Becoming John: The Making of a Passion Gospel 9780567681003, 9780567681027, 9780567681010

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
Chapter 1: Introduction: A Passion for John
The Hypothesis: A Passion Redaction of John
Q and Thomas—Non-Passion Gospels
The Synoptic Passion Gospels
The Tool Box: Redaction Criticism and Its Allies
Chapter 2: John Among the Gospels: Rejecting False Dichotomies
“John and the Synoptics”—What’s Wrong with this Picture?
Markan/Matthean Infl uences in Jn 1–12
John and Luke: Which Was First?
The Problem of John’s Passion Sources
The Gospel and the Letters
Chapter 3: In the Beginning: The Scope of the Johannine Prologue
The Th esis: In the Beginning Was the Prologue
The Prologue as an Introduction to the Whole Gospel?
The Prologue as a Commentary on the Gospel?
The Prologue as an Introduction to Jn 1–12
The Th eological Provenance of the Prologue
1 John 1:1-4 and the Gospel Prologue
Chapter 4: The Beloved Disciple: Legitimating the Passion Story
A Dormant Witness? (1:35-51)
The Birth of the Character (13:23-30)
The Faithful Follower (18:15-18)
From Follower to Brother (19:26-27)
The Testimony of Spirit, Water, and Blood (19:28-37)
The First Believer (20:2-10)
The Abiding Witness (21:1-25)
The Beloved Disciple, Peter, and Th omas: A Symbolic Triangle?
Is there a Person behind the Character?
Chapter 5: The Greatest Sign: How Lazarus’ Life Turns Into Jesus’ Death
The Family Aff air: Lazarus, Martha, and Mary in John and Luke
Resurrection and Life: Th e Raising of Lazarus as the Climax of Jesus’ Daylight Work
In the Shadow of the Passion
The Bethany Siblings—Johannine Prototypes?
Chapter 6: Remembering the New Past: The Passion Storyline in John 1–12
The “Remembering” Disciples
The Paraclete as a Legitimator of the Passion Story?
The “Not Yet” Commentaries
From Glory to Glorifi cation
From the Son’s Departure and Ascent to the “Lift ing up” of the Son of Man
The “Laying Down One’s Life for (?p??)” Formula
From the Bread of Life to the Paschal Lamb
The Shockwaves of the Dismissed Gethsemane Story: A Sign of Internal Dispute?
Chapter 7: The Bridegroom’s Day: Tracing the Pre-Passion John
The Outline of the Pre-Passion John
The Bridegroom’s Seed: A Soteriology in the Making
Working in the Daylight: A Time Concept of Jesus’ Mission
Hiding and Seeking: Th e Departure of Jesus and the Attempts to Seize Him
Chapter 8: A Long Farewell: The Watershed in Johannine Theological Evolution
Literary Testaments and Farewell Addresses: Jewish and Greco-Roman Models
The Narrative Frames: Last Meal and Passion
The Paraclete and the Making of the First Farewell Speech
The Composition of the Second Farewell Speech
The Final Prayer
The Pre-Passion Farewell and its Transformation in the Final Gospel
The Literary and Cultic Setting of the Final Prayer and the Farewell Speeches
Chapter 9: The Wounds of the Crucified: Understanding The Johannine Trauma
Crisis, Coping, Trauma: Ways of Conceptualizing Johannine History
Jesus’ Death and Early Christian Identities
Trauma and Loss of Grandiosity in Johannine Christianity
Bibliography
Index of Subjects

Citation preview

LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

590 Formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series

Editor Chris Keith

Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M.G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, Juan Hernandez, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

BECOMING JOHN

The Making of a Passion Gospel

Kari Syreeni

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain in 2019 Paperback edition first published 2020 Copyright © Kari Syreeni, 2019 Kari Syreeni has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. viii constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-8100-3 PB: 978-0-5676-9452-2 ePDF: 978-0-5676-8101-0 eBook: 978-0-5676-8104-1 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, ISSN 2513-8790, volume 590 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS Acknowledgments Abbreviations

viii x

Chapter 1 INTRODUCTION: A PASSION FOR JOHN The Hypothesis: A Passion Redaction of John Q and Thomas—Non-Passion Gospels The Synoptic Passion Gospels The Tool Box: Redaction Criticism and Its Allies

1 2 6 17 20

Chapter 2 JOHN AMONG THE GOSPELS: REJECTING FALSE DICHOTOMIES “John and the Synoptics”—What’s Wrong with this Picture? Markan/Matthean Influences in Jn 1–12 John and Luke: Which Was First? The Problem of John’s Passion Sources The Gospel and the Letters

27 27 29 35 43 50

Chapter 3 IN THE BEGINNING: THE SCOPE OF THE JOHANNINE PROLOGUE The Thesis: In the Beginning Was the Prologue The Prologue as an Introduction to the Whole Gospel? The Prologue as a Commentary on the Gospel? The Prologue as an Introduction to Jn 1–12 The Theological Provenance of the Prologue 1 John 1:1-4 and the Gospel Prologue

56 58 59 63 66 71 75

Chapter 4 THE BELOVED DISCIPLE: LEGITIMATING THE PASSION STORY A Dormant Witness? (1:35-51) The Birth of the Character (13:23-30) The Faithful Follower (18:15-18) From Follower to Brother (19:26-27) The Testimony of Spirit, Water, and Blood (19:28-37) The First Believer (20:2-10)

77 78 80 84 85 87 90

vi

Contents

The Abiding Witness (21:1-25) The Beloved Disciple, Peter, and Thomas: A Symbolic Triangle? Is there a Person behind the Character? Chapter 5 THE GREATEST SIGN: HOW LAZARUS’ LIFE TURNS INTO JESUS’ DEATH The Family Affair: Lazarus, Martha, and Mary in John and Luke Resurrection and Life: The Raising of Lazarus as the Climax of Jesus’ Daylight Work In the Shadow of the Passion The Bethany Siblings—Johannine Prototypes? Chapter 6 REMEMBERING THE NEW PAST: THE PASSION STORYLINE IN JOHN 1–12 The “Remembering” Disciples The Paraclete as a Legitimator of the Passion Story? The “Not Yet” Commentaries From Glory to Glorification From the Son’s Departure and Ascent to the “Lifting up” of the Son of Man The “Laying Down One’s Life for (ὑπέρ)” Formula From the Bread of Life to the Paschal Lamb The Shockwaves of the Dismissed Gethsemane Story: A Sign of Internal Dispute? Chapter 7 THE BRIDEGROOM’S DAY: TRACING THE PRE-PASSION JOHN The Outline of the Pre-Passion John The Bridegroom’s Seed: A Soteriology in the Making Working in the Daylight: A Time Concept of Jesus’ Mission Hiding and Seeking: The Departure of Jesus and the Attempts to Seize Him

93 97 98

101 102 106 113 120

122 122 126 128 129 132 136 137 140

143 143 151 160 162

Chapter 8 A LONG FAREWELL: THE WATERSHED IN JOHANNINE THEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION

Literary Testaments and Farewell Addresses: Jewish and Greco-Roman Models The Narrative Frames: Last Meal and Passion The Paraclete and the Making of the First Farewell Speech The Composition of the Second Farewell Speech The Final Prayer The Pre-Passion Farewell and its Transformation in the Final Gospel The Literary and Cultic Setting of the Final Prayer and the Farewell Speeches

166 166 172 173 179 184 188 190

Contents

vii

Chapter 9 THE WOUNDS OF THE CRUCIFIED: UNDERSTANDING THE JOHANNINE TRAUMA Crisis, Coping, Trauma: Ways of Conceptualizing Johannine History Jesus’ Death and Early Christian Identities Trauma and Loss of Grandiosity in Johannine Christianity

195 195 199 211

Bibliography Index of Subjects

217 230

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My thanks are due to Svenska Kulturfonden, Finland, who, in cooperation with Åbo Akademi, granted my sabbatical year and made this book possible. I am also thankful for the feedback from the research seminars at Helsinki University (Risto Uro), Uppsala University (James Kelhoffer), King’s College London (Joan Taylor), and Oxford University (Markus Bockmuel). I also thank Ismo Dunderberg (Helsinki) for his useful comments on the manuscript. My previously published work on John includes the following articles. None of them are reproduced in this book, but all have been revisited in writing a chapter or parts of a chapter. “Incarnatus est? Christ and Community in the Johannine Farewell Discourse,” in Jan Mrázek and Jan Roskovec (eds.), Testimony and Interpretation: Early Christology in Its Judeo-Christian Milieu: Studies in Honour of Petr Pokorný. JSNTSup 272; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2004, 247–64. The article tentatively introduces my overall hypothesis on the redaction of John. “The Witness of Blood: The Narrative and Ideological Function of the ‘Beloved Disciple’ in John 13–21,” in Antti Mustakallio (ed.), Lux Humana, Lux Aeterna: Essays on Biblical and Related Themes in Honour of Lars Aejmelaeus. PFES 89; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society/ Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005, 164–85. Much of the article is used in Chapter 4 of the present study. “Working in the Daylight: John 9:4–5 and the Question of Johannine ‘Literary Archaeology’.” SEÅ 70 (2005), 265–79. Parts of Chapter 7 develop the theme of this article. “A Feminine Gospel? Jungian and Freudian perspectives on the Gospel of John,” in J. Harold Ellens (ed.), Text and Community: Essays in Memory of Bruce M. Metzger. 2 vols.; NTM 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2007, 2:573–90. Some general notions concerning the patriarchal ethos of John echo this article. “Partial Weaning: Approaching the Psychological Enigma of John 13–17.” SEÅ 72 (2007), 173–92. Some general observations in Chapter 8 reflect this article. “Testament and Consolation: Reflections on the Literary Form of the Johannine Farewell of Jesus,” in Juha Pakkala and Martti Nissinen (eds.), Houses Full of All Good Things: Essays in Memory of Timo Veijola. PFES 95; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2008, 573–90. Parts of Chapter 8 are based on this article.

Acknowledgments

ix

“From the Bridegroom’s Time to the Wedding of the Lamb: Nuptial Imagery in the Canonical Gospels and the Book of Revelation,” in Martti Nissinen and Risto Uro (eds.), Sacred Marriages: The Divine-Human Sexual Metaphor from Sumer to Early Christianity. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns (2008), 434–72. Parts of Chapter 7 develop the theme of this article. “Divine or Human Emotions? The Character of Jesus in the Gospel of John,” forthcoming in René Falkenberg, Marianne Bjelland Kartzow and Louise Heldgaard Bylund (eds.): Nordic Interpretations of the New Testament: Challenging Texts and Perspectives (Studia Aarhusiana Neotestamentica 5), Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2018. A minor part of Chapter 6 is based on this article. Two forthcoming manuscripts—“The Scope of the Johannine Prologue” and “Crises and Trauma: Modeling the History of the Johannine Community”—will be published later in Stanley E. Porter and Andrew W. Pitts (eds.), The Johannine Prologue and its Resonances (JOST 4; Leiden: Brill) and Stanley E. Porter and Andrew W. Pitts (eds.), John’s Gospel and its Sources (JOST 5; Leiden: Brill). These articles are alternative versions of chapters 3 and 9, with a slightly different focus. The biblical quotations are from the NRSV, if not otherwise indicated. The translations of the Nag Hammadi texts are from James M. Robinson (ed.), The Nag Hammadi Library in English (rev. edn; Leiden; New York; Köln: Brill, 1996). The book is dedicated to my sons, Sampo and Ahti. Kari Syreeni The day before Christmas, 2017 St Karins, Finland

ABBREVIATIONS AB ABRL AASF BBB BETL Bib BJS BNTC BTB BZ BZNW CBNTS CBQ CRINT EKKNT ETL FN FRLANT HTKNT HNT HTR HTS IB ICC ITQ JBL JECS JSNT JSNTSUP JTS LD LNTS Neot NCB NCBC NHMS NIBC NTOA NovT NovTSup

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Reference Library Annales Academiae scientiarum fennicae Bonner biblische Beiträge Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Biblica Brown Judaic Studies Black’s New Testament Commentaries Biblical Theology Bulletin Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Coniectanea Biblica New Testament Series Catholic Biblical Quarterly Compendia rerum iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum Evangelisch-katolischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanensis Filologia Neotestamentaria Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Herders theologischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Handbuch zum Neuen Testament Harvard Theological Review Harvard Theological Studies Interpreter’s Bible International Critical Commentary Irish Theological Quarterly Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series Journal of Theological Studies Lectio divina Library of New Testament Studies Neotestamentica New Century Bible New Cambridge Bible Commentary Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies New International Biblical Commentary Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus Novum Testamentum Supplements to Novum Testamentum

Abbreviations

NTAbh NTL NTS ÖTK PFES RAC SBAB SBB SBLDS SBLMS SBS SP SEÅ THKNT TNTC TynBul WBC WMANT ZNW ZTK

Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen New Testament Library New Testament Studies Ökumenischer Taschenbuchkommentar zum Neuen Testament Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum Stuttgarter Biblische Aufsatzbände Stuttgarter Biblische Beiträge Society of Biblical Studies Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Studies Monograph Series Stuttgarter Bibelstudien Sacra Pagina Svensk Exegetisk Årsbok Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament Tyndale New Testament Commentaries Tyndale Bulletin Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Altrn und Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

xi

Chapter 1 INTRODUCTION: A PASSION FOR JOHN

All scholarly voyages with John are different.1 The present study is based on updated “travel notes” on my more than twelve years with this early Christian text. According to a winged saying, the Gospel of John is a pool in which small children can paddle and elephants can swim.2 I have learned a harder lesson: John is a sea where children and elephants alike risk getting drowned. As long as the safe coast where I once started is still in the horizon, it might have been wise to turn back and head for the dry land, as many Johannine scholars have done.3 A withdrawal 1. Cf. Robert Kysar, Voyages with John: Charting the Fourth Gospel (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2005). Kysar describes his voyage of some forty years in terms of hermeneutical shifts: from historical criticism through theological criticism and new literary criticism to postmodernity (p. 1). William Loader’s path has been less winding; his new monograph Jesus in John’s Gospel: Structure and Issues in Johannine Christology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2017) basically details the structure of Johannine Christology presented in a 1984 article. 2. The saying, with small variations, has been attributed to both Augustine and Gregory the Great, and has been popular among modern scholars as well. See Paul N. Anderson, The Riddles of the Fourth Gospel: An Introduction to John (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2011), 245 n.1 to p. 1. 3. Hartwig Thyen is the best-known example of a scholar who started with the (Bultmannian) axiom of John’s redacted nature but landed with an understanding of the Gospel as a unified work of literature. See Hartwig Thyen, “Die Erzählung von den betanischen Geschwistern (Joh 11,1 – 12,19) als ‘Palimpsest’ über synoptischen Texten,” in F. van Segbroeck, C. M. Tuckett, G. Van Belle and J. Verheyden (eds.), The Four Gospels: Festschrift Frans Neirynck (vol. 3; BETL 100; Leuven: Peeters, 1992), 2001–50; p. 2001. His voyage can be followed more closely in his Studien zum Corpus Johannaeum (WUNT 214; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). My itinerary is shorter and less dramatic. In Finland and Sweden the scholarly opinion has always been divided. Rafael Gyllenberg, former professor at Åbo Akademi University, treated John as a literary unity. In Helsinki, Markku Kotila was for independence, Raimo Hakola adopted a synchronic sociological approach, and Ismo Dunderberg suggested John’s use of synoptic Gospels at a late stage, while Lars Aejmelaeus, in a Finnish-language trilogy on the resurrection of Jesus, was explicit on John’s use of the Synoptics. Heikki Räisänen, the Doctorvater of nearly all Finnish New Testament

2

Becoming John

from behind the present Gospel back to its present shape would not be difficult to rationalize in terms of sober scholarship. However, for me, the depth and width of the Gospel is so much greater than its visible shape that I have not been able leave it totally unexplored. There is a passion for learning more, but after all years of exploration I feel committed to gather some of the findings, knowing that much more remains to be done.

The Hypothesis: A Passion Redaction of John Much of the little I have learned thus far is included in the present book, which substantially reworks a number of articles published between 2003 and 2016. All these articles rest on a particular hypothesis about the making of John. In this chapter, I articulate the basic hypothesis and elucidate its background. Since the hypothesis implies that there was a Johannine predecessor which did not contain a passion story, a brief comparative look at the Q Gospel and the Gospel of Thomas is motivated. A short discussion of the synoptic “passion gospels,” comparable to the final John, then follows. Finally, a few words about methods are in order. In a nutshell, I suggest that the passion narrative, together with the passionresurrection plot in its entirety, belongs to a late redaction of the Fourth Gospel. This passion-oriented redaction is so extensive and vital to the present form of the Gospel that I call it the becoming of John. At the same time, the contours of an extensive literary document are discernible in the main bulk of Jn 1–12. Not only a literary entity, the non-passion substratum is also a layer of tradition, which in a more fragmentary way is found in subsequent parts of John. While a precise reconstruction of John’s literary predecessor remains conjectural, there are enough signs of how the passion-oriented redaction has reinterpreted the older stratum. Several drastic shifts of meaning were occasioned by ever deepening reflections on the passion narrative’s consequences for the non-passion tradition. The present book argues for this general thesis by analyzing some of the most conspicuous literary and theological accents in this process of reinterpretation, and by recovering the profile of the early Johannine stratum. Thus, I am not content with “letting John be John,”4 but try to see how John became the Gospel it is. Most of the observations on which my hypothesis

scholars in my generation, did not focus particularly on John, but in his magnum opus The Rise of Christian Beliefs: The Thought World of Early Christians (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010) he took a mediating position: “The later layers [of John] may presuppose some knowledge of the Synoptic Gospels” (p. 68). In Sweden, Birger Olsson’s important text-linguistic study Structure and Meaning in the Fourth Gospel: A Text-Linguistic Analysis of John 2:1-11 and 4:1-42 (CBNTS 6; Lund: Gleerup, 1974) was essentially in favor of John’s literary unity. 4. Cf. James D. G. Dunn, “Let John Be John: A Gospel for Its Time,” in Peter Stuhlmacher (ed.), Das Evangelium und die Evangelien: Vorträge vom Tübingen Symposium 1982 (WUNT 28; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1983), 309–39.

1. Introduction

3

rests have been made before several times, and often better, by other scholars, who however evaluate the data differently. Neither are the core elements of the hypothesis unprecedented. For example, the three-edition hypothesis proposed by Wilhelm Wilkens (1958) urged that it was only the heavily reworked final edition that turned the Fourth Gospel into a “Passion Gospel.”5 My hypothesis also resonates with the assumption of an underlying “Signs source” (but not Fortna’s “Signs Gospel”),6 particularly if one includes substantial discourse material in such a source, roughly adding Bultmann’s Offenbarungsreden to his Semeia-Quelle. The “Signs source” variant suggested by Jürgen Becker in his commentary on John is also interesting. This extensive Johannine source would have a chronological and geographical movement from John the Baptist and a Galilean period to Jesus’ rejection in Jerusalem—yet without a passion-resurrection narrative.7 I would not stress these aspects of the plot as much as Becker does; instead I find some key themes and temporal markers more important.8 More recently, John Dominic Crossan has sketched a still closer equivalent to the passion redaction hypothesis. In his The Birth of Christianity, Crossan offers the following vision:9 I consider that John’s Gospel developed over certain major stages. First, there was an independent collection of miracles and aphorisms that were creatively integrated so that the miracle-signs represented as physical events (bread,

5. Wilhelm Wilkens, Die Entstehungsgeschichte des vierten Evangeliums (Zollikon: Evangelischer Verlag, 1958). According to Wilkens, already the Grundevangelium included a passion story (and the appearances in John 20). The second compositional stage was the addition of speech sections, but only the Evangelist’s subsequent rearrangements and added material made it into a veritable Passionsevangelium. 6. See Robert Thompson Fortna, The Gospel of Signs: A Reconstruction of the Narrative Source Underlying the Fourth Gospel (SNTSMS 11; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970). I have mostly taken note of Fortna’s later, more comprehensive study, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor: From Narrative Source to Present Gospel to Present Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1988). Fortna has somewhat modified his reconstruction in the latter book. I have occasionally also referred to W. Nicol, The Semeia in the Fourth Gospel: Tradition and Redaction (NovTSup 32; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1972). 7. Jürgen Becker, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (2 vols.; ÖTK 505, 1979), 1:112-120. 8. Sydney Temple, The Core of the Fourth Gospel (London and Oxford: Mowbrays, 1975), was a less useful variant of an underlying narrative-discourse source hypothesis. My problems begin with the suggestion (author’s note, p. viii) that “a scribe kept a record of Jesus’ words and actions” ca. 25–35 CE, and that “the Fourth Gospel was possibly composed by John, the son of Zebedee, using the scribe’s record as the core around which he wrote his gospel” ca. 35–65 CE. Temple’s reconstruction includes the passion story. 9. John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity: Discovering what Happened in the Years immediately after the Execution of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1998), 112.

