestionable answers and no comfort (from my perspective). The problem is not that Jesus leaves this view intact. He does not. The problem is that his response opens a whole other can. There is clear symmetry between question and response when translated literally:

“Who sinned—this one or his parents—that he should be born blind?”

“Neither this one sinned nor his parents but rather that the works of God should be revealed in him.”

A little unsure about the flow of that response? Good. Most translations suggest or add a more complete thought, like, “he was born blind so that Gods works might be revealed in him” (NRSV). The coherence of that thought does not exist in the original, but I’ll not deny is implies that idea. I’ll simply leave it to the reader to see that Jesus never makes so direct a “because.” In fact, no one every asked the “why” that Jesus should need give the “because.” He offers a reorienting “but rather” that gives us all pause (or heartburn). Is he saying that God caused this man a life of suffering so that he could be healed in this moment and teach the Pharisees a lesson they refused to learn anyway? All I can say is, I hope not. But if I suspend the obsession with the “why” for a moment, it gives me the chance to see that Jesus may simply be offering an alternative view of the world. He may be suggesting that this man, like all of us born into often inexplicable suffering and anguish, was born into a world designed to give us the opportunity to reveal the works of God in a way that a different world would not. Yeah, I’m probably reading a bit in there.

Anyway, this whole scenario is an opportunity to make another important claim (and an official “I am” saying): “I am the light of the world” (9:5). Light: that by which we see, without which we are all blind.

How does it all work? I don’t know, but I was blind, and now I see.

The battle between testimony and judgement, revelation and perception, is heating up. John continues with Jesus’s second self-defining “I am” statement in 8:12: “I am the light of the world.” This saying, like the first, is related to life. We have the bread of life and now the light of life, harkening back to 1:4. From 5:39 on, Jesus has been steadily orienting his listeners to his own person as the locus of life. And as in that passage, testimony (revelation) is of vital importance. Jesus’s opponents prove that they have been paying attention by throwing his own teaching (5:31; 7:18) back in his face: You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid” (8:13). Jesus’s response places the burden on his special relationship to the Father.

Here the confrontation becomes more direct, the adversaries asking pointed questions for the remainder of the chapter: Where is your Father? (v. 19), Who are you? (v. 25), and Who do you claim to be? (v. 53). The language of sin (vv. 21, 24, 34) appears for the first time since 1:29, in condemnation of those asking the questions but failing to hear the testimony already given. Although not part of the “I am” sayings list, the warning literally says, For unless you believe that I am, you will die in your sins. Faith based on right judgement of perceived testimony is the requisite for the eternal life about which Jesus speaks. Unless we recognize the Father in Jesus, we are in dire trouble.

Jesus typifies this trouble in terms of the powerful social metaphor, slavery. Though the language has often been read through the existentialist lens that so often troubles our exegesis of Paul (especially Romans 7 and 8), I’m advocating a different take here. He says to the Jews who had believed in him that if they continue in his message, they are truly his disciples. The result will be that they know the truth, and in turn the truth will make them free. Here the metaphor comes into play, and the response indicates how provocative the imagery was. The distaste for slave status is palpable.

Everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin, Jesus explains. This is not a statement about an ontological transfer wherein the personified Sin takes ownership of the sinner. It is an explanation of the status and consequences already at issue. The warning, “You will die in your sins,” is expounded through the metaphor. As the knee-jerk response, “We are descendants of Abraham,” demonstrates, the Jews are not expecting as Jews (that is, as people saved through covenant) for sin to be a problem, much less to result in slavery. This may account best for the strange denial of ever being slaves. We think immediately of Egyptian slavery, but the listeners were likely following Jesus’s line of reasoning and replying that they had never been slaves as a result of sin—they were, after all, children of Abraham.

The metaphor then shifts, making the Father the owner rather than Sin—a clear indication that we are not hearing a literal account of heavenly slave trade. The point remains the same, however, because it is not about being a slave to sin per se but rather living a slave’s existence—a terrible image of the kind of life that is not eternal in quality. The Son has the authority to make the household’s slave truly free, thus to address sin and give the status and life otherwise unavailable. The metaphor is clearly a jumble, but that did not keep the listeners from following the argument. Their reply is clearly about the legitimacy of their relationship to Abraham and thus ultimately to God, for that is what is at stake in eternal life. Jesus brings it full circle, then, testing their claim against their recognition of himself.

