Per Caritatem

I recently purchased Herman Ridderbos’, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary, and must say that thus far it is excellent. In an introductory section entitled, “History and Revelation,” Ridderbos discusses critical views that reject not only the Johannine authorship, but also the historical character of Jesus described in the fourth gospel. E.g., having decided Johannine authorship unreliable, critical scholars likewise cast shadows as to “any direct personal contact between the Evangelist and the historical events he described” (p. 12). This then allowed for “much more radical views concerning the relationship between interpretation and history” (p. 12). As the story goes, “the great distance in time and space that separated the author from Jesus’ historical appearance and ministry made it impossible for him to form a clear picture thereof and, going further, that his Christology affected to a high degree his telling of the story, to the point where if he did not completely dissolve its historical character he at least weakened it” (p. 12). Whether one seeks to explain John’s Gospel in terms of syncretistic Hellenistic categories emphasizing an inherent dualism in John’s gospel or in terms of a dichotomous earthly-heavenly Lord, history either becomes that which serves merely as “pointer to a higher or fundamentally different reality” (p. 12) or a historical context created by the Evangelist that manifests characteristics of the later church (i.e., John’s gospel is full of anachronisms). In light of these accounts, Ridderbos restricts himself to what he views as central to this complex of problems, viz., “the meaning the Evangelist attributes, in his interpretation of the Christ-event, to history […] The Evangelist views the real miracle of the coming and work of Jesus, the Christ, as the in-carn-ation of the Word or, as he states in a no less pivotal pronouncement, as the descent of the Son of man (3:14)” [p. 13]. This, of course, cuts against any account claiming that in John’s Gospel the meaning of history recedes to the background, is made fuzzy, spiritualized or simply fictitious. Rather, in John 1:14 we encounter the unthinkable, the scandalous—και ο λογος σαρζ εγενετο (and the Word became flesh). As Ridderbos points out, “‘flesh’ refers precisely to that which is human, natural, and historical, and that neither as the unreal though visible world over against a real though invisible world nor as the concealment of the glory of the only begotten of the Father […] but as the life in which and the means by which his glory was made visible to every eye and, as it were, palpable to every hand (cf. 1 Jn.1:1ff.). Hence, to have ‘beheld’ the revelation of that glory in the flesh and to witness to him who thus dwelled among us forms the foundation and content of the Fourth Gospel” (p. 13).

Ridderbos has just said a mouthful (and a delicious mouthful at that). What struck me in reading the words και ο λογος σαρζ εγενετο και εσκηωσιν (and the Word became flesh and ‘tabernacled’ among us) is how dissonant this would have sounded to a Greek mind. If one considers the Platonic or Neoplatonic view of “flesh,” one finds a rather disdainful orientation toward the bodily. For example, in Plato’s Phaedo, the philosopher is described as one who constantly pursues death. Why such a dark picture of bodiliess? Plato’s picture of our bodily state is that of a fallen state (see the Phaedrus), a prison house, that which hinders the soul’s search for knowledge and keeps us tied down to the sensible where we only have doxa. This negative view of the body is part of the reason why Socrates claimed that for the philosopher death is not to be feared because his/her whole life is spent pursing a “death” of sorts anyway.

Given this orientation, we can see that when John says that the Word became flesh, this would have shocked a Greek thinker. An analogy that comes to mind as to the “about face” that such a statement would produce is what is called in jazz “playing out.” For example, if you are improvising in the key of C major (say for at least 4 measures, thus establishing the tonal center of C), you can for a kind of “shock” effect purpose to play one-half step higher (in this case D-flat). That is, you would play a short melodic pattern in the key of C and then play the exact same pattern in the key of D-flat and then resolve it back to C major. Because the movement from key to key is only a difference of a minor second, it creates an incredible, even alarming dissonance. Moreover, “playing out” is something effectively executed by an experienced player—someone who understands the rules of music theory and who knows full well what kind of effect will be produced when he/she engages in “out-playing.” This seems to me quite analogous to what John did—he was no doubt cognizant that his claim of the Word becoming flesh would sound completely “out” to his hearers. Not only did this Jesus become flesh, but He dwelt among us as one of us. Another shocking claim—here we don’t encouter a nous nous-ing or an aloof impersonal god, but a God who cares about his people so much that in order to save them, he actually becomes one of them and ‘tabernacles’ with them. With Ridderbos, I wholeheartedly agree, “nowhere is Jesus’ glory more splendid than in the Fourth Gospel. Nor is his humanity more human anywhere else—right down to the account of his death and resurrection (19:34; 20:20, 27). And nowhere does the Son of man, clothed by God with all power, descend more deeply, realistically, and scandalously into human flesh (cf. 6:27, 53)” [p. 14].