4

Becoming John sight, etc.) what was announced by the aphorisms-dialogues as spiritual events (“I am the bread, light,” etc.). Second, pressure from groups accepting the synoptic gospels as the dominant Christian model resulted in the necessity of adding John the Baptist traditions at the start and passion-resurrection traditions at the end of a gospel which, left to itself, would have begun with that magnificent hymn at the start in John 1:1-18 (without the Baptist, of course) and concluded with that equally magnificent discourse at the end in John 14–17. Third, the pressure from groups accepting Peter as the dominant Christian leader necessitated the addition of John 21.

My hypothesis took shape independently of Crossan, but some of the similarities are striking. The first observation that pushed me toward a similar model was the summary nature of Jn 12:37-50, which looked very much like the end of a gospel, so much so as the beginning of ch. 13 seems to launch another story. The introduction of the Beloved Disciple in John 13 seemed to confirm that suspicion, and further analysis unearthed many more signs of a reinterpretation of Jn 1–12 in the rest of the Gospel. At the same time, the independent theological profile of Jn 1–12 was becoming clearer. Martinus de Boer’s Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus (1996) nurtured my hypothesis at an early stage. His analysis was based on a multistage compositional model, advanced by J. L. Martyn and Raymond E. Brown, which opened a window into the historical progression of Johannine thought. Although this model assumed that the passion story was there in the earliest edition of John, de Boer concluded that in this edition “the death of Jesus is implicitly regarded as an embarrassment” and that “salvation had (or has) little, if anything to do with Jesus’ death.”10 If that is the case, I thought, why would the earliest form of the Johannine Gospel narrate Jesus’ death at all? This was a question that I found, afterward, to resonate with Ernst Bammel’s discussion of the farewell section.11 Bammel emphasized that, in distinction from Jewish farewell traditions, Jn 13–17 is marked by the absence of a description of death and funeral. True, such an account can be found in John 18–19. There is, however, no doubt whatever that these chapters were written by a different hand nor is there any indication that the unit of chapter 13–17 was composed with the intention that it would be concluded by an account of the death of the speaker which then came to be replaced by the passion story we now find in the following chapters. What we actually encounter in the farewell discourse is, we are driven to say, a hint of the ascension rather than of a violent death.

10. M. C. de Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus (Kampen: Pharos, 1996), 93–94. 11. Ernst Bammel, “The Farewell Discourse of the Evangelist John and Its Jewish Inheritance,” Tyndale Bulletin 44 (1993), 103–16; p. 111.

1. Introduction

5

My solution is more complex than Bammel’s. In the final Gospel, the farewell section betrays the same “hand” that added the subsequent chapters, but the main point is that Bammel discerned an earlier Johannine layer of tradition where Jesus’ departure was not conceptualized according to a death-resurrection pattern. So it was a cumulative process that lies behind my hypothesis. However, I would not object if, for the sake of convenience, my redaction hypothesis is regarded as an elaboration of Crossan’s vision. I have problems with some points in Crossan’s hypothesis.12 In essence, however, I endorse the idea that the passion stratum is secondary to the prologue and the main bulk of Jn 1–12, and that parts of the farewell scene in Jn 13–17 belong to the non-passion stratum. And just for sure, I doubt some of Crossan’s further suggestions about the earliest gospel sources.13 To have a vision is one thing. To prove it, or at least make it appear a plausible option, is another thing. Huge problems arise as soon as Crossan’s idea is fleshed out. The provenance of the Johannine passion and resurrection narrative, the making of the farewell section Jn 13–17 that bridges the first “book” of John and the passion-resurrection narrative, and the numerous anticipations of the passion plot in Jn 1–12 are among the toughest questions. Whatever its faults or merits, the hypothesis owes a great deal to my coming from the field of synoptic studies. By way of comparison, Crossan might never have come to his ideas concerning John without his eagle-eye view on nascent Christianity and its literature. D. A. Carson once addressed the challenge of the “Balkanization” of Johannine studies.14 Although a passion redaction hypothesis is easily dismissed as one more idiosyncrasy that will soon “litter the graveyards of Johannine scholarship,”15 I hope to show that the considerations that led me to it

12. I do not assume that the sequences dealing with John the Baptist are secondary to the prologue in the fashion implied in the above quotation. Also, the farewell address and the final prayer in Jn 14–17, together with the footwashing and betrayal scene in John 13, are to be excluded from any literary reconstruction of the Johannine “predecessor,” although some elements there reflect the older tradition-historical stratum. 13. I do not engage in discussions of the Gospel of Peter (or Crossan’s Cross Gospel), which I find dependent on the canonical Gospels, not to speak of the so-called Secret Gospel of Mark. Cf. Stephen C. Carlson, The Gospel Hoax: Morton Smith’s Invention of Secret Mark (Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press, 2005). 14. D. A. Carson, “The Challenge of the Balkanization of Johannine Studies,” in Paul Anderson, Felix Just, and Tom Thatcher (eds.), John, Jesus, and History, vol. 1: Critical Appraisals of Critical Views (Atlanta: SBL, 2007), 133–59. 15. Peter W. Ensor, Jesus and His ‘Works’: The Johannine Sayings in Historical Perspective (WUNT 2/85, Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], 1996), 16. Ensor’s overriding impression is that the various source and development theories are “speculative,” at best “ingenious and yet unprovable” (p. 23). One wonders if Ensor’s quest for the historical Jesus based on John in its present form fares any better. For example, to account for the difficulty at Jn 14:31 Ensor hypothesizes that the announcement “Let us go from here” may have been a preliminary sign of Jesus’ intention to leave, or else the ensuing speeches may have been said on the way

6

Becoming John

are not based on partisan scholarship. Quite the contrary; the Johannine question cannot be divorced from the synoptic problem, and both should be seen in the larger context of the emerging and evolving gospel literature. One a priori obstacle to the passion redaction hypothesis may be the scholarly tradition of speaking of “John and the Synoptics.” This served well in the nineteenth century, but should be considered a bad habit in modern scholarship. As a conceptual model, it tends to regard the individual Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke as a single entity against which the “fourth” Gospel is interpreted. I will deal with the “John and the Synoptics” issue in the next chapter, but one of its unhappy consequences must be mentioned. Apparently, for all their differences, John has one thing in common with “the Synoptics”: the passion narrative. However, if we go behind the final Gospels and assume the two-source theory, things are different. Before Mark, the passion story was in all likelihood not connected to other Jesus material, which may have partly existed as short collections. And about the same time Mark wrote the first passion gospel, there was another—now lost—model for a gospel without a passion story: the Q Gospel.16 A few generations later, the Gospel of Thomas provided another example. To imagine what a non-passion gospel may have looked like, a glance at Q and Thomas will be helpful.

Q and Thomas—Non-Passion Gospels Coming originally from Matthean studies, I am convinced that the two-source theory is the best overall solution to the relationship between the first three canonical Gospels. More precisely, the two-source theory works best when it comes to Matthew. It may be more in need of auxiliary hypotheses in the case of Luke, whose reference to “many” predecessors (Lk. 1:1) is likely more than a figure of speech. The whole truth in the matter is probably much more complicated than the rough version of the two-source theory suggests, but for our immediate concern it suffices to reaffirm Markan priority and the existence of the Q Gospel. The two-source theory hardly needs an apology among critical scholars; it is still the default position, though it is not unchallenged. However, I take Q as a written gospel with a distinctive literary and theological shape more seriously than some mainstream exegetes. As Crossan notes, “There is a growing difference between those who regard the Q Gospel as a major gospel text and those who accept its

to the Garden of Gethsemane (p. 154). This kind of explanation, Ensor assures, is “a more historically realistic solution” than the hypothesis that chs 15–17 are a later insertion. 16. The customary designation “Sayings Gospel Q” is problematic since the Q Gospel, as I see it, is on the verge of becoming a semi-narrative account of the way of Jesus and his disciples. The combination of narrative and discourse elements in Q makes it a more suitable point of comparison than the Gospel of Thomas, where the lack of passion narrative is easier to explain as a matter of literary genre.

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7

existence and contents but not its significance and implications.”17 A comfortable way of accepting the hypothesis in theory but rejecting it in practice is the slippery use of the designation ‘Q’ to refer both to the common non-Markan material in Matthew and Luke and to the hypothetical, reconstructed Q text, and additionally, to an amorphous Q tradition. That such usage obscures the distinctiveness of Q as a literary product, albeit a hypothetical one, is as plain as is the opposite mistake of succumbing to the illusion that, thanks to the earlier reconstructions and more recently the efforts of the International Q Project, we now have the very Q text in original Greek (with accents and all) before our eyes. What I presuppose is just the results of genuine Q research. However, there is another, more sophisticated strategy that seemingly addresses the specifics of modern Q research and commends a measure of caution (which is always needed), while in fact serving to undermine the whole enterprise. James Dunn’s dealing with Q in his magisterial Jesus Remembered provides a sharp critique of the first strategy and, regrettably, an erudite example of the latter.18 Dunn notes initially that Q “still remains a persuasive working hypothesis for the substantial majority,” a majority among which he counts himself. He then stresses the uncertainties of the reconstruction of Q, questioning whether Matthew and Luke really preserved most of Q, and stressing the substantial variation (from nearly 100 percent to around 8 percent) in verbal agreement between Matthew’s and Luke’s Q renderings, concluding that “the confidence in the existence [sic] of ‘Q’, based as heavily as the hypothesis is on the passages towards the 100% end of the scale, must inevitably be weaker in regard to passages towards the 8% of the scale.”19 The variation is interesting indeed, but most scholars would say that the 100 percent passages provide the argument for the existence of Q, while the 8 percent passages show the difficulties with reconstructing its precise contents and wording. Dunn’s discussion coheres with the question mark in the subtitle of the section (“A Q Document?”). The second question mark hangs over the existence of a Q community, and the annihilating conclusion runs as follows: “While the hypothesis that Q represents teaching material of/for one or several communities is entirely plausible, the further hypotheses that there were distinctively ‘Q communities’, in effect isolated from other early Christian communities, depends on deductions which go well beyond what the data of Q itself indicate.”20 It is an effective move to describe attempts at specifying the group(s) behind Q as “further hypotheses.” It is also clever to evoke the phantom of “isolated” Q communities, which are seldom postulated by Q scholars. Dunn’s third question mark concerns the redaction of Q. Here, the target is John Kloppenborg’s hypothesis of subsequent redactions of Q, especially his

17. Crossan, The Birth of Christianity, 111. 18. James D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Christianity in the Making, vol. 1; Grand Rapids and Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2003), 147–60. 19. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 149. 20. Ibid., 152.

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reconstruction of the earliest sapiential layer (Q¹). Kloppenborg’s model is undoubtedly vulnerable; the existence of Q¹ as a single document may well be questioned and its designation as sapiential is open to discussion.21 However, Dunn does not “particularly wish to dissent from the working hypothesis that Q was a carefully structured document.” He even grants: “Certainly the case for seeing Q as structured round the motif of coming judgment and on the lines of Deuteronomistic theology is impressive. As is also the evidence marshalled of interpolations into earlier material.”22 The classic groundbreaking study of Q redaction is Dieter Lührmann’s Die Redaktion der Logienquelle (1969).23 Lührmann had (needless to say) never heard of Kloppenborg’s Q¹, but was nevertheless able to discern the Q redactor’s techniques and main theological emphases. After Lührmann much progress and many proposed refinements24 have been made, but pinpointing the uncertainties of one (though influential) recent model can hardly invalidate Lührmann’s basic observations.25

21. It must be said, however, that Kloppenborg’s stratification model “has been frequently employed in misconstrued ways, which in turn have generated a widespread belief that it might be grounded more in theological and ideological assumptions than in observations of a literary and stylistic nature.” Giovanni B. Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy: The political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q (BETL 274; Leuven, Paris and Bristol: Peeters, 2015), 4. At the same time, Bazzana himself problematizes the binary wisdom vs. apocalyptic (pp. 16–19). 22. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 152–53. 23. Dieter Lührmann, Die Redaktion der Logienquelle (WMANT 33: Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1959). 24. The most recent proposal I am aware of is Yoseop Pra, Q—The First Writing about Jesus (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2016). Pra suggests a redaction history with four editions. 25. See, for example, the relatively cautious composition model of Arland D. Jacobson, The First Gospel: An Introduction to Q (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge Press, 1992). Jacobson sees the “deuteronomistic-wisdom perspective” as the main unifying framework at the “basic, compositional stage” of Q (p. 76). Like Jacobson (and unlike Kloppenborg), I would not insist on the primacy of the sapiential material or literary genre in Q. What we can observe is the cooperation of wisdom motifs and a deuteronomistic view of history in the composition of Q. There is also considerable agreement on the existence of a late redaction, which has brought in more narrative elements into Q. James G. Williams, “Parable and Chreia: From Q to Narrative Gospel,” Semeia 43 (1988), 85–114, p. 109, rightly argues that Q “is well on its way toward the form of the narrative gospel.” In addition, I would stress the continuity from Q to the (much more throroughly narrativized) Gospel of Matthew. Cf. James M. Robinson, “The Q Trajectory: Between John and Matthew,” in Birger A. Pearson (ed.), The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 173–94; p. 193: “It would seem clear that the Q movement—at least a significant part of it—merged into the Matthean community, bringing into Matthew . . . the traditions of Jesus that Q had transmitted.”

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Given Dunn’s strategy, his conclusion that “the questions of the date, place, and reasons for (Q’s) composition may be too much a matter of obscurum per obscurius”26 does not surprise. Q as a distinctive literary text, with palpable theological, social, and other concerns, has in effect been ruined. Then there is little if any use for Q in practical analysis. While it is methodologically sound to avoid building too many further hypotheses on the basis of already hypothetical entities, another sound principle is that one take responsibility for the hypotheses one actually assumes. Whatever may be said of Crossan’s specific theories, I subscribe to the ethos of his repeated concession: if his source hypothesis (in this case, concerning John’s Gospel) “is wrong, everything I build on it is invalid. And again, the same goes for the opposite position.”27 This is simply the ethos of fair play. What consequences for Johannine studies does it have if we take the Q hypothesis, and the work done on Q, seriously? It is certainly a reminder that we cannot take the canonical Gospels as a self-evident model for what lies behind John. The recognition of Q’s independent kerygmatic profile since Heinz Eduard Tödt (1959)28 and its redactional, unified literary character since Dieter Lührmann (1969) should make it clear that it is not just a “source” but really a gospel.29 As a non-passion gospel, Q provides an early alternative model for gospel literature. Admittedly, a comparison between Q and the Johannine predecessor does not show striking formal similarities. The themes and the rhetorical structure of the Q discourses are far from Jn 1–12. It may still be significant that the Q speeches, at some places, strike a middle ground between the aphoristic, shortcut arrangement of the Gospel of Thomas and the more generous, thematically rounded discourses in John; and then there is the “Johannine thunderbolt” Q 10:21-24. The narrative outlook of Q may provide better hints. Kloppenborg notes that Q has developed a comprehensive “narrative world,” which extends from Abel and the foundation of the world (Q 11:49-51)30 to the coming of the Son of Man (17:23-30)

26. Dunn, Jesus Remembered, 159. 27. Crossan, The Birth of Christianity, 114. 28. Heinz Eduard Tödt, Der Menschensohn in der synoptischen Überlieferung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1959; 2nd edn 1963). 29. For a discussion of the genre of gospel with special attention to Q, see Christoph Heil, “Evangelium als Gattung: Erzähl- und Spruchevangelium,” in Thomas Schmeller (ed.), Historiographie und Biographie im Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt (NTOA/StUNT 69; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 62–94. Heil accepts the widespread term “Spruchevangelium” (Sayings Gospel) for Q but notes also Q’s tendency toward narrativity (p. 72). In a sense, of course, the discussion of whether Q should be considered a “gospel” is anachronistic, because εὐαγγέλιον only came to designate a written text in the beginning of the second century. According to James Kelhoffer, Conceptions of “Gospel” and Legitimacy in Early Christianity (WUNT324; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 39–75, esp. p. 72, this innovation must be placed after both Mark and Matthew but before the Didache. 30. In referring to the Q text, scholars use Luke’s verses; thus Q 11:49-51 means the reconstructed Q text behind Luke and its Matthean parallel.

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and includes the time of the patriarchs, Lot, Solomon, Jonah, the death of Zechariah (11:51a) and John the Baptist (7:18-35), as well as the projected activities of Jesus’ disciples (10:2-3,16; 12:2-12, 22-31).31 Further, Arto Järvinen’s narrative analysis of Q shows how the characterization of Jesus and his followers contributes to the unfolding of Q’s plot.32 There is also a semi-narrative (partly biographical, partly catechetical) progression in the broad arrangement of the material according to an intrinsic logic: first things first (John the Baptist as forerunner proclaiming the Coming One, 3:16, Jesus’ first programmatic speech, etc.) and last things last (the coming of the Son of Man, 17:23-37, judging the twelve tribes 22:28-30). Most reconstructions of Q also include narrative sequences. A healing narrative (7:1-10) exemplifies Jesus’ extensive healing activity (7:21-22). If the temptation narrative (4:1-13) is included, as a late insertion, it is a further indication of Q’s narrative openness, even proclivity, when compared with the Gospel of Thomas. Even without the temptation narrative (and account of Jesus’ baptism, as some assume), Q’s opening section about John the Baptist and Jesus (from 3:3, 7–9, 16-17 to 7:18-35) has an impressive narrative framework. The Baptist proclaims Jesus as the Coming One. Later, having among other things delivered a thematically wellformed inaugural speech (Q 6:20-49), Jesus responds to the Baptist’s disciples who have arrived and ask him if he really is that Coming One (Q 7:19). Subsequently, however, the narrative elements are fewer. If a Markan side-glance is allowed, it would seem that the very beginning of the gospel is being narrativized. Not so with the end and goal of Mark; whatever the uncertainties with reconstructing Q, it is clear that Q lacks a passion-resurrection (or empty tomb) narrative.33 In older research, this was often explained as being due to Q’s catechetic Sitz im Leben. Q was considered to presuppose the “Easter kerygma,” that is, the Markan or synoptic passion-resurrection narrative and the Pauline tradition recorded in 1 Cor. 15:3-7. That Q did not include a passion story was not considered a sign of its deviant theological profile, even if it was deemed a flaw

31. John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 373. 32. Arto Järvinen, “The Son of Man and His Followers: A Q Portrait of Jesus,” in David Rhoads and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Characterization in the Gospels: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 180–222. 33. As always, there are dissidents. See, for example, Eric Franklin, “A Passion Narrative for Q?” in Christopher Rowland an Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis (eds.), Understanding, Studying and Reading: New Testament Essays in Honour of John Ashton (JSNTSup 153; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 30–47. Interestingly, Franklin would exclude resurrection appearances and the empty tomb narrative from the Q text. Q “presents a Christology very much akin to that of the Epistle to the Hebrews where Jesus’ suffering again leads to and enables his exaltation to the right hand of God and where the resurrection is made virtually redundant. But Jesus lives: Q comes from a truly eschatological community” (p. 46). This fascinating hypothesis suffers from the fact that the article is “written by one who is not himself convinced of the necessity to advocate the use of a Q at all” (p. 47)!