Again they understand the implication of this move, so the question becomes, “Are you greater than our father Abraham?” (v. 53). The discussion ends, therefore, with another “I am” statement not on the usual list: “Before Abraham was, I am” (v. 58). If there is any doubt about what he was suggesting by the word choice, the move to stone him immediately indicates that everyone present heard the implication.

If you have a study Bible that does its job, you may have noticed brackets around this passage, or at least a footnote. There are only two substantial passages in the Greek NT texts used by modern translations (the ever-stubborn NKJV notwithstanding) that don’t have pretty good attestation as original to their respective books: this one and the “long ending” of Mark. That is, dutiful translators make a note for English readers in order to indicate that these passages were, almost certainly, not in the original versions of John and Mark. The fact that we still include them in our standard Protestant Bibles raises some of my favorite questions: What makes scripture Scripture, and who decides?

If you were under the impression that God was calling the shots on that point, the inclusion of 7:53–8:11 in your canon should be enough to reorient your thinking. Not only did it get added to John by someone else and stayed that way for centuries, a panel of stogy scholars used a bunch of arcane terminology and criteria in order to decide that it did not properly belong to John and decided to leave it in, effectively telling you to take it as Scripture anyway. This is supposed to be my rule for faith and practice, and I don’t even know which parts are authentic. Moreover, I have to ask myself whether authenticity—apostolicity—matters if we’re just going to leave inauthentic stuff in there. And if it doesn’t, then what makes a writing into Holy Writ, vital for life and salvation?

Many who would rather move past the issue are fond of noting that there is nothing taught in this passage that is not found elsewhere. I dare say this misses the point, if there is any value in the idea that Scripture is different from other writings that make the same points. I read a quote today by Marcus Aurelius advocating honesty, but I don’t suppose I should put him on par with the Canon. Or should I? As the wise have said, all truth is God’s truth.

The fact is that there is nothing in Christian theology more convoluted that the history of the formation of the Canon (although the doctrine of the Trinity is a contender). And there is likely nothing more disillusioning for someone who effectively believes the Book dropped out of the sky in faux leather binding and gold lettering. As God is in the habit of doing, he leaves much of the burden of judgement and decision upon us. Naturally, it comes out a jumbled mess. You’ll notice that I haven’t mentioned the “I” word to this point. That is because I find the abstract notion of “inspiration” that tends to govern such conversations to be utterly unhelpful. To say, for example, that the actual difference between a biblical author and a Roman emperor is that the former was inspired and the latter was not is quite a hollow assertion unless there is some criterion for inspiration at work behind it. In other words, it’s nice to say that supernatural involvement is definitive, but the point is, we decide when there is supernatural involvement, bringing us right back to where we started. So, unless we’ve got inspired people deciding who is inspired—and a way to know that they are inspired—we’re pretty much stuck with making an informed decision. That is what the church councils did in order to come up with the Canon as we know it, and that is what we have to do with 7:53 ff.

Therefore, to carry my example a bit further, the actual difference between John and Marcus Aurelius is the same as the actual difference between 7:53–8:11 and Marcus Aurelius. It is not that the guy who thought he could improve upon John’s writing was inspired—maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t; no one knows. It’s that the church decided, consciously or unconsciously, to include 7:53–8:11 in John’s Gospel. That is why translators leave in a non-apostolic story. There is no argument that it should be there. It’s just that it almost always has been there. So, what makes scripture Scripture, and who decides? The church decides, which means that the church makes scripture Scripture. I find that thought even more edifying than the story of the woman caught in adultery, so I’ll leave you to explore the mysteries of the passage on your own.

It is a very twenty-first century idea, but I often wish I could hear the soundtrack that goes with the biblical narrative. For me there is nothing that conveys the feeling of a moment more than music. Sometimes I stumble upon the realization that, though not written in the powerful, sweeping narrative that evokes my emotions like the greatest of novels, the story is bursting at the seams with the desperate overplus of drama, tension, and movement that makes it more than just information. This epiphany makes me wish the music had been playing so that I wouldn’t have missed it. Maybe some day, when we’re watching the playback.

A minor key is dominating in John’s narrative. It is a heart-wrenching tone as the many abandon Jesus in the face of his total faithfulness. A refrain of triumph accompanies the main theme as the few remain. The face of his ministry has changed, though. Some now seek to undo him. The journey to the confrontation with death has begun, and there is not a step taken that leads another way. Jesus’s own brothers sarcastically, bitingly provoke him in their doubt—I imagine that this must have cut deeply. Two of the the three times that Jesus “cries out” in John occur in ch. 7, possibly indicating of his emotional state.