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and justified the designation of Q as a “half gospel.” However, since Heinz Eduard Tödt’s seminal work scholars of Q no longer speak of the gospel’s “understandable silence” or “regrettable defect.”34 The passion-resurrection plot is not simply absent or missing from Q. Rather, Q envisions Jesus’ lasting significance and the vindication of his death within a different theological framework. Far from being a mere supplement to a uniform, pan-Christian Easter kerygma, Q embodies a distinctive conceptualization of the kerygma. In discussing the interpretation of Jesus’ death and its vindication in Q, John Kloppenborg35 rightly stresses that Q’s relative silence on Jesus’ death is not due to ignorance, indifference, or some remarkable aberrance. Q does know of Jesus’ death, and it does deal with its significance. Moreover, Q represents an early treatment of Jesus’ death, one that is probably earlier than Mark’s narrative and perhaps as early as Paul’s view of Jesus’ death. Q’s theological framework includes at least two distinct motifs that interpret Jesus’ fate. On the one hand, the deuteronomistic understanding of the prophets’ violent death applies to Jesus and his followers. Hereby Jesus’ fate is regarded as the typical, indeed climactic death of a God-sent prophet (Q 6:22-23, 11:47-51). On the other hand, Q identifies John the Baptist and Jesus as “the children of Wisdom (Sophia)” (Q 7:35), a designation that no doubt applies to Jesus’ followers as well, since they have received the revelation (Q 10:21-22) and are more blessed than prophets and kings (10:23-24). Kloppenborg also finds Q elaborating on most of the distinctive elements that belong to what Nickelsburg (1972)36 has termed “the wisdom tale,” the conglomeration of Wisdom motifs that amounts to a narrative of the sending, provocative actions, trial, possibly but not necessarily death, and finally the vindication of the righteous one. Kloppenborg asserts that both the deuteronomistic and the wisdom traits are to be understood in Q collectively rather than individualistically. This is true, but there are applications that pertain specifically to the vindication of Jesus’ death. Q 14:27 (“whoever does not take up his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple”) evokes Jesus’ shameful death on the cross and interprets it as a paradigm of following Jesus.37 Individual and collective meaning merge here, but in a way

34. Rightly Risto Uro, “Apocalyptic Symbolism and Social Identity in Q,” in R. Uro (ed.) Symbols and Strata: Essays on the Sayings Gospel Q (PFES 65, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht), Helsinki, Finnish Exegetical Society—Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996, 67–118, p. 111 n. 127: “To argue that Q does not presuppose the Easter stories of the canonical gospels in not an argument from silence. Q reflects the vindication of Jesus in its own peculiar way.” 35. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q, 369–79. 36. George E. W. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism (HTS 26; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), 68–92. 37. David Seeley, “Jesus’ Death in Q,” NTS 38 (1992), 222–34, interprets Q 14:27 from a Cynic and Stoic perspective, yet without arguing against a deuteronomistic line of interpretation. Because there is no reference to Israelite prophets in this Q saying, Seeley’s

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that makes Jesus’ death not just typical, but archetypal. Though making this veiled and indirect, yet unmistakable reference to Jesus’ death on the cross, it is not in the interest of Q to narrate the passion story. Rather, Q highlights the ultimate vindication of Jesus in terms that seem to omit the passion: I tell you, you will no longer see me until you say, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” (Q 13:35b)

Taken literally, the saying would imply Jesus’ disappearance before his death. After all, Jesus must be alive and well to be able to say this. In the Q context, he is addressing the Jerusalemites (who would be able to see him if he were to be crucified), and it is reasonable that Q did not imagine him as speaking from the cross. However, immediately before this statement there is a reference to the killing of the prophets, which makes the composition ambivalent.38 Dieter Zeller has made a good case for interpreting this saying in terms of Jesus’ assumption or removal to heaven.39 The saying, which probably belongs to the main redaction of Q, would understand Jesus’ end on the analogy of Elijah or Enoch, both of whom were removed to heaven and held in reserve for a future, eschatological role. The “no longer seeing” recalls the description of Elijah, who disappeared prematurely so that his successor Elisha “no longer saw him” (2 Kgs 2:12). This sudden disappearance encouraged in later tradition the expectation that Elijah would return in a forensic end-time role. Elijah is not the only such figure to disappear. Baruch and Ezra were reported to have been assumed to heaven in order to have an eschatological role, and we find the removal of Enoch in 1 En. 70–71, who (according to 71:14) is subsequently installed as the Son of

interpretation cannot be excluded, but certainly the master/follower imagery is also at home in a Jewish prophetic tradition. Järvinen, “The Son of Man,” 222, rightly stresses the general paraenetic nature of Q 14:27: Jesus’ cross is “a concise and grotesque symbol of the radical call to discipleship.” 38. Most commentators do not ask what this saying implies about Jesus’ fate, the focus being rather on whether the saying implies future judgment or salvation for Israel/ Jerusalem. For this discussion, see Dale C. Allison, The Jesus Tradition in Q (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1997), 192–204; Allison argues for the hope of Israel’s salvation. However, Allison also notes that both Q 13:35 and Q 17:22 agree that “the present is marked by the Son of man’s absence” (p. 203). This not seeing in Q can be compared to the prepassion John’s emphasis on seeking and not finding. 39. Dieter Zeller, “Entrückung zur Ankunft als Menschensohn (Lk 13,34f.; 11:29f.),” in À cause de l’évangile: etudes sur les Synoptiques et les Actes, offertes au P. Jacques Dupont, O.S.B. à l’occasion de son 70ᵉ anniversaire (LD 123; Paris: Publications de Saint-André/Les Éditions du Cerf, 1985), 513–30. The distinction between assumption and other conceptualizations of “going up” to heaven (disappearance, rapture, resurrection, exaltation, glorification) is not always clear.

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Man. Even Moses’ death, though clearly narrated in the Hebrew Bible (Deut. 34:6), could in later tradition be interpreted in terms of assumption.40 It is noteworthy, and something that may help us understand the embarrassing juxtaposition in Q 13:34-35 of the prophets’ killing and the disappearance of Jesus, that the assumption of a prophet or a just man could take place either before or after his death. Which way it takes place is not really the point. Elijah and Enoch were assumed prior to death. Concerning Moses and some other Old Testament figures, whose death and burial were a biblical fact, the later tradition would understandably prefer to imagine an assumption after death (or also, a visionary “assumption” where the hero would see heavenly things before dying). Either way, the prophet or man of God would in effect end his earthly career being removed to God. Either way, he was able to participate in crucial this-worldly turning points, or to appear in visionary experiences (cf. Acts 7:55-56). Be it before or after death, there was no substantial difference from the seer’s point of view: Jesus would now be in the company of Elijah and Moses (cf. Mk 9:4).41 Indeed, the soul of a just man might just as well be taken into heaven at the moment of his death (Acts 7:59). However, for the true Wisdom of God, physical death was more difficult to imagine, let alone to narrate in brutal detail. Since Jesus according to Q was at least a “child” of Sophia, and implicitly more so than John the Baptist, it is not far-fetched to see a connection between Q’s reluctance to narrate his death all too graphically (in the form of a passion story) on the one hand, and the enigmatic hint at Jesus’ disappearance or assumption, on the other. Leaning on Zeller’s interpretation of Q 13:35b, Kloppenborg suggests that Q may have regarded Jesus’ death as one of a just man or a prophet whom God had assumed, pending some future eschatological role.42 He further notes that Q displays no signs of applying resurrection language to Jesus, despite the fact that Q 11:31-32 speaks of the queen of South and the Ninevites as being raised at the coming judgment. Clearly, then, the passion-death-resurrection scheme is not Q’s way of conceptualizing the vindication of Jesus. My own conclusion is broadly in accordance with Kloppenborg’s judgment, but there seems to be reason to emphasize the ambivalence in Q’s dealing with the actual fate of Jesus. On the one hand, Q seems neither wholly ignorant nor extremely critical of the crucifixion and resurrection tradition (which just proves that the Q group was not isolated from the larger Christian community). There is no straightforward denial of a Markan

40. This tradition seems presupposed in the transfiguration story, Mk 9:2-8. 41. It is often suggested that the Markan transfiguration story was originally a resurrection story. Against this, see Robert H. Stein, “Is the Transfiguration (Mark 9:2-8) a misplaced Resurrection-Account?” JBL 95 (1976), 79–96. Stein’s arguments are impressive, but his target—against the hypothesis that a resurrection appearance has been moved into the story of Jesus’ mission—is limited. The story, even if narrating an episode in Jesus’ life, may have reused elements of an ascension/exaltation vision and/or may have been developed on the basis of an epiphanic δόξα christology, of which 2 Cor. 3 and Jn 1:14 are further examples. 42. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q, 377.

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kind of passion story. Jerusalem as the site of the prophets’ death is mentioned, and the cross is referred to as a suggestive paraenetic image. Yet, Q does not make the passion-resurrection plot its own. Not only does it not narrate it, it also clearly prefers to conceptualize Jesus’ vindication in terms of assumption and the future judgment of Israel. Whether the removal to heaven was before or after Jesus’ death was less important, thus negotiable, although the final Q obviously presupposes Jesus’ violent death. Unless the Markan passion storyline and the Pauline kerygma are held a priori to be the sole and normative early Christian concept, there is no reason to think that Q’s stance was particularly radical or heterodox. The Jesus who speaks in Q is the living Jesus as much as the Markan Jesus or the speaker in the Gospel of Thomas. He once lived on earth, now lives with God, and will return as the Son of Man. After Zeller and Kloppenborg, Daniel A. Smith has supplied a sustained analysis of the key passage Q 13:34-35, showing the distinctiveness of Q’s christological outlook. Smith distinguishes carefully between the assumption theology of this passage and the customary notion of resurrection belief as distinct ways of conceptualizing Jesus’ postmortem vindication.43 Essentially, Smith confirms Kloppenborg’s line of thought. He also suggests that the empty tomb story in Mk 16:1-8 was originally another postmortem disappearance story reflecting an assumption rather than a resurrection belief, although Mark made it a proof of Jesus’ resurrection.44 It is instructive to connect two general observations concerning the shape and the compositional history of Q. The first is the lack of a passion-resurrection narrative. The second is that much redactional energy was devoted to expanding and in part narrativizing the beginning of the Q Gospel. Several reasons for the latter observation may be suggested, but one palpable redactional interest is to legitimate Jesus’ status as the end-time envoy of God and his teaching. His healing activity together with his proclamation (“evangelizing the poor,” 7:22) is now taken as proof of his divine authorization (7:1-10; 7:18-23). He is the bearer of Wisdom (7:35), whose words are the measure of the coming judgment (7:46-49). The temptation story (4:1-13) legitimates the ethos of the subsequent Q admonitions with Torah, but above all it provides the crucial test of obedience that proves Jesus worthy of his ministry. It is therefore instructive to compare this story functionally

43. Daniel A. Smith, The Post-Mortem Vindication of Jesus in the Sayings Gospel Q (LNTS 338; London: T&T Clark, 2006). See also his “Revisiting the Empty Tomb: The Post-mortem Vindication of Jesus in Mark and Q,” NovT 45 (2003), 123–37. According to Smith, Mk 16:1-8 may be seen as a postmortem disappearance narrative; this raises the possibility that Q and Mark (or a pre-Markan source) may have expressed a belief in Jesus’’ vindication by God in quite similar terms. 44. Daniel A. Smith has recently defended his view of Q’s disappearance/assumption imagery over against the hypothesis that Q presupposes a death-resurrection scheme. See his “The Disappearance of Jesus in Q: A Response to Harry T. Fleddermann,” ETL 92 (2016), 301–22.

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with the Markan Gethsemane scene. While for Q the initial trial that Jesus passes was a sufficient legitimation, for Mark another, ultimate test of obedience was in order. Q’s reluctance to narrate Jesus’ death, as well as its understanding of Jesus’ vindication as a postmortem assumption, where Jesus simply disappeared, has obvious implications for Johannine studies. So, too, has the possibility that a similar assumption imagery lies behind the Markan ending. All the implications need not be spelled out here, but I hope to have shown that an early Johannine non-passion gospel need not have been quite extraordinary. More particularly, Q’s inclination toward Wisdom christology and its inherent hesitation to narrate the death of God’s Wisdom should be borne in mind. Then it appears less than evident that the Johannine tradition should quite naturally narrate the death of the divine Logos (Jn 1:1-18). Also, we begin to see in a new light the enigmatic statements in John about Jesus “going away” and being sought but not found (7:33-36; resumed and reaccentuated in 13:33), hiding himself (12:36b), and disappearing from the world but appearing to his disciples (14:19). In view of such statements, the reader would expect a rapture or simply a disappearance. While Q is a hypothetical source, and therefore vulnerable as an argument for the existence of non-passion gospels, the Gospel of Thomas is hard proof. The problem is to what extent this document is independent from the canonical Gospels. Another moot issue is its religion-historical setting. In these issues, I have adopted the general view represented by several Helsinki scholars, including Risto Uro, whose monograph on Thomas has a rich documentation and a careful assessment of the various hypotheses concerning Gos. Thom.45 His view, shared by other colleagues in Helsinki, is that this Gospel is an early second-century text, which in its final shape betrays the influence of canonical Gospels. The document is not “gnostic,” but interprets Jesus’ message in terms of the divine origin of the soul.46 It seems that an earlier Thomasine tradition adhered to James the brother of Jesus (cf. saying 12), while the leading role of Thomas (cf. saying 13) represents a later layer; if so, there are likely to be other developments in the Thomasine tradition as well.47

45. Risto Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London and New York: T & T Clark, 2003). 46. Here we should be aware of the canonical bias, which tends to “normalize” the New Testament texts and lump together all the rest as “deviant” or “gnostic.” Uro, Thomas, 52–53, rightly reminds that while the christology of Gos.Thom. may seem strange in comparison with New testament Christ-hymns, “exactly the opposite may have been the case for many early Christians.” 47. See Risto Uro, “Who Will Be Our Leader? Authority and Autonomy in the Gospel of Thomas,” in Ismo Dunderberg, Christopher Tuckett and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of Heikki Räisänen (NovTSup 103; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 457–85; esp. pp. 462–77. Uro finds several indications that Gos.Thom. 12 derives from a group that took James’ primacy seriously, while the

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At this juncture, the possible tradition-historical connections between Gos. Thom. and the Gospel of John will not be pursued further. What is of immediate concern is that Gos.Thom. does not presuppose the death and resurrection of Jesus. Everything in that document is about the living Jesus (Gos. Thom., incipit) who is the Son of the Living One (saying 37), and about the elect children of the living Father (saying 50).48 The Johannine predecessor’s image of Jesus as living with his Father in all eternity (Jn 1:1-2), appearing in flesh (1:14), and, after his mission (12:44-50), returning to the Father (17:6-8) is certainly compatible with Gos. Thom., where his appearance in flesh (Gos. Thom. 28) and departure (Gos. Thom. 12) are presupposed—but not his death. Thus, it is wrongheaded to interpret “the living Jesus” as the resurrected Christ.49 Rather, the history of Jesus is understood here in the same way as in the pre-passion John. A heavenly, eternal being manifested himself on earth and then returned to where he was. As Jesus was, so also his disciples should be “passers-by” (saying 42), temporary visitors in the material world.

following saying (13) redefines the idea of leadership and critiques the hierarchical formation within Christian communities. See further Antti Marjanen, “Thomas and Jewish Religious Practices,” in Risto Uro (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (Studies of New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 163–82. Marjanen’s tentative conclusion is that “the figure of James, the hierarchical understanding of Christian leadership, and the observance of Jewish religious practices belonged together and represented one stage within the religious development of the Thomasine community, whereas the figure of Thomas, the idea of ‘masterless’ Christian self-identity, and a critical attitude toward Jewish religious practices constituted a new option” (pp. 181–82). 48. The attribute “living” is also given Jesus in Gos. Thom. 52; 59; 111 and Father in 3; 37. Although Thomas does not dwell on the nature of Jesus’ preexistence, such attributes suggest that Jesus is seen as both preexistent and divine; thus Antti Marjanen, “The Portrait of Jesus in the Gospel of Thomas,” in Jon Ma. Asgeirsson, April D. DeConick and Risto Uro (eds.), Thomasine Traditions in Antiquity (NHMS 59; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2006), 209–19; pp. 211–12. 49. According to Meyer, “the living Jesus” is “probably not the resurrected Christ as commonly understood, but rather Jesus who lives through his sayings.” Marvin Meyer, The Gospel of Thomas: The Hidden Sayings of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper, 1992), 67. I suspect this explanation is a bit too modern and “literary.” The Gospel of Thomas does not dwell on the precise manner in which Jesus lives, but Patterson’s interpretation in terms of a (basically Platonic) idea of immortality is obviously right. Referring to Gos. Thom. 112 (“the living will not die”), he concludes: “‘Living’ here means ‘immortal.’ This is why Jesus in Thomas is called the ‘Living Jesus’ (Thom incipit) or the ‘Living One’ (Thom 52). It is not because he has been raised from the dead.” Stephen J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins: Essays on the Fifth Gospel (NHMS 84; LeidenBoston: Brill, 2013), 83.

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The Synoptic Passion Gospels So much of Q and Thomas. If we take the present Gospel of John as a point of departure, it compares with the extant Synoptics. The two-source theory suggests that the combination of more or less disparage Jesus traditions with a passion story is Mark’s redactional achievement. The Markan passion-resurrection storyline consists mainly of the following elements: the motif of the opposition against Jesus, the motif of messianic secret, the three passion-resurrection predictions, the passion narrative proper, the burial narrative, and the narrative of the empty tomb. There are some rough ends in the unfolding of this storyline before the passion narrative proper is launched in ch. 14. There is no linear gradation in describing the opponents’ hostility toward Jesus, because the killing plan at the close of the first series of controversy stories (2:1–3:6) comes all too soon. The secrecy motif, when used in connection with Jesus’ passion and resurrection, tends to make the disciples so retarded that the motif does not function as a psychologically credible narrative device.50 Such roughness is understandable if Mark was the first to produce a comprehensive life-and-passion account. However, the crucial narrative turning point at 8:27-33, where the messianic secret in its proper sense and the first passion prediction are articulated, suggests that the roughness is not only of a technical kind. Peter’s confession must, on the face of it, be adequate, because Jesus summons that it must not come out yet. Still, Peter’s reaction to the passion prediction shows that he did not understand the nature of the secret: that the Christ, the Son of Man, must die. Jesus’ answer, “Away with you, Satan,” is so shocking and unexpected that an issue in Mark’s contemporary world outside the text seems suggested. Whoever these “satanic” opponents were, they obviously had another, non-passion concept of Jesus’ messianic mission. Mark’s drastic means of legitimating his passion gospel suggests that there were alternative conceptions— and as we have seen, one such is to be seen in Q.51

50. The disciples’ incomprehension is closely related to the secrecy motif. Heikki Räisänen, The ‘Messianic Secret’ in Mark’s Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1990), 217–18, finds that the incomprehension motif covers three areas: (1) the disciples fail to recognize Jesus’ true identity on the basis of the miracles, (2) they fail to understand that Jesus’ teaching means the abrogation of the Jewish food laws, and (3) they do not understand Jesus’ passion and resurrection. 51. Heikki Räisänen, The ‘Messianic Secret,’ sees a negative correlation between several of Mark’s emphases and those of Q (pp. 218–19) and concludes that the secrecy theme is a vehicle to “reject the claims of people like the bearers of the Q tradition” (p. 254). This conclusion has not gained general acceptance; for criticism see, for example, Christopher Tuckett, “The Disciples and the Messianic Secret in Mark,” Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity. Essays in Honour of Heikki Räisänen (NTSup 103; Leiden-BostonKöln: Brill, 2001), 131–49. Without engaging in further discussion, I just refer to Tuckett’s admittance that Räisänen is “convincing in his suggestion that an element of polemic . . . underlies at least part of the material” (p. 148). Surely 8:33 is polemical, and the three

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That Mark was able to unfold the passion-resurrection plot as successively as he nonetheless did, owes a great deal to the three passion predictions. These certainly make the audience—though not the disciples—aware of the inevitable outcome of the story. It is also here that Jesus’ resurrection is pronounced most effectively. In fact, no resurrection appearances are narrated. Mark has nothing but the story of the empty tomb, with the young man interpreting the disappearance of Jesus’ body in resurrection terms (ἠγέρθη, 16:6). Otherwise, the Markan story would simply point to the disappearance of the body of Jesus, which would leave space for other conceptualizations, as in Jn 7:34b-35a: “I go to him who sent me; you will seek me and you will not find me.” The transfiguration narrative in 9:2-9, which is often regarded as reflecting “post-Easter” visionary experiences,52 would also lend itself to other than death-resurrection conceptualizations, if taken as such or told in another narrative context. Mark, however, stages the transfiguration as a numinous scene within Jesus’ earthly life and makes it a prefiguration of the resurrection. Matthew accepted Mark’s narrative outline and refined it, for example, by improving the gradation of the conflict theme and by underlining Mark’s narrative turning points (Mt. 4:17 and 16:21). A growing biographical interest may be sensed in the opening chapters, where Jesus’ genealogy and birth are recorded. When Mark’s story begins, Matthew follows it closely, making only such adjustments as were required by the inclusion of the considerable Q and special sayings material. The three Markan passion-resurrection predictions and elements of the secrecy motif are retained. Matthew has little to add to the passion narrative proper, except some legendary embellishments that further stress Jesus’ innocence and the Jews’ guilt (e.g., Pilate’s wife testifying to Jesus’ innocence, Pilate washing his hands, and the crowds shouting “His blood be on us and on our children,” Mt. 28:19, 24-25). Similarly, the burial and empty tomb stories are spiced with the apologetic legend of the custodians at the tomb (Mt. 27:62-66; 28:4, 11-15). The miraculous nature of Jesus’ resurrection is underscored by an earthquake and an angel descending from heaven to roll away the stone (Mt. 28:2). Such enhancements are easily understood as a retelling of the Markan story. So is also the emending of Mark’s abrupt ending, which left the reader asking how the disciples got the message if the women kept silent. Now the women, filled with “fear and joy,” see the risen Jesus and hear him repeat the angel’s message (28:810). More traditional may be the mention of the opening of the graves at Jesus’ death and the saints’ being raised and appearing to many (27:52-53). Matthew had some difficulties in organizing temporally this peculiar legend (the saints seem to rise before Jesus). That such a tradition nevertheless was included, remedies but simultaneously underlines the paucity of Jesus’ appearances known to Matthew.

passion predictions that the disciples fail to understand are proof that Mark is making a point. Peter’s three denials in the passion story are also noteworthy. 52. See, for example, Larry Hurtado, How on Earth Did Jesus Become a God? Historical Questions about Earliest Devotion to Jesus (Grand Rapids; Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2005), 200.

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The only appearance of the risen Jesus to his disciples in Matthew, apart from the episode at 28:8-10 that seems called forth by a reading of Mark, is the final commissioning (28:16-20). In fact this scene, too, is readily understandable as an emendation of Mark’s unsatisfying ending: now the disciples do go to Galilee and see Jesus. The commissioning itself, whatever its origin, seems only superficially fitted to the passion-resurrection plot. As such it would work as a valedictory command (cf. Jn 13:34-35) before assumption or as a vision of the ascended Jesus (cf. the commissioning of Saul/Paul in Acts). Luke’s work is an extended and “split” gospel. Ideationally, his two-volume work still deals with “the beginning of the gospel” (Mk 1:1), even though the pregnant gospel genre is about to deliver a sequel genre. For Luke, the mission of the earliest church is a part and continuation of the sacred formative past rather than simply church history—the story ends with the gospel’s having advanced from Jesus to Paul, from Galilee and Jerusalem to Rome (Acts 1:8). The ascension of Jesus into heaven at the close of Luke (24:50-52) and again at the beginning of the Acts (1:1-11) highlights both the break and the unity between the two volumes. The ascension links the Jesus story and the church’s infancy story into a firm chain,53 where the end of the former penetrates the latter and the latter looks back to the former for its legitimation. The Lukan account of Jesus’ public ministry shows an even greater interest than Matthew to complement Mark backward with Jesus’ genealogy, birth and childhood, anticipating another offspring of the Markan gospel genre (the infancy gospels). Coming to Mark’s story, Luke shows greater freedom than Matthew in rearranging the material and omitting unfitting pieces. The most conspicuous Lukan creation within Jesus’ public ministry is the lengthy travel narrative (from 9:51 on), which is introduced as Jesus’ ἀνάλημψις (“taking up”).54 This designation ties the travel up to Jerusalem, toward the cross, with the resurrection and the subsequent ascension, which parallels the Fourth Gospel’s manner of comprising Jesus’ death-resurrection and return or “lifting up” into a single event. That Mark’s narrative outline informed Luke, despite his relative freedom, is seen in the three passion-resurrection predictions. Approaching Jerusalem, the Lukan Jesus takes on his Markan shoes again. The deviations from Mark in the passion story are somewhat more substantial than with Matthew. Much can be understood as Luke’s stylizing and improvements on Mark (such as the two robbers, 23:39-43), but sometimes the use of additional or alternative sources seems suggested. For example, the last meal is the occasion of a farewell address (22:14-38) that bears some resemblance to the footwashing and farewell scene in John (cf. especially Luke 22:27 and the placing of the dialogue between Jesus and Peter 22:31-34). Luke’s story of the empty tomb first follows

53. The chain-link interlock (so called by Bruce Longenecker) will be discussed in Chapter 3. 54. Cf. Acts 1:22, where the day of Jesus’ being “taken up” from his disciples denotes the end of his earthly presence.

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Mark quite closely,55 but then Mark’s claim that the fleeing women told nothing to anybody is turned upside down: the women told the news to both “the eleven” (apostles) and “all the rest” (the wider circle of Jesus’ followers). Luke’s first volume ends and the second begins with an account of Jesus’ ascension—a bold innovation, unless Luke knew of some Jesus traditions not recorded in the other Synoptics.56

The Tool Box: Redaction Criticism and Its Allies A few words about methods are needed before embarking on the (unfortunately so-called) “John and the Synoptics” question in the next chapter. My hypothesis represents basically a redaction-critical57 approach to the Gospels, an approach I have adopted since my 1987 doctoral thesis on Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount. At that time, redaction criticism was in many quarters considered passé, and that attitude has prevailed ever since. In part the negligence is a natural effect of new

55. The most notable difference is that the “young man” is replaced with two men/angels. 56. Of all Gospel writers (canonical or not), Luke provides the most “analytical” account of Jesus’ postmortem vindication. Gerhard Lohfink, Die Himmelfart Jesu: Untersuchungen zu den Himmelfarts—und Erhöhungstexten bei Lukas (SANT 26; München: Kösel, 1971), 32–79, distinguishes between two forms of ascension stories in Hellenistic and Jewish literature: the journey of the soul and the rapture. The Lukan ascension stories in Luke 24 and Acts 1 would be of the rapture type. John F. Maile, “The Ascension in Luke-Acts,” TynBul 37 (1986), 29–59, shows that Luke’s presentation includes more forms than Lohfink suggests. Maile concludes that “the risen Lord who appears to the disciples is already the exalted Lord, and Luke’s ascension narratives, whatever else they may be, are not descriptions of the exaltation of Jesus” (p. 46), However, I am not convinced that Luke was quite that analytical in his theological concepts. What is clear is only that, for Luke, resurrection and ascension are different events. See also Arie W. Zwiep, “Assumptus est in caelum,” in F. Avemarie and H. Lichtenberger (eds.), Auferstehung—Resurrection: The Fourth Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium on Resurrection, Transfiguration and Exaltation in Old Testament, Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (WUNT 135; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 323–49. Zwiep emphasizes the eschatological pattern of rapture-reservation in heaven in Luke-Acts: “With the help of the Jewish rapture traditions Luke was able to maintain the tension between imminent expectation and ongoing history. As much as Enoch, Elijah, and the others had not yet returned, so Jesus would remain in heaven until the appointed time, however long that would turn out to be” (p. 349). 57. I make in principle a distinction between redaction history and redaction criticism, though in practice the distinction is blurred. The former term describes a series of redactions that produce different “editions” of a document and comes sometimes close to what is called Überlieferungsgeschichte. Redaction criticism, as I use the term, has a more limited focus on how a redactor has edited previous material. In this redaction-critical study, I only analyze what the redactor of the final Gospel has done in relation to his predecessor. What lies behind the pre-passion predecessor is not my primary concern.

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approaches, which tend to focus on synchronic phenomena; the rise of socialscientific methods is paradigmatic in this respect. To that part I have no objections. The corpus of early Jewish and Christian texts is limited, so the application and refinement of new methodological approaches largely serves as a legitimation for the (as yet) amazing mass of scholars working in the field. And in practice one cannot drag along all the burden of previous scholarship when introducing a new way to look at the texts. Every method prescribes the questions that are asked and thereby, at least to some extent, the kind of explanation that can be expected. A Swedish course book on Jesus and the early Christians puts it nicely: “As you ask, so you are answered.”58 Redaction criticism asks certain kinds of questions; if you ask other questions, you choose another method. In practice, the problem is often that you have a set of textual observations and try to figure out how to best explain them. Take the Johannine aporias: do they result from an unsuccessful redaction, or is there an ingenious rhetorical, dramaturgical, or ideological meaning that escapes a redaction-critical mind? Clearly there are different scholarly predilections, and another scholar may well find plausible explanations elsewhere when I suggest a solution in terms of literary sedimentation and redaction. On a deeper hermeneutical level, I suspect scholarly preferences diverge when it comes to the question of what it is to really understand a phenomenon. Do we understand a text when it presents itself as a coherent unity in its present shape, or do we want to understand its emergence, the process that shaped it? The two options affect the way we see the hermeneutic potential of the text: either as the base for the reader’s imaginative interpretation or more from within, as a process that invites the interpreter to learn from its historical dynamic. Basically, history is not the opposite of structure, for historical processes, too, have a developing structure and logic. There is a kind of methodological purism or fundamentalism that I abhor. It is one thing to know what a certain methodology can and cannot provide. Knowing the possibilities and limits of one’s approach is a methodological virtue. It is quite another thing to claim that a scholar should stay within the chosen method and not mix it with any other approach. Although scholars have various hermeneutical tastes, methods in themselves are practical tools. A craftsman who has several tools in the box is usually more appreciated than one who can only use one device. In the present study, I occasionally use narrative-critical terminology to highlight the text’s narrative logic, or also lack of it. A purist may wonder how a synchronic narrative approach can mix with a diachronic quest. If one believes that a narrative approach by definition presupposes (and then proves) literary unity, then of course it would be incompatible with redaction criticism. But there is no basis for such a belief. Literary unity is not an either/or matter. Any text is unified insofar as it must have made sense to its author, but there are degrees of unity even

58. “Som man frågar får man svar.” Anders Runesson in Dieter Mitternacht and Anders Runesson (eds.), Jesus och de första kristna: Inledning till Nya testamentet (Stockholm: Verbum, 2006), 45.

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in original texts. Thus, the question asked by R. Alan Culpepper before writing his narrative-critical study, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, was well posed: “Is John sufficiently coherent as narrative to sustain such a study?”59 In redacted texts, it is in principle possible to analyze the redactor’s design both diachronically—from the initial ideation of the text to the final parsing and writing—and synchronically on two levels, so that the final redactor’s and the source text’s author’s use of narratorial voice, characterization, plotting, and so on are studied. In practice, the narrative approach is naturally more difficult to apply on the source level, but it is methodologically desirable as a countercheck to verify that the hypothetical source text works on its own.60 From literary studies, I have adopted the concept of relecture, which denotes a form of trans- or intertextuality and reinterpretation. The concept derives from Gérard Genette (who however did not use this term), but for my purpose a more expedient point of departure is the introduction of the term and concept into Johannine studies by Jean Zumstein.61 His younger colleague Andreas Dettwiler has shown the usefulness of the concept by analyzing the Johannine farewell discourses.62 What is specific about the concept is its ability to describe both a technical procedure of reinterpretation and the underlying hermeneutical motivation. This duality, or thickness, of the concept can of course also be a source

59. R. Alan Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983). The quotation (with my emphasis) is from the preface to the 1987 paperback edition. 60. I have presented a more theoretically advanced combination of narrative and redaction criticism in Syreeni, “Peter as Character and Symbol in the Gospel of Matthew,” in Kari Syreeni and David Rhoads (eds.), Characterization in the Gospels: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 106–52. The combination I suggest there is based on the hermeneutical model of three worlds (the worlds of the text— ideology—concrete reality). This model differs from the two-worlds model (fictional world vs. real world), which has been customary in literary studies, see the well-known definition in Robert Scholes and Robert Kellogg, The Nature of Narrative (New York and London: Oxford University Press, 1966), 82: “Meaning, in a work of narrative art, is a function of the relationship between two worlds,” and so on. Such a literary model has an ideological blind spot between aesthetics and reality and does not easily combine with historical methods. I have also defended the three-world model of narrative criticism as a tool for historical criticism in Syreeni, “Characterization, Ideology and History in the Gospels: Narrative Criticism as a Historical and Hermeneutical Approach,” in Karl-Johan Illman, et al. (eds.), A Bouquet of Wisdom: Essays in Honour of Karl-Gustav Sandelin (Åbo: Åbo Akademi University Press, 2000), 171–96. 61. Jean Zumstein, “Der Prozess der Relecture in der Johanneischen Literatur,” NTS 42 (1996), 394–411. 62. Andreas Dettwiler, Die Gegenwart des Erhöhten: Eine exegetische Studie zu den johanneischen Abschiedsreden /Joh 13,31 – 16,33) unter besonderer Berücksichtigung ihres Relecture-Characters (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), especially pp. 44–52.

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of confusion, so I try to be clear about the level on which I use it in different contexts. Zumstein’s definition of the concept runs as follows:63 Der Prozess der Relecture liegt dann vor, wenn ein erster Text die Bildung eines zweiten Textes hervorruft und wenn dieser zweite Text seine volle Verständlichkeit erst im Bezug zum ersten Text gewinnt.

The definition implies in principle that relecture is a diachronic phenomenon.64 This is so because the “second” text must be in some sense later than the “first” so that it can evoke and interpret it.65 However, diachrony as such does not mean a redaction-critical sedimentation. The redactor can also interpret and rewrite his own text, so that the “first” text may be earlier only in terms of ideation and placement in the work.66 In the analysis of the relecture process in John, the redactional value must be evaluated in each case. My hypothesis means that the passion redaction as a whole is a later stage in the composition of the Gospel, but there are instances of a progressive reinterpretation within both the final redaction and the early stratum. Zumstein first discusses the phenomenon of relecture in the form of paratexts— that is, texts that present, frame, introduce, interrupt, or summarize another text.67

63. Zumstein, “Der Prozess der Relecture,” 404. 64. I am unable to follow the critique of the relecture model levelled by Christoph Heil, Das Spruchevangelium Q und der historische Jesus (SBS 58; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2014), 215–39; esp. pp. 231–32. Heil regards the relecture model simply as a step back from diachronic analysis to a synchronic mode of interpretation: “In der Exegese des Johannesevangeliums zeigt sich diese Neuorientierung, indem man die inhaltlichen und formalen Spannungen innerhalb des Textes nicht mehr durch diachrone Literarkritik und die Unterscheidung mehrerer Autoren, sondern durch ein synchrones Modell der ‘relecture’ erklären will.” Certainly the relecture model can be used to promote a purely synchronic mode of interpretation, but this is not how I use the model. 65. Dettwiler’s terms for the “first” and the “second” text are Bezugstext resp. Rezeptionstext; the terms come from O. H. Steck, “Prophetische Prophetenauslegung,” in H. F. Geisser, et al. (eds.), Wahrheit der Schrift—Wahrheit der Auslegung (FS Ebeling) (Zürich: Theologisher Verlag 1993), 198–244; p. 211 n. 28. 66. In this sense I accept Dettwiler’s definition: “Relecture ist ein intertextuelles Phänomen, das zugleich in synchroner wie auch diachroner Hinsicht zu analysieren ist.” Dettwiler, Die Gegenwart des Erhöhtes, 46; original emphasis. 67. Zumstein, “Der Prozess der Relecture,” 401: “Der Paratext umfasst eine Summe von vershiedenen Zeichen, die einen bestehenden Text vorstellen, einrahmen, einführen, unterbrechen oder abschliessen. . . . Der Paratext übt im allgemeinen eine Funktion der Begleitung oder der Einrahmung eines anderen Textes aus.” This definition is borrowed from F. Hallyn and G. Jacques, “Aspects du paratexte,” ch. 13 in M. Delcroix and F. Hallyn (eds.), Méthodes du texte; introduction aux études littéraires (Paris and Louvain-la Neuve: Duculot, 1987).

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Examples of such paratextual relecture in John are the title of the work (“The Gospel according to John”), prologue (1:1-18), and epilogue (ch. 21). Another type of relecture is the interpretation of a literary work through another text; Zumstein argues here that 1 John is a relecture of the Gospel, which extends his concept toward a somewhat looser hermeneutical relation.68 Zumstein then proceeds to give examples of “internal rereading” (interne Relecture), where similar processes of interpretation are seen within the Gospel itself. These processes can belong to the final redaction or to earlier stages in the Johannine composition history. Zumstein underlines that the concept of relecture must be used in a “disciplined” way, that it, not everything the redactor does should be dubbed relecture. There are three categories of internal relecture. The first type is literary-critically detectable glosses, which explain details in the text (e.g., the correction in 4:2), comment on the text theologically (4:44; 7:39b; 12:16), or emphasize future eschatology (5:28-29; 6:39, 40, 44, 54). Second, there are commentaries on the narrative; in 2:14-17, 18-22 the meaning of the cleansing of the temple is explained twice, likewise the footwashing first in 13:6-11 and then in 13:12-17. The healing story in 5:1-9 has, as Zumstein describes, called forth a “cascade” of subsequent readings in vv. 9b-18, 19-30, and 31-37. A similar process with interpretive discourses follows the feeding story in Chapter 6. Finally, according to Zumstein the third farewell speech (16:4b-33) is a relecture of the first farewell discourse (13:31–14:31). Zumstein points out that the Johannine relecture is not a critique of the earlier tradition but explicates, expands, reformulates, and reaccentuates it.69 Behind the reinterpretation process he sees a crisis between Johannine communities and the surrounding world, especially the synagogue. The distressing situation called forth theological reflection, as well as questions concerning the theological legitimacy of its interpretive work. Elaborating on the last point, Zumstein argues that the practice of relecture indicates the Johannine group’s hermeneutical awareness of the necessity of remembrance and, at the same time, the need for continual renewal.70 The legitimating instance, and the subject of the remembrance, writes Zumstein, is the Paraclete (14:16-17, 26; 15:26; 16:7-11, 13-15). No doubt the late Johannine theology held that view, but naturally the three remarks Zumstein gives as instances of this remembrance (2:22; 12:16; 20:9) must come from a human author. All these proleptic comments stress the passion-resurrection

68. Zumstein, “Der Prozess der Relecture,” 397–400. Zumstein does, however, refer to closer textual points of contact, arguing that not only the beginning of 1 John reuses the Gospel prologue but the whole structure of the letter is modeled on the Gospel. Here I fear Zumstein sees more formal resemblance than there is. 69. Similarly Dettwiler, Die Gegenwart des Erhöhtes, 47, with original emphasis: “Der Rezeptionstext setzt das im Bezugstext Entwickelte als grundsätzlich weiterhin gültig voraus.” Of course, it is a delicate hermeneutical issue how far the reinterpretation can go without implying a critical attitude. 70. Zumstein, “Der Prozess der Relecture,” 409–11.

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storyline and, according to my hypothesis, come from the passion redactor. Zumstein was right to see here an answer to the need of legitimating Johannine theology. More precisely, I think these hindsight devices serve to legitimate the passion redaction itself! Some further terminological choices should be mentioned. I speak of Johannine narrators (when stressing the narrative qualities of the text) and redactors (when focusing on the redactional procedures and intentions). I may also speak of the redactors as “authors” of their respective works. Instead of the old (basically Bultmannian) construct of a theological genius, “the Evangelist,” and his mediocre successor (the ecclesiastical redactor), I only discern the redactors or authors of the Johannine predecessor (which was already a gospel in its own right) and the final Gospel. In this respect I can partly refer to de Boer, who refused to choose one specific Johannine redactor or author as “the Evangelist.”71 This notwithstanding, I do not wish to underestimate the bold theological profile of the predecessor.72 The passion redactor to some extent coincides with the “ecclesiastical” author, but is much more literarily and theologically creative than this scholarly construct; and the deepest Johannine paradoxes come from his hand. Both of these authors are “Johannine”73 but in order to stress the difference between the predecessor and the final work, I do not speak of two “editions.”74

71. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 78–79. However, de Boer occasionally uses the term “evangelist” democratically for any and all of the different Johannine authors, while I avoid the term altogether. 72. I have considered to use some other designation instead of the dull “predecessor” but have not found one. “The Gospel of Glory” would describe its agenda very well, but this term would inevitably be misunderstood as referring to either one of the “books” or the whole of the present Gospel. An example of the latter use is Richard Bauckham, Gospel of Glory: Major Themes in Johannine Theology (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2015). 73. I assume that there were Johannine “communities” or a Johannine “circle,” although the latter term is less common now, according to Judith M. Lieu, “The Audience of the Johannine Epistles,” in R. Alan Culpepper and Paul N. Anderson (eds.), Communities in Dispute: Current Scholarship on the Johannine Epistles (Early Christianity and Its Literature; Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 122–40; p. 122. The early material (used by the predecessor) seems independent from Mark and Matthew, the predecessor author who used this material is theologically highly original, and the passion redactor has chosen to edit the predecessor—all this speaks for a measure of tradition-historical continuity. The Johannine letters, especially 2 and 3 John, clearly presuppose a network of Johannine communities. I would also include the Book of Revelation in this network, although its relationship to the Gospel may be remote. 74. Urban C. von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John (3 vols.; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), discerns three “editions” of John. I appreciate his meticulous analysis, but for obvious reasons our results differ. I do not assume a written “edition” behind the predecessor gospel. Theologically, perhaps the clearest difference is that von Wahlde’s “second edition” lacks the idea of preexistence (I: 408–09). In my hypothesis, the predecessor

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Becoming John

In the concluding chapter of the present study, I venture to suggest a psychological perspective into the Gospel of John. Psychological criticism has a long history, but it has only recently shaken off its reputation of being “bad exegesis” or “eisegesis.”75 For me, psychology—together with sociology—is a way of understanding the human condition behind and in front of texts.76 This is also the farthest I wish to go. Psychological insights may open up theological horizons, but as much as I appreciate some theological visions inspired by a close reading of John,77 the step from descriptive hermeneutics to constructive theology must be left for others.

gospel already includes the prologue and the most programmatic statements about Jesus’ preexistence (e.g., the “I am” sayings). 75. Cf. Gerd Theissen, Psychologische Aspekte paulinisher Theologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 11: “Jeder Exeget hat gelernt: Eine psychologische Exegese ist eine schlechte Exegese.” In his general introduction into psychological exegesis a decade and a half later, Wayne G. Rollins could afford to be much less apologetic; see his Soul and Psyche: The Bible in Psychological Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999). 76. I cannot quite follow Rollins’s distinction between the exegetical and the hermeneutical agenda of psychological interpretation (Rollins, Soul and Psyche, chs 5 and 6). Exegetical issues are always hermeneutical, too, and hermeneutics is not just what happens between the text and the reader. Rather, I would distinguish between secondary and primary hermeneutics. Exegesis and any other academic discipline are secondary hermeneutical enterprises; what I believe and how I live are primary hermeneutical concerns. The two kinds have a common basis, they often mix and have intermediary forms (depending on what communal interests the “I” includes). This book is, of course, first and foremost secondary hermeneutical. 77. I want to mention particularly Shelly Rambo, Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010), as well as her Resurrecting Wounds: Living in the Afterlife of Trauma (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2017).