Yet, in this moment of great turmoil we see how complete is Jesus’ purity of heart. He walks into the viper’s nest, knowingly, and when the tide quickly changes he refuses to be seduced by the flattering response to his unbelievable insight. Their grumbling and their praise, their hatred and their admiration, will not determine his course. For he will not seek his own glory, not to avoid criticism, not to seek the shelter of praise. It is striking that what Jesus wanted was for his listeners to decide whether his teaching was from God. Everything else follows—one way or another. And the simple—overwhelmingly simple—criterion is whether God receives the glory. We find even now that there is no truer test.

Riding the exultant swell of beauty that accompanies so pure and simple an idea, Jesus takes the offensive, knowing that the authorities desire to kill him fundamentally on the basis of the ongoing Sabbath conflict. He delivers another stunning combination. “If a man receives circumcision on the Sabbath in order not to break the law of Moses,” he says, “how can you be angry with me for making an entire man well on the Sabbath.” This powerful commentary on the purpose of both the Sabbath and circumcision is followed by a sharp rebuke: “Do not judge superficially but rather judge rightly.”

The increasingly mixed response among the festival crowds prompts the authorities to send out their lackeys with the intention of taking him into custody. By the time Jesus has finished speaking, however, they were unwilling to carry out their orders. His foes rage at their own impotence and resort to positional authority: “Has any one of the authorities or Pharisees believed in him?” As soon as the question is asked, Nicodemus does speak up in favor of more judicious action, forcing the other Pharisees to bald prejudice. It is evident that things are not getting better.

I find a great deal of comfort in Jesus’s emphasis in these passages. As his mission becomes more turbulent, his message focuses more and more on being sent and therefore more and more on the one who sends. I have not come on my own.

I wrote this on Saturday, but sadly I wasn’t able to post it before Easter Sunday morning.

This passage is one that I have returned to again and again for a couple of reasons. For many years I have struggled to understand new facets of communion. The supper is one of the deepest wells from which to draw, perhaps because of its sacramental nature, and I have found many ways to frame it, though none original, I’m sure. It is something that seems inexhaustible, though, and John 6 has been a passage that leaves me with the feeling that I have much more to understand about what happens in communion.

Another reason that ch. 6 is so difficult to understand, even in retrospect I think, is that I have never ceased to empathize with the disciples who left and, at the same time, the apostles. This is not the only hard teaching I find in Jesus, and it is not even the hardest, so Peter’s words, “To whom would we go?,” have been solid footing for me in many moments of decision.

The teaching is mysterious to begin with, as the supper has not happened yet and the characters have no way of knowing what it would later mean to eat his flesh and drink his blood. On the one hand, those how left reacted appropriately to the idea of cannibalism. On the other hand, anyone who has been around for the last five chapters should have a clue that Jesus uses figures a speech a lot and probably isn’t saying what it sounds like. As a believer, I have no problem with Jesus knowing at this point that he would institute a ritual on the basis of this language, and I find it difficult to imagine what else he could be talking about.

There are a couple of very important Johannine points in the section related to the one I want to focus on here. One is that we have here the first definitive “I am” saying: I am the bread of life (vv. 35, 48; cf. 41, 51). The other is that John introduces here the idea of abiding in him, which will be important later.

For this Resurrection Sunday, the emphasis is appropriately on the life part of the saying (vv. 27, 33, 35, 40, 47, 48, 51, 53, 54, 63, 68). To be the bread of life, in which we abide, is to be the source of eternal life, of resurrection. In fact, there is nothing more central to the teaching than resurrection.

39 And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. 40 This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day.

44 No one can come to me unless drawn by the Father who sent me; and I will raise that person up on the last day.

54 Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; 55 for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.

This Sunday is about Jesus’s resurrection and, for those who abide in him, ours too. We know that he will raise us up on the last day, because he himself has overcome death and shown his power to do so. Do not underestimate the act of eating his flesh and drinking his blood at the Table, for it is, among many other things, a sign of our decision and participation in his resurrection. To whom else would we go for life?

Chapter 6 is loaded. Two first class signs. A big clue into what is really going on with the mob chasing Jesus cross-country. One of his longest discourses. The first “I am” saying. And a pivotal moment in discipleship. I’ll split it into 6a and 6b.

Only a few stories are attested in all four Gospels, but the feeding of the 5000 is one of them. No doubt it made quite an impression. From a theological standpoint, there is nothing that associates Jesus more strongly with the creational capacity of the Father as this sign. From a messianic standpoint, it was the deciding factor for Jesus’s immense following. “When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, ‘This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.'”