Chapter 2 JOHN AMONG THE GOSPELS: REJECTING FALSE DICHOTOMIES

In this chapter, I will discuss the relationship between John and the three other canonical Gospels, and between the Gospel and the letters of John. Rather than trying to solve the problems that generations of scholars have wrestled with, I will explicate my own conclusions and explain how they affect my reading of John. In so doing, I try to avoid some false dichotomies and pitfalls, such as “John vs. the Synoptics” and “the written vs. the oral.”

“John and the Synoptics”—What’s Wrong with this Picture? Countless studies have addressed the problem of “John and the Synoptics.” On the face of it, this way of determining the problem seems fair enough. The first thing students of the New Testament learn is that the “Synoptics” must be viewed together, as the very term implies. By implication, John is “the odd one out.” However, D. Moody Smith’s John among the Gospels1 not only highlights and evaluates the debate from the early decades of the twentieth century up to the turn of the millennium, its very title implies criticism of the customary slogan. If the question is posed in the customary way, the three Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke are lumped together and contrasted en masse with the Fourth Gospel. As you ask, so you are answered: the expected range of solutions is given with the question. At worst, only two extremes are in sight: either John is independent from the “Synoptics,” or else it is a literary pastiche of all three predecessors. More to the point is the question of “which of the Synoptics” John has made use of, but even this question is lopsided. Lest the problem-solving be misdirected from the start, the point of departure should be John among the Gospels. Then at once, more options come into consideration, including the possibility that another Gospel is dependent on John. If we accept Markan priority, it is natural to look for possible contacts between Mark and John. Since the oldest extant Gospel was used by Matthew and Luke,

1. D. Moody Smith, John among the Gospels (2nd edn; Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2001).

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it must have been quite influential in the earliest history of Gospel literature, although its importance declined with the writing of new “updated” Gospels. In addition, the oldest work had more time to spread in the communities, both as a written document and by means of secondary orality.2 In view of Matthew’s popularity in the early church, and perhaps because of its more Jewish theological outlook, this Gospel is also a priori a plausible candidate as a Johannine resource. In German-speaking research, Matthew and Luke are often called Mark’s Seitenreferenten, which tends to diminish their value as individual Gospels and may lead to a careless use of “Mark” to denote all the Synoptics. The “John among the Gospels” approach thus adds to the complexity of the tradition- and redaction-critical quest, as we are advised to treat the three synoptic gospels as individual texts. The complexity increases if we allow for the mutual influence of the Gospels at various stages of their composition and reckon with the impact of oral transmission in the pre-Gospel tradition and in the form of secondary orality, that is, the use of orally transmitted variations of a written gospel. A healthy reminder of this complexity is Paul Anderson’s thesis, expounded in several publications,3 that Mark and John be viewed as “bi-optic Gospels” and as two parallel streams of early Christian Jesus tradition. Instead of influence, Anderson would speak of “interfluentiality”: there is a two-way traffic from Mark to John and vice versa. When Mark’s Gospel was finalized, the Johannine author reacted to it, or to those parts of it that he had heard or read. Some oral Johannine traditions came to influence Luke’s tradition, and there was also a dialogue regarding Matthew’s tradition, especially on ecclesiastical matters. Although in principle I sympathize with this broad view of contacts and mutual influences between early Jesus traditions,4 too much of it remains beyond our reach. Methodologically, such a view permits too many alternative explanations

2. Secondary orality as a methodological aid in Johannine studies was emphasized by Michael Labahn in his published thesis, Jesus als Lebensspender: Untersuchungen zu einer Geschichte der johanneishen Tradition anhand ihrer Wundergeschichten (BZNW 98; Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1999). See further his article, “Secondary Orality in the Gospel of John: A ‘Post-Gutenberg’ Paradigm for Understanding the Relationship between Written Gospel Texts,” in Stanley E. Porter and Hughson T. Ong (eds.), The Origins of John’s Gospel (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2015), 53–80. However, I hesitate to agree with his claim in that article (p. 69) that “the methodological concept of secondary orality does not add complexity to the relationship between different traditions/writings and text-growth.” Methodological models that try to meet the complexity of real history are necessarily complex, too. 3. See the bibliographies in Paul N. Anderson, The Riddles of the Fourth Gospel, 262–63; 273–75. 4. I concur with Stanley Porter’s general conclusion concerning John and the synoptic Gospels: “Theories of flexible dependence or semi-independence thus seems to have the only reasonable chance of being shown to be correct.” Stanley Porter, John, His Gospel, and Jesus: In Pursuit of the Johannine Jesus (Grand Rapids and Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2015), 71.

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for any parallels in the four Gospels. The threat of Occam’s razor is hanging over all hypotheses of multiple influences. Too complex hypotheses simply cannot survive, even if they should be correct. For these reasons, I will restrict my own analysis to two modes of influence: either direct literary dependence or indirect literary dependence through secondary orality. Furthermore, I will limit the scope of redaction analysis to the last stage in the composition history. If we try to discern several subsequent redactions, and correspondingly several “editions” of John, we are easily lured by an optical illusion, where the structures of the final text are seen in the earlier “editions,” which in turn look as if having gaps precisely where the later editions have filled in new material. Scholars of course try to resist this trap by counterchecking the different editions in order to ensure that the text on each level has a plausible internal logic. But the illusion is already effective if we assume that the earlier editions were complete with the passion and resurrection stories, and if we assume that the redactional levels pertain to the whole texts in approximately their final forms. This is not just a terminological issue which could be avoided by speaking of “sources” when the earlier material is not a “whole” gospel. It is possible that earlier redactors have only edited some parts of the text, and that their work cannot be arranged according to an overall chronological scheme. For instance, the farewell speeches in chs 15–16 and 17 may well have a separate redaction history before they were incorporated into the final Gospel.

Markan/Matthean Influences in Jn 1–12 The complexity of John’s relationship with the other Gospels grows if we reckon, as I do, with a long process of composition. According to my hypothesis, the pervasive redaction where the Gospel of John became a passion gospel was influenced by Mark and especially Matthew, whereas the Johannine predecessor, still recognizable in chs 1–12 and parts of the farewell tradition in chs 14–17, was independent from the “Synoptics.” It is crucial, then, to discuss the possible synoptic influences in Jn 1–12. Where the influence of Mark or Matthew can be argued cogently, it follows from my hypothesis that these elements belong to the late passion redaction of John. Regarding Jn 1–9, my chief guide in assessing possible Markan/Matthean influences is Ismo Dunderberg’s comprehensive study Johannes und die Synoptiker.5 Dunderberg discerns an independent Grundschrift in chs 1–9 (and further) and a secondary Redaktion, which betrays influences from all the Synoptics. Although Dunderberg defines the redactional level differently from my hypothesis,6 the fact

5. Ismo Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker: Studien zur Joh 1-9 (AASF Diss. 69; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1994), 38–71. 6. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 33–34, uses John 21, 15–17, and the pericopes dealing with the Beloved Disciple as indicators of the late redaction.

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that he only operates with one redactional level makes his analysis instructive for my purposes. His method is based on tracing redactional elements in the synoptic Gospels, because a literary relation can be established only when John parallels a redactional feature in Mark, Matthew or Luke. In addition, Dunderberg uses literary criteria (seams, repetitions, vocabulary, etc.) to discern secondary elaboration in John. This enables him to come to the conclusion that synoptic influence is only found on John’s redactional level. Although I appreciate Dunderberg’s meticulous analysis, I will argue for a different explanation, especially for the Luke-John parallels. I compare Dunderberg’s analysis with two other approaches: Urban C. von Wahlde’s painstaking analysis of three “editions” of John (only the third edition betrays knowledge of the Synoptics) and Andrew Lincoln’s commentary, which assumes John’s wholesale dependence on the Synoptics. The composition history of the Q Gospel and the Gospel of Thomas have less bearing in this respect, since my hypothesis is mainly based on the narrative plot— and particularly the passion storyline—in John. However, the Q Gospel does play a role when we consider the narratives about John the Baptist and Jesus in the first chapter of John. As indicated in the introductory chapter, the Q composition seems to have been on the move toward a more narrative arrangement. The “John and Jesus” section from Q 3:7 through 7:35 introduces the beginning of the gospel, with John the Baptist as a prophetic forerunner paving the way to “the coming One” (Q 3:16; 7:19). Mark has a similar “beginning of the Gospel” (Mk 1:1). If Mark was the sole inventor of the Gospel genre, it might be logical to assume that, besides Matthew and Luke, also John is dependent on the same originator of the scheme. However, it seems just as plausible that the scheme “from the Baptist’s proclamation to the beginning of Jesus’ ministry” was a common way of conceptualizing the origins of the movement in early Christian circles. In that case, the Johannine tradition need not have taken the scheme from Mark. I am inclined to adopt the independence stance concerning the Johannine tradition about the Baptist, because some of its striking peculiarities are unlikely derived from Mark (or Q). This is also a decision concerning the origins of the gospel genre. While Mark created the winning concept for the gospel genre—a narrative exposition of Jesus’ ministry and passion—there were multiple parallel concepts, including Q and the early Johannine tradition that converged on the “John the Baptist and Jesus” scheme. At the same time, the Gospel of Thomas indicates that not all early gospels adopted this plot. In his analysis, Dunderberg concludes that Jn 1:24-27, 32-34 betrays the influence of all three Synoptics.7 He sees possible Lukan influence in the Baptist’s first answer in Jn 1:20, but considers this uncertain.8 Caution is warranted, since, for one thing, the Lukan influence would include Acts 13:26, where the same logical inconsistency Dunderberg claims for John—that is, the Baptist denies being the Christ without being asked if he is the one—is much more striking: “And as John was finishing his

7. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 38–71. 8. Ibid., 50–52.

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work, he said, ‘What do you suppose that I am? I am not he. No, but one is coming after me.’” Second, the insistence that the Baptist is not the promised Messiah9 is a thoroughgoing emphasis in John’s portrayal of the Baptist (already 1:8). Third, the denial is part of a deliberate repetitive rhetoric found only in Jn 1:19-23: the questioners ask time and again who the baptizer is, but the answer is every time “no, I am not,” until the scriptural quotation gives a positive answer. Luke’s dependency on John would seem a more plausible explanation than vice versa. In Jn 1:24-27, only the Matthean form, with some common phraseology (ὁ [δὲ] ὀπίσω μου ἐρχόμενος, diff Mark, Luke), might make some claims for having influenced John’s formulation. Again, Dunderberg refers to Acts 13:25, where ὑπόδημα is used in singular as in Jn 1:27 (plural in Mark and Matthew)—but then why does Luke have the plural form in his Gospel (unlike John)? If Luke’s dependence on John is allowed, it might be argued that Luke first (in the Gospel) follows Mark but then (in Acts) memorizes John. The same question pertains to the word ἄξιος in Jn 1:27 (diff Mark, Matthew and Luke) and Acts 13:25—why does Luke in Acts choose John’s vocabulary but has in his Gospel ἱκανός as Mark (together with Matthew) has? In all cases, the possibility that John was influenced by Paul’s speech in the Acts must be deemed remote.10 In Jn 1:32-34, Dunderberg sees probable influence from Matthew, but not from Luke.11 The strongest indication is Jn 1:32/Mt. 3:16, where there is a longer verbal agreement. A possible but uncertain influence from Matthew’s composition is found in the narrative of Peter’s discipleship in Jn 1:42 (cf. Mt. 16:17-19),12 and in the calling of Philip (Jn 1:43, cf. the calling of Levi in Mk 2:13-14). Dunderberg states, however, that these observations are less than conclusive.13 Von Wahlde, too, discerns in Jn 1:19-34 considerable editing, noting though that the three editions are hard to distinguish.14 Like Dunderberg, he notes a literary seam between the Baptist’s negative and positive answers to the questioners in 1:19b, 20-22a, 22b-24, a seam that I think is nonexistent. Additionally, he regards the “witnessing” phraseology in 1:19 as typical of the second edition; I do not disagree, because the witnessing theme has some qualities of being a secondary

9. John and Luke have in common the title ὁ χριστός (Jn 1:24/Lk. 3:15). The title is well motivated in the Johannine context and is at home in the early Johannine tradition (1:41; 11:27; also 20:31). 10. John’s use of Luke’s Acts is seldom discussed, but an exception is Bartosz Adamczewski, Gospel of the Narrative “We”: The Hypertextual Relationship of the Fourth Gospel to the Acts of the Apostles (Frankfurt etc.: Peter Lang, 2010). Adamczewski’s thesis is that the author of John used the Acts of the Apostles as a structuring hypotext for his Gospel—as did even Matthew (p. 43)! 11. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 62–66. 12. Ibid., 68. 13. Thus Dunderberg’s provisional summary (p. 70) seems an overstatement: “Recht wahrscheinlich ist, dass der spätere der beiden joh Verfasser die Synoptiker gekannt hat.” 14. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:43.

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interpretive device, and possibly a point of departure for the passion redactor’s further theologizing about the function of “witnessing.” According to von Wahlde, only 1:29c-30, 32c, 33 would come from the third edition, which might have known the Synoptics. I certainly agree that the reference to “the lamb of God” in 1:29 comes from the late (passion) redaction.15 Otherwise, I doubt his detailed literary distinctions. Surprisingly, von Wahlde does not see a literary seam between 1:19 and 1:24, where the questioners are first described as priests and Levites and then, afterward, as Pharisees. Lincoln observes that, unlike the Synoptics, Jn 1:23 makes the Baptist himself quote the Scripture.16 This might be considered a secondary development but hardly a proof of John’s literary dependence. Lincoln pays attention to the possible tension between “the priest and Levites” in 1:19 and “the Pharisees” in 1:24, but he solves the problem by interpreting the Pharisees as those who had sent the priests and the Levites in 1:19. Lincoln also pays notion to the fact that John does not narrate Jesus’ baptism, which he thinks is due to John’s suppression “to avoid any suggestion that Jesus could be subordinate to John in some sense.”17 Again, this difference from the synoptic presentation is hardly proof of literary dependence. The healing of an official’s son in Jn 4:43-54 is more promising for defenders of John’s dependence on synoptic Gospels.18 Dunderberg’s analysis19 does not confirm Luke’s (7:1-10) influence. In my opinion, of the vague John/Luke parallels the role of the mediators is the most interesting: in John, the servants who meet the officer to tell the good news, in Luke the Jewish elders and the centurion’s friends. The idea of mediators is already expressed in Matthew (and obviously in Q), where the centurion speaks of his soldiers and servants as acting on his command (Mt. 8:9). In Matthew and John, the man meets Jesus personally. In Luke, only the two

15. Ibid., 2:55-56. 16. Andrew Lincoln, The Gospel According to Saint John (Black’s New Testament Commentaries; London: Continuum, 2005), 112. 17. Lincoln, The Gospel according to Saint John, 114. 18. Lincoln’s interpretation shows lucidly how the hypothesis of John’s wholesale use of the Synoptics works in practice. Matthew’s and Luke’s texts are simply lumped together: John was “familiar with both earlier writers’ versions” and was “influenced by parts of both in his own creative rewriting of the miracle story.” (The Gospel according to Saint John, 190.) An interesting observation concerns John 4:53, “he and his whole household believed.” Lincoln notes (p. 188): “This formulation recalls the conversion of Gentile households in the Acts account (cf. Acts 10:2; 11:14; 18:8).” For some reason, Lincoln does not conclude that John must have known the Acts, too. 19. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 73–97. Dunderberg has analyzed the pericope in a later article, “The Royal Man (BAΣIΛIKOΣ) in John 4,46-54,” in Gilbert Van Belle and Joseph Verheyden (eds.), Christ and the Emperor: The Gospel Evidence (Biblical Tools and Studies 20; Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 279–99. There he conjectures that the Johannine pericope may combine Matthew and Luke with an archaic, independent form of the story.

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groups of mediators meet Jesus. This feature in the Lukan composition is usually considered redactional. Jesus is already near the house (7:6) when the officer has second thoughts. It is also curious that the centurion addresses Jesus in direct speech while absent, and that there are no words of Jesus about the healing (such as Mt. 8:13 and Jn 4:50). On the whole, John’s narrative is closer to Matthew (and Q) than to Luke. There is one observation that at first seems to be decisive proof of John’s dependency on Matthew’s story. In John, the illness is not specified in the beginning, but later it is described as fever (4:52). In the next pericope, Matthew (8:14-15) has placed the Markan story of the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law, who was sick with a fever. It is plausible to suggest that the Johannine narrator was somehow influenced by the Matthean sequence. Since the Matthean composition (a combination of Q and Mark) is certainly redactional, this parallel is significant. Moreover, both Matthew (8:13) and especially John (4:52-53) direct attention to the “moment” of the recovery. If there is synoptic influence, it is mediated by Matthew’s Gospel—not by Luke or Mark.20 However, the parallelism with Matthew may be incidental21 and in any case I am not sure that the mention of fever and the moment of recovery suffice to make the whole story a later insertion. Von Wahlde regards the healing story in Jn 4:43-54 as mainly deriving from the first, independent layer of John, but sees in vv. 43-45 and 47b-48 the hand of the late (third) editor.22 The problem with verse 43, according to which the prophet has no honor in his own country,23 is twofold: first, Jesus’ itinerary makes it difficult to conclude whether Judea or Galilee is meant, and second, the reference is by all accounts strange in its context where Jesus had been well received in both territories. Von Wahlde concludes that the third editor “attempts to show that, as in the Synoptics, Jesus also met hostility in Galilee, but he expresses it poorly.”24 We will see further instances of the late redactor’s clumsiness, so the poor technique is not surprising. The crucial question is whether the same redactor who added vv. 43-45 and 47b-48 inserted the whole healing story. I deem it more plausible that the predecessor gospel here reported another remarkable sign of Jesus, again accomplished at Cana of Galilee (v. 54, cf. 2:11), while the critical comments come

20. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 97, rightly critiques Neirynck, who sees in John 4:48-49 four different synoptic pericopes as a source of inspiration; it is hardly the simplest way of explaining John’s story to interpret it as a synoptic mosaic. 21. The two common items “fever” and “moment” may go together. If the narrator wished to underline the moment of recovery (an understandable emphasis in remote healings), fever was easily suggested as an observable symptom of the disease. 22. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:207-209. 23. The form of the saying comes closest to Matthew’s formulation (Mt. 13:57), which is shorter than the Markan parallel (Mk 6:4), but the redactor may have memorized the aphorism freely without being influenced by the Matthean context. 24. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:209.

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from the passion redactor who knew that even insiders could be caught by unbelief (cf. 6:64, 20:27).25 The next two pericopes that Dunderberg probes together are the healing stories in Jn 5:1-18 and 7:19-24. The result is largely negative: the relationship between Mk 2:9, 11 and Jn 5:8 is conspicuous, but not on the Markan redactional level, although a synoptic influence on the secondary insertion in Jn 5:14-15a is worth considering.26 John 6 is a notoriously difficult section to explain redaction-critically. Dunderberg finds that Jn 6:1-25, 60-71 betrays the influence of Markan redaction and thus of the final Gospel of Mark.27 Dunderberg also concludes, together with some other scholars, that the whole ch. 6 is secondarily inserted between John 5 and 7, and that all the units in that chapter were combined in the same late redaction as, for example, John 21.28 Von Wahlde finds here traces of all three editions: the oldest stratum includes roughly the feeding miracle and Jesus’ walking on the sea (6:1-21), the second edition most of the homily on the bread of life (roughly 6:25, 30-50, 59, 60-65), and the third edition roughly 6:51-58, 66-71.29 However, I concur with Dunderberg that there are no clear traces of independent Johannine tradition in ch. 6 apart from the bread of life discourse, and that the present chapter, despite its aporias, is designed as a whole by the late redactor. There are a number of detailed agreements between Mark/Matthew and John concerning numbers (5 loaves and 2 fish, 200 denari, 5,000 men) and the order of events (feeding story and walking on the sea).30 The mountain motif, which is strange and problematic in the Johannine context (cf. vv. 3 and 15), may be influenced by Matthew. Dunderberg sees here traces of John’s engagement with literary sources,31 which may well be correct, but there are also

25. In von Wahlde’s overall hypothesis, the second edition is critical of the earliest stratum’s “easy belief ” based on miracles. A tension regarding the importance of signs is visible in the predecessor gospel, but I see a similar tension in the passion redactor’s work as well, for example in John 6. 26. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 124. 27. Ibid., 125–74. 28. Ibid., 132:139-141. Dunderberg mentions Lindars, Kieffer and Ashton (p. 132 n. 18); Michael Labahn, Jesus als Lebensspender, 265 n. 3 adds a few more scholars but regards the present order of the chapters unproblematic. Lincoln, The Gospel according to Saint John, 210, discards various transposition hypotheses as “over-concerned with geographical issues at the expense of thematic links.” 29. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:270-337. 30. The latter, compositional parallelism is stressed especially by Michael Labahn, Offenbarung in Zeichen und Wort: Untersuchungen zur Vorgeschichte von Joh 6,1—25a und seiner Rezeption in der Brotrede (WUNT 2/117; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 2000), 272–76. Labahn also sees many indications of secondary orality. 31. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 155, with reference to the mountain motif in John 6:3, 15.

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indications of secondary orality which may point to previous use of the stories in John’s community.32 The common features of John 6 and 21 are also noteworthy.33 It is also here, especially in the concluding scene of the chapter, that the passion theme surfaces (with Judas the traitor, 6:70-71) and an inner-Johannine dispute is alluded to (6:60-62, 66-67). Since this chapter is the most extensive insertion in Jn 1–12, I will later return to it when assessing the work of the passion redactor. Dunderberg’s last analysis focuses on Jn 9:1-41. The yield is negative; only the influence from Matthew’s Gospel on 9:40-41, a passage which seems a secondary conclusion to the healing story, is “thinkable.”34 Since there are no close synoptic parallels to the shepherd speeches in John 10 and to the raising of Lazarus in John 11, Dunderberg’s analysis covers relatively well the first part of John’s Gospel, excluding of course the temple cleansing in Jn 2:13-25, which goes together with the passion plot. After the raising of Lazarus, the passion storyline unfolds in full force from 11:47 on, although John 12 simultaneously includes material from the Johannine predecessor.

John and Luke: Which Was First? I have already mentioned a few cases where I suspect that Luke’s double work is dependent on John. I will now explain how I came to adopt this minority view. My scholarly acquaintance with Luke-Acts dates from the late 1980s.35 From the beginning I was convinced that Luke must be later than Matthew, and that Luke’s double work is ideationally a gospel in two parts, an enterprise that

32. The “testing” motif in vv. 5-7 seems to go together with the failure to motivate the feeding practically (cf. Mk 6:35-36 par Mt. 14:15). Such a change may be due to repeated storytelling, where the story is partly streamlined and partly reshaped playfully. The “boy” in Jn 6:8 seems suggested by 2 Kgs 4:42-43, where an outsider provides the food for the multiplication (Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 153)—this change, too, may indicate engagement with the story before its inclusion in John. The same may be true for Jn 6:22-25, where the Johannine storyteller focuses on the crowd’s observations (one boat, Jesus not with his disciples) and “explains” a detail that the hearers may have wondered (“how did they get to Capernaum if there was no boat?”). The notion of secondary orality may help understand why the passion redactor’s text features details and concerns that von Wahlde refers to the earlier editions. 33. See Martin Hasitschka, “The Significance of the Resurrection Appearance in John 21,” in Craig R. Koester and Reimund Bieringer (eds.), The Resurrection of Jesus in the Gospel of John (WUNT 222; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 311–28, esp. pp. 318–23. 34. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 188: “Der mt Einfluss auf Joh 9,40-41 erwies sich als denkbar, lässt sich doch nicht schlüssig beweisen.” 35. See Kari Syreeni, “Matthew, Luke, and the Law: A Study in Hermeneutical Exegesis,” in Timo Veijola (ed.), The Law in the Bible and in its Environment (PFES 51; Helsinki and Göttingen: Finnish Exegetical Society, 1990), 126–55.

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pushed the gospel genre to its utmost limits and contributed to its fragmentation into separate infancy gospels and acts of the apostles. Thus Luke-Acts is hermeneutically the most advanced Gospel. Although some of Luke’s Jewish Christian traditions look archaic,36 I was more impressed by the self-evident clarity and wide scope of his history view, his mastery in giving a historical overview of the birth and evolution of the Christian movement. Not that Luke was a dispassionate historian; rather, he was the first Christian apologist.37 This sense of belonging to a religious movement, the history of which can be made comprehensible even to outsiders—this historically structured and well-defined Christian identity is still somewhat lacking in Matthew and John. Subsequently, I came to accept the view that Luke knew and used some of Paul’s letters, and in an article on the letter of James38 I suggested that Luke made use of this document, too. I would date Luke-Acts to a relatively late period, that is, the first quarter of the second century.39 Thus, it was by no means an attempt to have an early date for John but a suspicion of a rather late date for Luke-Acts that made me reconsider the relationship between John and Luke. The Luke-John parallels are of such nature that the hypothesis of common pre-gospel traditions seemed insufficient, but John’s use of Luke would turn the Gospel of John into a playful literary pastiche. John may be a “maverick Gospel,”40 but there are limits to how playfully an author

36. The reasons for Luke’s theological “archaisms” may be sought in his legitimating concerns and his salvation-historical view, according to which there is a progression from the history of Israel to Jesus, and from Jesus to the early church. 37. In this connection, apologist refers to second-century Christians who addressed the Roman Empire and sought to legitimate the new religion as the true heir of Israel’s faith. In comparison, Matthew and John are still more engaged in a dialogue with—and polemic against—the synagogue. Their “universalism” is more of a sectarian’s ideological claim to universal truth than a self-conscious political program for an acknowledged place in the wider society. 38. Kari Syreeni, “Did Luke know the Letter of James?,” SEÅ 78 (2013), 173–82. 39. I am not suggesting an extreme Spätdatierung of Luke and will not consider Marcion in this connection. I am also skeptical about the notion of “rewritten Bible” as applied to the early gospels. However, I was encouraged by my Danish colleague Mogens Müller’s appreciation of my John-Luke observations. He is not the only Danish scholar to suggest a second-century date for Luke-Acts. See now Mogens Müller and Jesper Tang Nielsen (eds.), Luke’s Literary Creativity (LNTS 550; London: Bloomsbury, 2016). There, Müller (“Acts as Biblical Rewriting of the Gospels and Paul’s Letters,” 96–117) suggests a date “some decennia into the second century” for Acts (p. 102). In the same volume, Niels Willert (“Luke’s Portrait of Jesus and the Political Authorities in his Passion Narrative,” 225–47) considers Luke’s use of John and dates Luke-Acts between 115-120 CE (p. 247). 40. Cf. Robert Kysar’s book, John, the Maverick Gospel (3rd edn; Louisville, KY: John Knox Press, 2007).

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can deal with his sources—or with his audience—if his purpose is as serious as Jn 20:31 and 21:24 indicate.41 The idea that Luke was familiar with John’s Gospel is not without problems, because then it is hard to see why Luke would not have had access to Matthew’s work as well—and then the two-source theory is immediately at stake. The proponents of the hypothesis of Lukan dependence on John tend to dismiss the Q hypothesis in favor of Luke’s use of Matthew. I cannot follow that reasoning, because there is no way of explaining, for example, how the Sermon on the Mount could have been the direct source for Luke’s sermon on the plain.42 The question of Luke’s possible knowledge of Matthew is a topic which must be faced if Luke is assumed to know John’s Gospel. The history of the hypothesis that Luke knew the Gospel of John is relatively short.43 To date, only three major contributions have been made, namely by F. Lamar Cribbs, Barbara Shellard, and Mark Matson. A few other scholars have made casual remarks. For long, Luke’s use of John was not considered a possibility at all. For the majority of scholars, the two-source theory explained well enough Luke’s material and its redaction. Those who questioned the two-source theory could invest in other explanatory models such as Luke’s knowledge of Matthew or some form of Proto-Luke. At the same time, any discussion of the Fourth Gospel was marred by the slogan “John and the Synoptics,” where John’s use by one of the synoptic Gospels would have been a category fusion. Among the first to pay attention to the special relationship between Luke and John44 in the Anglophone world was Pierson Parker in a 1963 article.45 Parker

41. I suspect scholars have overemphasized, indeed misinterpreted, Johannine peculiarities such as irony and double entendres, mistaking these for postmodern playfulness. In fact the Johannine puns are mostly obvious and simple—and certainly serious. 42. The “Mark without Q” proponents have surely tried to make Luke’s use of the Sermon on the Mount a plausible explanation. See also Mark Matson, “Luke´s Rewriting of the Sermon on the Mount,” in SBL 1999 Seminar Papers (Missoula: Scholars Press, 2000), 623–50. Matson concludes (in the abstract): “I suggest that it is both possible and likely that Luke has ‘rewritten’ Matthew in order to present his own strong interpretation of the Jesus story.” It takes much less effort, I think, to explain Luke’s modest reworking of the Q sermon; see, for example, Christoph Heil, “La Réception de la Source dans L’Évangile de Luc,” in A. Dettwiler and D. Marguerat (eds.), La source des paroles de Jésus (Q): Aux origins du christianisme (Le Monde de la Bible 62; Genève: Labor et fides, 2008), 275–95. 43. For the following, cf. Moody Smith, John among the Gospels, 85–110. Smith gives more space to hypotheses about contacts between John and Luke at an oral, pre-gospel stage, while I have adopted a more straightforward solution to the Luke-John relationship. 44. See, however, Julius Schniewind’s brief monograph from 1914, discussed in Moody Smith, John among the Gospels, 88–90. 45. Pierson Parker, “Luke and the Fourth Evangelist,” NTS 9 (1962/3), 317–36.

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pointed out that Luke’s Gospel stands in many ways closest to John’s. To him, common oral tradition was insufficient to account for this fact. His explanation was an actual contact between the two evangelists: “We must posit two evangelists, of quite variant temperaments, working long in the same areas, hearing the same words about their Lord, perhaps participating in the same discussions; then each, remembering these things in his own way and digesting them in his own way, put his record down.”46 In a series of several articles in the 1970s, F. Lamar Cribbs came much closer to claiming a literary dependence. To understand his approach, it is instructive first to note his article from 1970, where he discussed the date and the destination of John’s Gospel.47 Cribbs suggested that “this gospel could be an interpretation of the life of Jesus written by a cultured Christian Jew of Judea during the late 50’s or early 60’s.”48 His subsequent work on Luke and John is based on this early date of John and on the assumption of John’s independence of all the Synoptics. In his first and perhaps most interesting articles on Luke’s use of John, his tentative conclusion is that “Luke was influenced by some early form of the developing Johannine tradition (or perhaps even by an early draft of the original edition of John) rather than vice versa.”49 One interesting observation is that Luke agrees with John frequently at those sections in John’s narrative which contain material similar to the Synoptics—and it is precisely here that Luke tends to depart from Mark and Matthew. This is significant, because it is difficult to imagine why John would have picked up precisely Luke’s version instead of Mark’s or Matthew’s, whereas Luke’s acquaintance with John would explain why he modified Mark when he found an alternative in John. The second conclusion is akin to this. Luke frequently omits material found in Mark and Matthew at those points where John offers material that disagrees with the two Synoptics. Again, the conclusion is near at hand that Luke modified his Markan or Q material in ways that were less in disagreement with John. Thus, Luke’s narrative often takes a middle position between John and the two Synoptics. Further, the Luke-John agreements are found almost entirely in the narrative of John, not in the dialogue (or monologue) parts of John. Finally, Cribbs mentions a few cases where Luke seems to modify the Markan order together with John. The best example is the Lukan account of the last supper. The prediction of Judas’ betrayal takes place in Luke after the supper, not before as in Mark, and the prediction of Peter’s denial takes place at the dinner setting before the departure to the Mount of Olives. In addition, Luke lets Jesus have a short discourse during the supper, which can be compared with the Johannine farewell speech. This last

46. Ibid., p. 336. 47. F. Lamar Cribbs, “A Reassessment of the Date of Origin and the Destination of the Gospel of John,” JBL 89 (1970), 38–55. 48. Cribbs, “Reassessment,” 55. 49. F. Lamar Cribbs, “St. Luke and the Johannine Tradition,” JBL 90 (1971), 422–50; p. 450.

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parallel is especially telling, because the farewell speech is a Johannine feature par excellence.50 The next scholar to defend the hypothesis of Luke’s use of John’s Gospel is Barbara Shellard. In her first publication on the subject51 she stated firmly that the nature of the parallels between Luke (-Acts) and John compels a literary relationship. Shellard examined a sample of Luke-John parallel passages: John the Baptist (Lk. 3/Jn 1), the anointing story (Lk. 7/Jn 12), Jesus’ trial before the Jewish authorities and Peter’s denial (Lk. 22/Jn 18) and the resurrection narratives (Lk. 24/Jn 20–21). Throughout, Shellard came to confirm Cribb’s main result that Luke mediates between Mark/Matthew and John. Shellard’s thesis from 1997 argued that Luke was in fact the “Fourth” Gospel. A revised version of the thesis appeared in 2002.52 In this published monograph, Shellard rejects the Q hypothesis and regards the two other Synoptics, as well as John, as Luke’s sources. In addition, “Luke did indeed know some, if not all, of Paul’s letters”53 and probably 1 Clement and the letter of James, as well as (most of) Josephus. The reason why she dates Luke no later than 100 CE seems to be that she assumes that the author was a companion of Paul. Shellard’s chapter on the Gospels of Luke and John54 contains a wealth of detailed observations as well as general comments on Luke’s editorial strategy. In the last chapter Shellard discusses Luke’s aim, which she thinks was to provide a “corrective” Gospel.55 In this connection, she also summarizes Luke’s use of John,56 which she finds somewhat different from Luke’s use of Mark and Matthew, for instance in that John provided material for the Acts, too. Luke may not have consciously harmonized the Gospels (as Tatian did later), but he often took a mediating position between divergent presentations. In some cases, he briefly summarizes the Johannine account, and on several occasions he lets John’s narrative influence his story at other places in his Gospel or in the Acts. Luke has also omitted Johannine material deliberatively where it did not correspond to his theological emphases. We might gather Shellard’s interpretation

50. Cribb’s later articles add some further detailed observations. The lengthiest article on the subject is found in the SBL Seminar Papers of 1973, but its force is diminished by the fact it lists trivial similarities along with more substantial ones. Yet another article in the SBL Seminar papers of 1979, summarizes much of the 1973 paper, presenting an helpful overview of similarities. 51. Barbara Shellard, “The Relationship of Luke and John: A Fresh Look at an Old Problem,” JTS 46 (1995), 71–98. 52. Barbara Shellard, New Light on Luke: Its Purpose, Sources and Literary Context (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002). My references are to the 2004 edition (London: T&T Clark). 53. Shellard, New Light, 31. 54. Ibid., pp. 200–60. 55. Ibid., pp. 261–91. 56. Ibid., pp. 275–82.

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of Luke’s strategy in catchwords such as mediation (or avoiding contradiction), summarizing, transposition, and selection. The most sustained analysis of Luke’s use of John to date is Mark A. Matson’s published dissertation on Luke’s use of John’s passion story.57 In this work, Matson—unlike Cribbs and Shellard—is silent about his background assumptions, but his previous work suggest a relatively early date for John and the possibility of Luke’s use of Matthew. Matson offers a many-sided and systematic overview of the Luke-John parallels and a detailed analysis of Luke’s redaction in the passion narrative. He also examines carefully the so-called Western non-interpolations in Luke’s Gospel, an issue which is of crucial importance because a number of LukeJohn parallels are text-critically problematic. Two more articles deserve mention. Robert Morgan finds that there are enough observations that require that the Cribbs-Shellard hypothesis be taken seriously.58 In another recent contribution, Andrew Gregory focuses on the empty tomb narrative in Luke and John.59 Gregory is careful not to take sides on the question of literary dependence, but he does take the possibility of Luke’s knowledge of John as a tentative point of departure, from which to discuss Luke’s redactional motifs. These two minor contributions to the Luke-John problem are very telling in that they approach the subject tentatively. There are good reasons for uncertainty, because many—but not all—observations can be explained in opposite ways. However, there may also be worse reasons for this attitude, such as the recognition that the hypothesis is defended by a minority of scholars, and is typically associated with an early date for John. A few more examples from the passion story show why in my esteem the wages are for John’s priority. In the Markan story, the high priest is not named, which may well indicate that the evangelist or his tradition did not know the name. Matthew informs that the chief priest at Jesus’ trial was Caiaphas. John, in his turn, introduces Caiaphas already in 11:47-53, and explains that Caiaphas was “the High Priest for that year” (11:49), meaning perhaps that Caiaphas held the office at the time of the crucial events culminating in Jesus’ death.60 Caiaphas has in John a major role in the plot as the one who voices the political rationale for Jesus’ death. In the trial story, Caiaphas enters the stage again, but strangely, Jesus is first taken to Annas, “the father-in-law of Caiaphas, [who was] the High Priest for that year”

57. Mark A. Matson, In Dialogue with Another Gospel? The Influence of the Fourth Gospel on the Passion Narrative of the Gospel of Luke (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001). 58. Robert Morgan, “Which was the Fourth Gospel? The Order of the Gospels and the Unity of Scripture,” JSNT 54 (1994), 3–24. It is hardly incidental that Robert Morgan was Barbara Shellard’s supervisor. 59. Andrew Gregory, “The Third Gospel? The Relationship of John and Luke reconsidered,” in John Lierman (ed.), Challenging Perspectives on the Gospel of John (WUNT 2. Reihe 219; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 109–34. 60. It is also possible that the phrase, “for that year,” implies that Caiaphas and High Priests in general were elected for a year, which would be historically incorrect.

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(18:13). In the ensuing narrative, which actually describes a hearing rather than a trial with a formal verdict, Annas is not mentioned by name; the questioner is just “the High Priest.” At 18:23, it is told that Annas sent Jesus to “Caiaphas the High Priest,” which sounds rather awkward because in the previous narrative the title, “the High Priest,” must refer to Annas. The Johannine account thus seems confused. Yet, as the Johannine narrator—the mouthpiece of the passion redactor—informs the reader twice that Caiaphas was the High Priest “for that year,” he seems very clear on this point. He also explains that Annas was Caiaphas’s father-in-law. Thus, on the face of it, at least, the narrator seems well informed and clear about the dramatis personae. This makes the confusion all the more surprising and raises the question of John’s sources. Mark cannot be John’s direct source. It seems plausible, then, that the Johannine passion redaction learned this name from Matthew. But in that case, whence does Annas come? I will deal with this problem later, but here my concern is that the two high priests are named in Luke-Acts. In Lk. 3:2, the beginning of John the Baptist’s activity is dated as ἐπὶ ἀρχιερέως Ἅννα καὶ Καϊάφα. In Acts 4:6, these two are again named tandem (καὶ Ἅννας ὁ ἀρχιερεὺς καὶ Καϊάφας) together with others from the high-priestly family.61 In the trial narrative (which also in Luke is actually a hearing), Luke does not identify the High Priest, who was unnamed in Mark and Caiaphas in Matthew, whereas John introduced both Caiaphas and Annas. Shellard’s interpretation seems plausible: “Luke typically attempts to avoid the contradiction; he condenses the two hearings into one, and does not identify the High Priest in question at all.”62 That Luke, outside the passion story, has Annas and Caiaphas together as a pair without any explanation as to why or how these two high priests go together, is interesting. It is also relevant to ask how likely it is that John memorized Lk. 3:2 (let alone Acts 4:6), a historicizing summary passage which in the Lukan context had nothing to do with the trial narrative. Another test case is Peter’s second denial in Lk. 22:58 (Ἄνθρωπε, οὐκ εἰμί), to be compared with Jn 18:17, 25. Certainly John would be better off as the likely original due to the theological weight of ἐγώ εἰμι in John and John’s typical use of irony (Peter denies Jesus with a negated “Jesuanic” expression).63

61. G. H. C. Macgregor in his exegesis of the Acts in the Interpreter’s Bible (vol. 9; New York and Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1954), 65, is suspicious about Luke’s historical accuracy: “Did Luke believe that Annas and Caiaphas both held office at the same time, as seems implied by the words ‘in the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas’ (Luke 3:2)?” Such a misunderstanding could have been caused by John’s hearing narrative. Most commentators think, however, that Luke was well informed and knew that even if Annas was “technically no longer in office” he was “the High Priest par excellence of his time”— thus William Neil, The Acts of the Apostles (NCBC; 2nd edn Grand Rapids: Eerdmans and London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1973/1981), 89. 62. Shellard, New Light, p. 248. 63. Ibid., 247.