There are similar expectations driving the characters in each of the Gospels, as some of the historical-cultural realities are inescapable no matter how an author might tint the story. The mob’s reaction in John, though, is among the clearest indications of the religio-political waters that Jesus was navigating—they were about to make him king by force. Having decided that he must be the awaited Messiah, they were ready to put him on the kind of throne that they envisioned for their prophet-king-savior. Jesus’s reaction is equally a glimpse into his position regarding that expectation.

Having escaped his would-be coronators, Jesus comes walking on the water, treading blithely over chaos. There is some dispute as to whether Jesus’s announcement “It is I” should be counted among his “I am” sayings. The difficulty is that, while John clearly uses the Greek phrase ἐγώ εἰμι (transliterated: egō eimi = I am) in other places to conjure up the proper name of God (YHWH), there is no other way for Jesus to have said “It’s me.” So in Matthew and Mark, who otherwise make no use of the “I am” word play, Jesus also says (ἐγώ εἰμι). On the other hand, it is hardly a stretch to think that John’s version intends to do more with the phrase given the rest of the book, and he does not make the point that Matthew and Mark do about fear and faith, which tends to shift more emphasis to the little that he does say. Either way, it is difficult not to look at Jesus in the astonishment due the only person who has ever controlled the elements as though he himself were their maker and master.

It is always interesting to compare John with the Synoptics, and in the case of John 5, the comparison and the contrast are important. Even among the minimalists and deconstructionists, there are a handful of things that no one argues about when it comes to the life of Jesus of Nazareth. One of those is that this particular rabbi had a beef with Sabbath as the Jews of his day were practicing it. Some evidence for that is born out in John 5, as yet another healing turns into a Sabbath dispute. In fairness to Jesus, it seems that his opponents were actually the ones with the beef; in fairness to his opponents, Jesus seems to have been a salt-on-wound kind of guy, though I’m sure he had the right of it. In any case, there was a fight over Sabbath that contributed to the plot against Jesus, and all of the Evangelists thought to put it in writing.

The contrast is important, though: “he was not only breaking the sabbath, but was also calling God his own Father, thereby making himself equal to God.” That is an especially Johannine view of things that only snowballs in subsequent verses.

• “whatever the Father does, the Son does likewise”

• “just as the Father raises the dead and gives them life, so also the Son gives life to whomever he wishes”

• “that all may honor the Son just as they honor the Father”

It would be difficult to overestimate the significance of such statements on Jesus’s lips, the last in particular. John’s Christology remains high, Jesus claims for himself straightforward. For many Bible readers, that doesn’t mean much, either because John and the other Gospels must be harmonious, no questions asked, or because the contrast doesn’t affect the final conclusion, so the details along the way are practically irrelevant. For my part, I can’t help feeling that an issue like Jesus’s relation to the Father, hotly debated as it has been across millennia, merits scrutiny when the biblical authors take such distinct tacks.

Our problem is that we tend to want to answer our questions. In this case, too many of our questions have to do with some very old phrasing in the context of some very trenchant advocacy of those phrases. I’ll be direct: I’m not interested in those, at least not here. Not to say that the claims don’t have implications for the ontological kinds of questions that get the most press. I just don’t think John is interested in them (or Jesus for that matter). So what is their concern?

The thought sequence suggests that there is some justification offered for calling God his own father and some affirmation of the Jews’ understanding of the implications (note: this is an important point if only because there are other places where one can easily interpret Jesus’s use of “Father” in less drastic terms; John clues us in to something more than a mere messianic claim in the Jewish perspective—a redefinition of Messiah in retrospect).

It is where the discussion is headed that gives us more insight, however. Jesus is not trying to explain exactly how the relationship works or the nature of his being. He is driving at a point that John has already been pounding: revelation. Notice the switch that Jesus’s explanation allows him to make.

“Very truly, I tell you, anyone who hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life . . .”

Because of who he is in relation to the Father, to hear Jesus’ message and believe it is in fact to believe the Father. Jesus doesn’t care whether people believe him, per se. The end he is driving toward is that they believe the Father. Incidentally, to hear Jesus is to hear the Father, to see Jesus is to see the Father, and to put trust in Jesus is to put trust in the Father. That is Jesus’s saving function.

The rest of the chapter is indicative of the section’s revelatory shtick, listing off a number of heavy-hitting bits of revelation: the Baptizer, the Father himself (through Jesus’ miracles), the Scriptures, and Moses in particular. The point: How are you not getting this?!

I often ask myself that same question.