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In the empty tomb narrative, only John (20:3-10) and Luke (24:12) have male disciples visiting the tomb. The question here is whether the text John knew was Lk. 24:12 (which is text-critically problematic but probably original)64 or not. Matson argues that the Lukan account has distinctive Johannine traits.65 His evidence is hardly waterproof but counterweighs similar word-statistic arguments to the opposite effect. In the Emmaus pericope, it is told that “some” of the male disciples visited the tomb (24:24), so Luke seems aware that Peter was not alone. Even a few details where Luke differs from Mark in his version about the women at the tomb might echo John’s story.66 Thus, Luke may have borrowed what he considered useful details from John to improve the Markan story. That “the other disciple” is not mentioned at 24:12 but is dimly suggested at 24:24 would be a typical Lukan compromise, which avoided the inconvenience of admitting a spurious Johannine character into the story. The story about Peter at the tomb provided a fair enough remedy for Luke’s inability to substantiate from his available sources the (Pauline) tradition that Peter was the first to see the risen Lord (24:34; cf. 1 Cor. 15:5).67 Luke’s relatively sparse use of John’s Gospel might in part depend on the wealth of sources at his disposal. Luke also possessed a good historian’s and storyteller’s talent of creating new narratives and parables from tiny hints in his sources. In addition, I suggest that Luke had a historian’s sense of source criticism and aspiration for originality. In the Gospel’s foreword (1:1-4), he fully acknowledges that many had “tried”68 to tell the story before him and had access to the original eyewitnesses. In

64. Matson, In Dialogue, 189–91. 65. Ibid., 402. 66. Ibid., 385–86, notes the following Luke-John agreements: (1) no mention of the stone having to be removed (diff Mark and Matthew); (2) the women report the empty tomb to the disciples (against Mark; implied but not narrated in Matthew); (3) two angels asking a question; (4) Lk. 24:12/Jn 20:3, 5-9. 67. The arguments that for example Robert H. Smith, Easter Gospels: The Resurrection of Jesus According to the Four Evangelists (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1983), p. 111, puts forward against Luke’s use of John can be gainsaid. Smith remarks that Luke “would have had to omit the Beloved Disciple, change the reaction from belief to amazement, and leave out the comment regarding knowing the Scriptures.” The explanation given above implies that the Beloved Disciple is not completely omitted, and it is just logical that Luke did not describe Peter’s reaction as belief before telling the Emmaus story, where—instead of a faint reference to “the scripture” that the disciples “did not know yet” (Jn 20:8)—Luke has the resurrected Jesus give a whole lesson “beginning with Moses and all the prophets” (Lk. 24:27). At all events, Luke has made the best of his available sources. Although not the first to see the risen Lord, Peter was the first disciple to see the empty tomb and the linen clothes—the sign of resurrection. 68. Shellard, New Light, 262, refers to Loveday Alexander’s remark that the verb “try” or undertake (ἐπεχείρησαν) almost always serves to “damn with faint praise” when used in the third person, although in the first person it can convey modest self-deprecation.

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the early decades of the second century, Luke could not honestly boast of having interviewed the eyewitnesses. His best strategy was to exert a kind of source criticism. This method was not unknown to classical historians, though it was neither applied in the modern sense nor regarded as the sole virtue of a historian—a good (plausible, lifelike, entertaining, educating) story was equally important. Shellard opines that the αὐτόπται in Luke’s prologue include John, because this Gospel claims eyewitness testimony (Jn 21:24).69 Since such a claim was not explicit in Mark or Q, John’s bold claim must have impressed Luke. Yet, Luke could also compare texts and traditions to figure out which are the earliest ones. In this task, Luke had an advantage denied to modern scholars: he may have known, from various ecclesiastical authorities that some documents were recently written while others had circulated earlier—an argument that proved to be influential in the process of canonization of New Testament writings. While noting that John’s Gospel claimed to be a reliable eyewitness testimony, Luke may not have been quite confident that this was really the case. Since the time lap between the two latest canonical Gospels was hardly more than a decade or two, it is even possible that John’s work became known at a late stage of Luke’s own project. Although some of John’s emphases may have seemed quite attractive, already the high christology in John was alien to Luke, who rather stressed the continuous growth of the early church’s theological understanding in the Spirit’s guidance.70 Admittedly, if my solution to the John-Luke relationship is wrong, I will have to reconsider a great deal of my Johannine analysis. But if my suspicion is right, many more will have to reconsider the sources, date, editorial strategy and theological aims of Luke-Acts. At all events, the following interpretation of John’s predecessor and passion redaction will be conducted without a side-glance at Luke-Acts.

The Problem of John’s Passion Sources The source(s) of the Johannine passion story keep puzzling scholars. While possible synoptic influences are relatively few in Jn 1–12 and still in the farewell section, the passion story is different.71 Form critics were confident that the

In Luke’s prologue, this need not imply a real deprecation of the forerunners; rather it seems an instinctive rhetorical device that signals Luke’s wish to produce a better or more adequate story—and this was in fact a necessity, otherwise his enterprise would be called into question as an epigone’s work. 69. Shellard, New Light, 260. 70. The idea of the Spirit’s guidance “into whole truth” is, of course, quite Johannine (Jn 16:13)! 71. Jürgen Becker, a robust defender of John’s independence, emphasizes the difference in an interesting way: “Man muss nach Lage der Dinge zwei Bilanzen für die Verhältnisbestimmung zwischen Johannes und den Synoptikern aufstellen, eine für den Passionsbericht und eine für das übrige vierte Evangelium.” Jürgen Becker, “Das

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passion story belongs to the bedrock of the synoptic tradition. This conviction has resulted in a number of reconstructions of the pre-Markan passion story.72 It has also encouraged Johannine scholars, especially those who deny John’s dependence on the final synoptic Gospels, to recover an “ancestor” of the passion story behind Mark and John, possibly even Luke. Frank Schleritt, for example, has provided a detailed reconstruction of the pre-Johannine passion narrative.73 While his literary-critical analysis often detects seams and tensions in the present Gospel, his research history74 reveals how divergent results other scholars have reached. My basic assumption about the late redactor’s knowledge of two synoptic accounts makes such reconstructions obsolete, but the question of possible independent preJohannine traditions still remains. As I do not reckon with Luke as an additional source, the task of explaining the non-synoptic elements in John’s passion story is more demanding than it was, for example, for Barrett and Kümmel.75 However, I hope to show that the distinctive Johannine elements can be explained by the combination of the two Synoptics, secondary oral developments based on these Gospels, and the redactor’s creative contribution. A good point of departure is the passion chronology. According to John, Jesus was crucified at the time when the Passover lamb was slaughtered. Here we certainly have a non-synoptic tradition, which however is not unique to John (cf. 1 Cor. 5:7). Whatever the “Lamb of God” (Jn 1:29, 36) may have meant or whatever scriptural connotations it may have had in a putative tradition-history, in the final Gospel—thus, for the passion redactor—it signaled the Passover lamb.76 This

vierte Evangelium und die Frage nach seinen Externen und Internen Quellen,” in Ismo Dunderberg, Christopher Tuckett and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity, 203–41; p. 226. 72. See appendix IX in Raymond E. Brown’s The Death of the Messiah (2 vols.; New York: Doubleday & Co, 1994), 2: 1492–1524, where Marion L. Soards (together with Brown) has listed and compared fourteen different reconstructions. 73. Frank Schleritt, Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht: Eine historisch-kritische und theologische Untersuchung zu Joh 2,13-22; 11,47-14,31 und 18,1-20,29 (BZNW 154; Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2007). 74. Schleritt, Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht, 3–63. Among the studies Schleritt examines is the two-volume work by my Finnish colleague and friend Matti Myllykoski (Die letzten Tage Jesu: Markus und Johannes, ihre Traditionen und die historische Frage (2 vols.; AASF B 256/272; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1991/1994). An indication of the problems one faces in reconstructing a pre-Johannine passion source is Myllykoski’s conclusion (Die letzten Tage Jesu, 2:185) that John was also aware of the final Mark and had heard it read or proclaimed, possibly read it himself on some occasion. 75. For C. K. Barrett and W. G. Kümmel, see Schleritt, Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht, 38–39. But even Barrett was more cautious in the second edition of his commentary and did not exclude an “intermediate” tradition where the Markan account was modified. 76. Reimund Bieringer, “Das Lamm Gottes, das die Sünde der Welt hinwegnimmt (Joh 1,29): Eine kontextorientierte und redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung auf dem

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imagery not only invited scriptural interpretation (19:36) and a minor correction of Mark’s timing (19:14 “seventh hour” diff Mk 15:25 “third hour”), but made the Markan chronology impossible from the start; Jesus and his disciples did not have a Passover meal, the preparation of which was so carefully described in Mk 14:12-16. There is a last meal, but no institution of the eucharist as in Mk 14:22-25 (cf. 1 Cor. 11:23-25). Instead, Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. The footwashing episode reveals clear signs of secondary theological reflection. It is often noticed that both 13:6-11 and 13:12-14 interpret the meaning of the act of footwashing but differently, the former soteriologically and the latter ethically. The classic issue has then concerned which of the interpretations is secondary. Lincoln argues that “the account as it stands is not nearly so difficult as some have supposed to interpret as a coherent unity.”77 Obviously, if one assumes that the Fourth Gospel is a creative combination of the Synoptics, it is economical not to admit of too many complications. Although the two interpretations are not incompatible—after all, they are both there in John—I think that there is a literary seam. Of the many proposed reconstructions, Schleritt’s is appealing up to a point. His pre-Johannine passion narrative would, in the earliest form, include 13:2a (a dinner setting) and vv. 4-5, 12-15. The “ethical” interpretation would thus be earlier. Schleritt then concludes that the footwashing episode (without the Evangelist’s insertion of vv. 6-10c) was originally an independent tradition but was incorporated into the preJohannine passion narrative. Here I cannot follow his argument, because the rest of John 13 is fully explainable from Mark and the passion redactor’s concerns. Schleritt also regards the core of the first farewell speech (John 14) as part of the pre-Johannine passion source. This is not quite implausible, considering 14:30-31 (cf. Mk 14:42), which seems to lead directly to (the omitted Gethsemane narrative and) the arrest narrative. However, the passion redaction hypothesis implies that the transitory note 14:30-31 comes from the redactor who knew Mark’s story. The footwashing narrative may indeed go together with the farewell speech at some stage, but these are not part of a larger pre-Johannine passion narrative. In this story, which I will later argue was rather rudimentary and not fully narrativized, there was no traitor, no arrest, and no crucifixion. The beginning of the putative pre-Johannine passion source is in many reconstructions the temple cleansing story and Jesus’ word about the temple in Jn 2:13-17, 18-22. The temple incident in John has narrative details not found in

Hintergrund der Passatradition als Deutung des Todes Jesu im Johannesevangelium,” in G. van Belle (ed.), The Death of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (BETL CC; Leuven: University Press, 2007), 199–232, interprets Jn 1:29, 36 in light of the shepherd/sheep metaphor in Jn 10:11-18 and 21:15-17. However, such a “contextual” reading requires too much from the reader, especially when Bieringer wants to bracket out the immediate context of the “lamb of God” in 1:29, namely, ὁ αἴρων τὴν ἁμαρτίαν τοῦ κόσμου. Maarten J. J. Menken, “The ‘Lamb of God’ (John 1,29) in the Light of 1 John 3,4-7” in the same BETL volume, 581–90, offers a more plausible interpretation. He rightly points to 1 Jn 3:5 and Isa. 53 as intertextual echoes. 77. Lincoln, The Gospel according to Saint John, 371.

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Mark (11:15-17) or the other Synoptics: the selling of cattle and sheep in addition to doves, the pouring out of the money changers’ coins, a whip made out of cords. Instead of Jesus’ reference to the scripture about turning God’s house into a den of robbers (Mk 11:17, a combination of Isa. 56:7 and Jer. 7:11), John has Jesus say, “Do not make my Father’s house a house of trade.” Then there is the remark that the disciples remembered another scripture: “Zeal for your house will consume me” (Zech. 14:20-21). However, all the excess details are explicable as secondary oral variations of the Markan or Matthean78 story—for instance, the whip explains how Jesus could drive out the cattle and the merchants. The change of the scriptural reference is also understandable, because neither the predecessor gospel nor the passion redactor portray Jesus as reforming the temple into a house of prayer. What is crucial for the pre-Johannine reconstructions, however, is the following pericope, where Jesus is asked what sign he can show when doing so. Obviously Jesus is asked about his authority, so the pericope seems to parallel Mk 11:27-33 (cf. v. 28). Since Mark has divorced the temple cleansing and the question about Jesus’ authority through the sandwiched narrative of the cursed fig tree (Mk 11:2026), it is tempting to reconstruct a pre-Markan passion narrative, where the question of authority joined directly to the temple incident; John would then use some variant of this pre-Gospel source. The force of this reasoning is diminished, however, by the Matthean parallel (21:14-16), where Jesus immediately after the cleansing episode, remaining in the temple area, performs healings; Matthew calls the miracles θαυμάσια, which for John easily suggests σημεῖα. In Matthew, the chief priests and the scribes also address Jesus with a question in this context. While the predecessor gospel may have had a similar passage, the Matthean context alone may suffice to explain John’s composition, particularly if we consider the passion redactor’s ideation at this juncture. Having introduced Jesus as the Passover lamb (1:29, 36), having hinted at Jesus’ impending “hour” (2:4), and having launched the first Passover formula (2:13),79 the redactor was ready to expose the whole passionresurrection scheme. At the same time, the redactor managed to reinterpret a central theme of his predecessor gospel, the signs of Jesus: the greatest and decisive sign was not a miracle (2:11), but Jesus’ passion and resurrection. The drastically modified temple saying, which could have reached the redactor as a free-floating logion or as Jesus’ answer to those asking for a sign,80 served well in this context.

78. The Matthean parallel is worth considering, because it lacks, like John, the Markan notion that Jesus did not allow anyone to carry goods through the temple area. It is also interesting that Matthew in the same context narrates that Jesus performed healings, that is, miraculous signs. 79. For the redactional Passover formulas in Jn 2:13, 6:4 and 11:55, see Wilkens, Die Entstehungsgeschichte des vierten Evangeliums, 9–11. 80. A variant of the temple saying is found in Gos.Thom. 71 as a separate logion. Closer to John is the Q saying about the sign of Jonah, as rendered in Mt. 12:39-40 (cf. Lk. 11:2930, where the sign is interpreted differently); in Q/Matthew Jesus is asked for a sign. The pre-Johannine/pre-Markan passion narrative hypothesis offers a rather complicated

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The pre-passion John, then, might have narrated Jesus’ first travel to Jerusalem (2:13b), his healings there (2:23-25), and the discourse with Nicodemus. Another crucial pericope is 11:47-53, the council’s decision to kill Jesus. Clearly, this is hard to explain as the passion redactor’s use of Mk 11:18 and 14:1-2. However, Mt. 26:3-5, which parallels the latter Markan account, comes a bit closer to John: there, it is told that the chief priests and elders of the people “gathered in the palace of the high priest, who was called Caiaphas.” Two details call for attention: first, that there was a more or less official meeting in the residence of the high priest, and second, that the high priest was Caiaphas. Neither of these details are found in Mark (or Luke). Since the meeting place is Caiaphas’s palace, any reader or hearer of Matthew’s text will understand that Caiaphas was the convener. Thus, the setting and the leading role of Caiaphas may well be explained by the passion redactor’s knowledge of Matthew’s account. The rest of the pericope is more challenging, especially since the theology of the narrator’s comment in 11:51-52 might at first sight seem archaic and not typical of the passion redactor’s concerns. The narrator interprets Caiaphas’s “prophetic” words to mean that “Jesus was about to die for the nation, and not for the nation only, but to gather into one the dispersed children of God.” That Jesus’ death would benefit the Jewish nation is not in the passion redactor’s nor in his predecessor’s agenda. The passion redactor’s main concern was for inner-community matters on the one hand, and on the Johannine community’s place within the emergent larger network of Christbelievers on the other. The predecessor redactor, in turn, had a pejorative view of “the Jews,” Jesus’ own people who did not receive him (Jn 1:11). It would seem that the only possible provenance for this pro-Jewish interpretation is to be found in the tradition used by the Johannine predecessor. However, von Wahlde, who refers most of the pericope to the first edition, argues that the narrator’s comment comes from the latest edition. Correspondingly, Schleritt argues that the comment in 11:51-52 comes from the late redactor who finalized the Evangelist’s work. Schleritt also makes the very helpful observation that the whole narrative runs counter the previous storyline, where “the Jews” repeatedly try to kill Jesus (5:18; 7:1, 19, 25; 8:37, 40; 10:31). According to 7:32 the high priests and the Pharisees sent officials to arrest Jesus. In 11:47, however, they are quite perplexed and do not know what to do.81 This tension might cause problems to those interpreters who assume a continuous Grundschrift behind the entire Gospel. For Schleritt and others who focus on the pre-Johannine passion narrative, the problem is easier to solve: the passion source was originally a separate text. Defenders of John’s wholesale use of the Synoptics may resort to

explanation: Mark omitted Jesus’ saying in the temple cleansing story but introduced it, perhaps in a purposefully modified form, as the accusation against Jesus in the trial story (Mk 14:28), while John has the original context (but not necessarily the original wording). See Myllykoski, Die letzten Tage Jesu 1:119-120; 2:138; Schleritt, Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht, 167–71. 81. Schleritt, Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht, 176.

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the Evangelist’s lack of interest in narrative coherence.82 For the passion redaction hypothesis the situation is more challenging, because the passion redactor has reworked the whole work of his predecessor (and could therefore in principle have avoided the narrative inconsequence) and because 11:47-53 cannot completely be explained from Mark and Matthew. Now the emphasis on the “gathering” of God’s children (from the diaspora, cf. διεσκορπισμένα v. 52) is a major theme in John, not least in ch. 12, where Jesus says, “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself ” (12:32). In this “lifting up” saying the reference to Jesus’ death is unmistakable (note the comment in 12:33, the “hour” in 11:27, the “glorification” language in 11:28, and the Gethsemane echoes in the pericope). The preceding pericope on the Greeks wishing to see Jesus (12:20-26) likewise illuminates the “gathering” theme: when the grain of wheat dies, it bears much fruit, meaning that Jesus’ “lifting up” through death will cause God’s children from abroad to come together. It appears, then, that the “gathering” motif is integral to the passion redactor’s concerns. Considering the conclusion that Caiaphas may well be from Matthew and that, as will be argued in a later chapter, the passion redactor has deliberatively reshaped the resuscitation of Lazarus so as to be the final sign that upset the Jewish leaders, I maintain that there is enough reason to consider the whole of Jn 11:47-53 as essentially the passion redactor’s creation.83 The redactor’s plan guided him to place the council’s decision immediately after the raising of Lazarus and to motivate it according to his theological agenda. The gathering of God’s children was part of the agenda, but another idea was to show that Jesus’ death was an act of self-giving love, as Mark expressed it in his way: ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου οὐκ ἦλθεν διακονηθῆναι ἀλλὰ διακονῆσαι καὶ δοῦναι τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ λύτρον ἀντὶ πολλῶν (Mk 10:45). The previous references to attempts to arrest and kill Jesus then belong to another

82. Cf. C. K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John: An Introduction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text (2nd edn; London: SPCK, 1978), 324 on Jn 7:32-36: “John is however far more concerned with the flow of thought than of narrative.” 83. I would not exclude, however, that there was some earlier oral tradition that the passion redactor used in Caiaphas’s speech. Such a tradition need not have been associated with Caiaphas. Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John (NCBC; Grand Rapis: Eerdmans; London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1972), 403, finds in the arrest plot two features that may reflect independent tradition: the Roman threat and Caiaphas’s unconscious prophecy; the second feature is an application of a proverbial political axiom to the situation of Roman threat. Lindars’s further suggestions that these features are either correct historical reporting or later Jewish arguments in disputes with Johannine Christians are not necessary to understand the redactor’s creation. Lindars’s last remark, however, is apt: John “has taken pains to relate [the advice of Caiaphas] to the theology of the Passion.” The “pains” or difficulties of the redaction are shown by Schleritt (Der vorjohanneische Passionsbericht, 185): the logical shift from the Jewish nation in Caiaphas’s words to the Christian church in the narrator’s comment is not quite successful, but was made possible through the Christian associations in the term ὁ λαός.

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storyline—the predecessor’s—which the passion redactor could not easily remove. As they stand, the references nevertheless serve the passion redactor’s purpose in showing the growing enmity toward Jesus. As for the trial (hearing) story, I refer to Lincoln, who explains how the Johannine author’s large-scale thematic choices illuminate his detailed diction. The best argument in favor of the author’s reliance on Mark’s or Matthew’s story is the typically Markan “sandwich” technique, through which Jesus’ trial and Peter’s denials are juxtaposed. Here, we must return to the problem with the two high priests. The problem is equally serious no matter what overarching model of interpretation is chosen. Both seekers of an independent passion narrative and the advocates on John’s use of all the Synoptics must resort to auxiliary hypotheses. On my premises, the best explanation is that the Johannine passion redactor was memorizing Matthew’s text in creating 11:47-53, while Annas was named as the high priest in some oral contexts based on the Markan or Matthean trial narrative.84 Thus the redactor was familiar with both forms of the same tradition but chose Caiaphas in ch. 11, knowing that he was the person who actually held office at that time. But Annas also served the redactor’s purposes, because Caiaphas could have nothing more to say after the council’s decision. In this way, the Johannine passion narrator was able to show his readers that the highest representatives of Judaism—the present High Priest as well as his influential father-in-law—consented on the matter. This does not wholly explain the confusion at 18:19, where the high priest must be Annas, though in (18:14 and) 18:24 it is clearly Caiaphas. My best answer is that the narratorial lapse was due to the intervening episode (18:15-18: Peter gets in and denies Jesus for the first time), which made the redactor lose the thread. Markan “sandwiches” were apparently not his specialty. The phenomenon of added names in oral performances of Mark or Matthew is attested also elsewhere in the passion story.85 As Lindars notes, “The story has grown in the telling.”86 The Roman trial before Pilate (18:28–19:16) is, as Senior describes it, “the longest and most intricately crafted scene” in John’s passion story, and its relationship to the synoptic accounts is “an intriguing mystery.”87 Perhaps the mystery is not so deep, however, because Senior, commenting on 19:1-3, suggests that “John’s purposes

84. The anonymous “high priest” in Mark may well have triggered the question, “What’s his name?,” among the early audiences. It is unnecessary to assume other independent traditions, as does Donald Senior, The Passion of Jesus in the Gospel of John (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1991), 59: “Here, as in other parts of the Gospel, the evangelist may be in touch with traditions that have historical probability and are independent of those found in the Synoptic Gospels.” In a way, Senior’s notion of historical probability may have a point: those who wanted to name the Markan high priest thought that Annas was a plausible guess. 85. The slave of the high priest now had a name, Malchus (Jn 18:10). 86. Lindars, The Gospel of John ((NCBC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972/repr. 1987), 543. 87. Senior, The Passion of Jesus in the Gospel of John, 68, 71.

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are clearly dramatic and theological.”88 The dramatic force is seen, for instance, in the graphic description of the scouring and mockery of Jesus, placed in the middle of the hearing before Pilate. In Mark and Matthew this takes place after the verdict, which is historically more plausible, but the change does not require any special source. A dramatic effect is also the use of dialogues, and especially there the passion redactor is able to address theological issues. But the story itself also conveys deeper meanings; the passion redactor does not forget for a moment that “the Lamb of God” will have to be sacrificed on the eve of Passover (cf. 18:28). In the crucifixion scene the passion redactor has forcefully brought home his theological point. Yet the Markan or Matthean story was likely the source: the witness of blood and water (19:34-35) is precisely in the place of the centurion’s christological testimony (Mk 15:39 par Matt).89 The empty tomb narrative is likewise understandable as an edited or retold version of Mark or Matthew, with the added special tradition of Peter’s visit at the tomb (cf. 1 Cor. 15:5); the Beloved Disciple’s presence here and elsewhere is the redactor’s invention. The Matthean story has likely inspired the passion redactor to develop the scene with Jesus and Mary (Jn 20:11-18; Mt. 28:8-10). The other appearances of the risen Jesus come from a Johannine special tradition, which the redactor has edited heavily (e.g., by doubling the first appearance before the disciples to highlight the risen Jesus’ corporeality in the “doubting Thomas” episode). The question is whether these were originally appearances of the risen Lord at all; the promise of “seeing” Jesus after his departure from the world (14:19) may imply something else.

The Gospel and the Letters The passion redaction hypothesis as such implies only that the Gospel and 1 John reflect approximately the same setting and theological stance.90 However, if we knew the order in which the letters and the Gospel were written, we could understand the development of Johannine theology and community life much better than by just observing the differences between the predecessor text and

88. Ibid., 85. 89. The centurion’s confession “Truly, this man was a Son of God” (Mk 15:39) is one of the key passages in Mark, as it carries on and brings to conclusion the series of episodes where Jesus is identified as God’s Son. Myllykoski, Die letzten Tage Jesu, 1:125-126, finds Mk 15:39 redactional. 90. In the following discussion I focus on 1 John, but I assume that 2-3 John are from the same author and reflect a similar historical setting. John Painter, 1,2,3 John (Sacra Pagina18; Collegeville: The Liturgical Press 2002), 335, proposes that 2 John is the accompanying letter introducing 1 John to a circle of Johannine house churches. Possibly 3 John is another accompanying letter to 1 John; thus Friedrich Gustav Lang, “Disposition und Zeilenzahl im 2. und 3. Johannesbrief: Zugleich eine Einführung in antike Stichometrie,” BZ 59 (2015), 54–78; p. 77.

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the final Gospel. However, not all differences are easily explained in terms of dependence.91 Another problem is the difference in genre. The Gospel is, despite its many discourse elements, a story about Jesus; the letters, especially 2 and 3 John, are the sender’s direct address to the recipients. The third difficulty is in fact an opportunity. If the Gospel has undergone several redactions, the sequence of the Gospel and the letters has to—or could—be determined in relation to the redactional layers.92 Culpepper’s 2014 essay on the relation between the Gospel and 1 John lists some sixty-six scholarly works published between 1910 and 2010. Of these, thirtysix date 1 John after the Gospel, while sixteen date it during the composition of the Gospel. Culpepper is inclined to opt for the latter position, mentioning that von Wahlde’s arguments have persuaded him of the advantages of placing 1 John during the composition of the Gospel.93 “During,” according to von Wahlde, means after the second and before the third, final edition of John. However, Culpepper is not persuaded by von Wahlde’s further suggestion that the author of the letter is the “Beloved Disciple” of the Gospel.94 I have come to adopt von Wahlde’s hypotheses concerning both the order or the Johannine writings and the intended identity95 of the “Beloved Disciple.” However, many of von Wahlde’s arguments for his order depend on his Gospel redaction hypothesis, which I do not share. For instance, he argues that 1 John’s christology is more advanced than in the second edition but less developed than in the third. My

91. The best-known proponent of the independence view is Judith M. Lieu. See, for instance, her commentary on the letters: I, II, and III John: A Commentary (NTL; Louisville: Westminter John Knox, 2008). See also Raimo Hakola, “The Reception and Development of the Johannine tradition in 1, 2 and 3 John,” in Tuomas Rasimus (ed.), The Legacy of John: Second-Century Reception of the Fourth Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 17–47. Hakola finds both substantial agreements and crucial differences between the texts. For example, Hakola (p. 24) notes that the term “the Jews” appears in the Gospel seventy-one times but not once in the letters. The passion redaction hypothesis implies that “the Jews” as outsiders and enemies were in the interest of the predecessor gospel, while the farewell traditions shifted the focus to the community and the passion redaction was engaged in inner-community disputes. 92. In principle the letters may be used as an aid in discerning some traditional elements in the Gospel without assuming a direct literary relationship. This point is well taken by Wendy E. Sproston North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition (JSNTSup 212; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), esp. pp. 17–40. Interestingly, several of her observations (pp. 160–162) suggest that the (final) Gospel has elaborated the common tradition further than 1 John. 93. R. Alan Culpepper, “The Relationship between the Gospel and 1 John,” in R. Alan Culpepper and Paul N. Anderson (eds.), Communities in Dispute: Current Scholarship on the Johannine Epistles (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 214), 95–119; p. 115. 94. Ibid. Culpepper wants to see the Beloved Disciple more involved in the making of the Gospel, that is, as the author of the first and second edition. 95. By “intended identity” I mean something looser than von Wahlde. See Chapter 4.

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hypothesis implies that high christology, including preexistence, is the hallmark of the predecessor work, while the passion redactor is more concerned with the corporeal reality, and to some extent the full humanity, of the crucified and risen Jesus. Besides, many of von Wahlde’s arguments are ambivalent and could be used to prove against his solution. Thus, I will only discuss a few examples that are essential to my analysis. As will appear in the next chapters, the passion redaction was occupied not only with the death of Jesus, but particularly with the blood of Jesus. This interest has a ritual dimension in that it adds (eucharistic) blood to the (baptismal) water, which was the central symbol of rebirth, salvation and eternal life in the predecessor gospel. Similarly, 1 Jn 5:6-8 emphasizes that Jesus Christ came through water and blood—not in the water alone but in the water and blood. Here we see the same rhetoric as I argue for the passion redactor in Jn 19:34. The similar rhetorical strategy points to a similar inner-group setting, where the “water” (baptism) indicated the earlier and by all members shared belief, while the (eucharistic) “blood” was an additional element that not all members of the Johannine group were ready to acknowledge. Certainly much more was at stake than two liquids, such as questions concerning sins (were the baptized members all sinless?) and the gift of the Spirit (was it only connected to baptism?). Is it possible to conclude whether the letter antedates the final Gospel or not? While von Wahlde’s arguments as such are not convincing,96 I concur with him that a process from a general statement to its narrative visualization is here more plausible than from a narrative to a dogmatic formulation.97 If the figure of the Beloved Disciple was meant to refer to the author of the letter, the reference is very effective: what the letter writer teaches succinctly and abstractly is visualized as a real event in the Gospel story, witnessed by the Beloved Disciple with his own eyes. Another comparison between the Gospel and 1 John can be made in their respective openings. Both Jn 1:1-18 and 1 Jn 1:1-4 describe “life” that was “in the beginning,” and that the authors have “seen.” There is a “testimony” in both openings (in the Gospel: the Baptist’s testimony 1:15). In both texts, there is an authorial “we” (cf. Jn 1:14-18), though only the letter writer mentions the

96. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:379-380, argues that the presbyter refers to the Spirit as a witness instead of a human witness, because he is the witness mentioned in the Gospel and does not want to mention himself. But surely the Spirit is the original element of the triad in such a dogmatic statement anyway. (Just replace “the Beloved Disciple” or “myself ” in the place of the Spirit to see the absurdity!) The whole idea in 1 Jn 5:7-8 is that the Spirit belongs together with the water and the blood—there is no gift of the Spirit without both of them, 1 John contends. 97. Cf. von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:380: “Rather, 19:34 is included by the author of the third edition as an affirmation within the narrative of the Gospel [emphasis in original] of what was expressed theologically in 1 John.”

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“touching” of the word of life.98 Probably both prologues reflect common tradition; but if there is a direct literary connection, it could well be that the letter advocates the prologue of the pre-passion gospel (see next chapter). The figure of the Paraclete in the farewell speeches and in 1 Jn 2:1 is often, with good reason, taken as proof for the primacy of the letter. The expression “another Paraclete” in 14:16 presupposes that Jesus is the “first” Paraclete, which seems to be “a reference back to 1 Jn 2:1.”99 The letter’s image of Jesus as Paraclete may even have suggested itself to the passion redactor who edited the first farewell speech because Jesus precisely in that speech and on that occasion acts as a Comforter-Paraclete before his departure. 1 John depicts Jesus the Paraclete as the heavenly ἱλασμός of sins (1 Jn 2:2). Precisely this kind of post-existent activity was not described in the Gospel, although the farewell speeches present the heavenly Jesus as the one who will prepare a place for the disciples (14:2) and will answer the prayers (14:13-14). As von Wahlde notes, the letter is rather unarmed in its polemic against the adversaries, because the author shares in principle the dissidents’ conception of the Spirit’s anointing (2:27: the dissidents would certainly agree). By binding the Paraclete’s teaching directly to Jesus (Jn 16:14), the freedom of the Spirit could be controlled better. However, in the first farewell speech, Jesus only promises “another Paraclete,” “the Spirit of truth,” which will be “in you” (14:16-17). I will argue (in Chapter 8) that the farewell tradition included the promise of “seeing” Jesus after his departure; for the passion redactor this promise suggested the postresurrection giving of the Spirit. In the second farewell in Jn 15–16 the Paraclete assumes some further spiritual functions. The “new” commandment of love in Jn 13:34 in its relation to 1 Jn 2:7-8 is another test case. Von Wahlde thinks that the final Gospel’s reference to a “new” commandment presupposes the dialectical discussion of 1 Jn 2:7-8, where it is first described as “not new” but “the old one” that was from the beginning and yet as “new” as it was now realized in the lives of Jesus and in the lives of the believers.100 This might, in principle, also be a relecture of the Gospel: the “new” commandment is now “old” (originating from the “beginning” of the community) because it needs implementation in a “new” situation. However, it may be argued that the need of mutual love, urged by 1 John, was subsequently elevated to a commandment of the Lord himself in the final Gospel. Since there are internal indications in the Gospel that the love commandment, together with the emphasis on Jesus’ words in general, belongs to a late redactional layer, I find this argument suggestive: the

98. There is a remote possibility that the “touching” reflects something like Jn 20:27, or conversely, that the “touching” in 1 John inspired the passion redactor at Jn 20:27. However, the words used in these texts are different, and it is Thomas who has the opportunity of touching the risen Jesus. 99. Thus Udo Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology in the Gospel of John: An Investigation of the Place of the Fourth Gospel in the Johannine School (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 59. 100. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:378-379.

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final Gospel redactor takes sides with the author of 1 John and legitimates his theological agenda through Jesus’ own words. 1 John is apocalyptically oriented, which seems to correspond to the future eschatology in some redactional insertions of the final Gospel.101 There is no antichrist in the Gospel, but otherwise it is difficult to determine whether the Gospel is more or rather less future oriented than the letter. However, if the most acute phase in the community’s schism was over by the time of the Gospel, this kind of rhetoric was obsolete. Finally, there is the question of the authority in the church. The letters—all of them—envisage no superior authority than the sender of the letters, while the Gospel gives Peter the task of being the shepherd of the sheep (21:17). This “ecumenical” view, which can be compared with 10:16; 11:52; 17:20-21, is not attested in 1 John. The difference could be due to the letter’s focus on internal affairs, yet I think the final Gospel’s wider perspective is symptomatic of a later situation. 1 John accepts the theological idea of Jesus’ vicarious death and treats it as exemplary: “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another” (1 Jn 3:16; cf. 4:10-11). There is also an emphasis on Jesus’ cleansing blood (1:7). In these respects the letter is on par with the soteriological outlook of the final Gospel. However, there is no reference either to the passion or resurrection of Jesus. It is simply assumed that Christ died for humankind’s sins and is now πρὸς τὸν πατέρα (2:1; cf. Jn 1:18). Hence it seems possible that the letter writer had not conceptualized the passion-resurrection pattern in the form of a detailed narrative. This coheres with the paraenesis of the letter, which is not based on the Pauline type of contrasting the believer’s former and new life (corresponding to Jesus’ death and resurrection, cf. Rom. 6:3-11) but focuses on the eternal life of those who are born of God. The sharp dualism of the letter permits in principle only two opposite groups of people, and the shift from the hostile world into God’s children is not thematized. There are some references to the crucial shift in the Christian life, but the shift is not so much temporal as it is spatial and even timeless: “We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death” (3:14). The dualistic imagery here corresponds to utterances such as Jn 3:19-21 or 12:46. In practice, however, the sender of 1 John is aware of refinements concerning the in-group, as he distinguishes between two kinds of sin (5:16-17). The thematic outlines of 1 John and the Gospel have sometimes been regarded as parallel, so that the first half of the letter touches on themes present in the first “book” of John (light, testimony, truth, etc.) while the second half of the letter corresponds to the latter “book” in elaborating on the theme of love.102 I do not see a real parallelism, because the love commandment is discussed in the letter as early as 2:7-11. However, from the viewpoint of the passion redaction hypothesis, the primacy of the letter would cohere well with the progressive redaction of the

101. However, I am not sure that all futuric statements come from the passion redaction. 102. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:1-20, referring to Feuillet and Brown.

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Gospel: the predecessor text had introduced the “light” theme and used it as a cantus firmus throughout the gospel (1:4-5, 7, 9; 8:12; 9:5; 11:9; 12:46), while the passion redaction stressed the love theme as an interpretation of Jesus’ death and as the basis for community paraenesis. In sum, three observations especially speak for a later date of the Gospel: 1 Jn 5:6-8 is more likely the basis for Jn 19:34 than vice versa, the role of Peter as the shepherd of the church seems not anticipated in 1 John, and the christological role of the Paraclete/Spirit in the Gospel seems a further development. A further—but unfortunately somewhat circular—argument for this order is that it makes most sense of the enigmatic character of the Beloved Disciple.103

103. What is not a circular argument, however, is that there is no reference to the Beloved Disciple in 1 John. (I owe this argument to Ismo Dunderberg.)

Chapter 3 IN THE BEGINNING: THE SCOPE OF THE JOHANNINE PROLOGUE

The question of the Johannine prologue’s relationship to the whole of the Gospel is a classic one.1 A customary, though not unchallenged, wisdom in Johannine scholarship is that the whole Gospel is envisaged in Jn 1:1-18. While many commentators leave the question of the prologue’s scope unsettled2 or suggest that the prologue in a rather unspecified manner introduces the Gospel proper,3 a more

1. Cf. the title of Adolf von Harnack, “Über das Verhältnis des Prologs des Vierten Evangeliums zum ganzen Werk,” ZTK 2 (1892), 189–231. Harnack’s main interest was in interpreting the Logos christology in terms of religion-historical influences and in relation to the Gospel’s christology at large. According to Harnack, the evangelist understood Jesus as the Messias and Son of God (p. 231) but found the traditional Logos hymn to be a suitable introduction to the Gospel for Hellenistic readers: “Der Prolog des Evangeliums ist nicht der Schlüssel zum Verständnis des Evangeliums, sondern er bereitet die hellenistischen Leser auf dieses vor” (p. 230). Thus, the prologue would seem something like a Fremdkörper. In recent research the prologue is seldom seen in this light although its special Logos terminology is noted. 2. Urban C. von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:17, thinks that the prologue “is best treated by itself, as a unique composition and literarily independent of the remainder of the Gospel.” Hermeneutically, von Wahlde (ibid.) suggests that “we must seek to understand the Prologue in the light of the our understanding of the remainder of the Gospel rather than first attempting to understand the Prologue and then using it as the interpretive key for the Gospel.” 3. Udo Schnelle, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (THKNT; Evangelische Verlagsanstalt: Leipzig, 1998), for example, stresses the general introductory function of the prologue: “Zuerst ist der Prolog ein Anfang” which has “eine einleitende Funktion” by introducing “zentrale Inthalte der folgenden Darstellung” (p. 30). The more general terms one employs to describe the prologue’s relation to the rest of the Gospel, the easier the issue appears. Lincoln, The Gospel According to Saint John, 93, finds that the prologue lends the subject matter of the Gospel “cosmic significance” and “takes up immediately what will be of primary importance in the rest of the story—the issue of Jesus’ identity in relation to that of God.” The question of Jesus’ divine identity is also Andreas Dettwiler’s key to understanding

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typical view is that “this prologue . . . is an overture in which the motifs—life and light, glory and truth—are heard that recur again and again throughout the Gospel.”4 In the same vein, but with a fuller list of thematic connections, another commentator asserts that “the prologue . . . introduces the main themes that are to appear throughout the Gospel.”5 Indeed, it has been suggested that the prologue is a carefully crafted “reading guide” for the whole Gospel.6 Another related question concerns the outline of the present Gospel. Scholars often speak of two Johannine “books,” famously dubbed by Raymond E. Brown the “Book of Signs” (Jn 1-12) and the “Book of Glory” (Jn 13-21).7 Unfortunately these designations are not really fitting. “The Book of Signs” catches one of the main themes in Jn 1-12 (cf. 2:11; 2:23; 4:45; 7:4; 12:37), but Andrew Lincoln is right to observe that this designation makes the specific signs too dominant and does not do enough justice to the speech material.8 Lincoln’s parenthetical title for the first part of John is “signs of glory,” which nicely connects two related themes in Jn 1-12 (cf. 2:11, 12:37, 41, 43). Lincoln also remarks that “the Book of Glory” for the second half of the Gospel does not sufficiently recognize that the signs themselves are manifestations of Jesus’ glory throughout the Gospel—and, I would add, particularly in the first “book.” It is possible to argue for other divisions, too; for instance, the farewell section in Jn 13–17 could well be treated as a main part, which means a tripartite structure. However, the problem of the outline is not really my subject matter. It signals a synchronic view of the final Gospel, while my thesis concerns the diachronic process resulting in the present text.9 At the same time, the popularity of the twofold division of the Gospel indicates that scholars are sensitive to the Johannine wound: the painful chasm between two conflicting images and stories of Jesus. As I will argue later, the redactional relecture relation

the relationship between the prologue and the Gospel; see his “Le prologue johannique (Jean 1,1-18)” in J-D. Kaestli, J. Zumstein, and J-M. Poffet, La communauté johannique et son histoire: la trajectoire de l’evangile de Jean aux deux premiers siècles (Genève: Labor et Fides, 1990), 185–203. 4. Wilbert F. Howard, Exegesis of the Gospel According to John, in IB VIII (New York and Nashville: Abingdon Cokesbury Press, 1952), 463–811; p. 463. 5. Colin G. Kruse, John (Tyndale New Testament Commentaries 4; Grand Rapids and Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 2003), 58. 6. Thus programmatically Michael Theobald, Die Fleischwerdung des Logos: Studien zum Verhältnis des Joahnnesprologs zum Corpus des Evangeliums und zu 1 Joh (NTAbh NF 20; Münster: Aschendorff, 1988). Theobald asks: “Will der Prolog eine Leseanweisung für das Ev sein?” (p. 295). His answer is affirmative (p. 493). 7. Brown, The Gospel According to John, 1: cxxxvii–cxliv. 8. Lincoln, The Gospel According to Saint John, 6. 9. For the difference between structural outline and redaction-critical description in my doctoral thesis, see Kari Syreeni, The Making of the Sermon on the Mount I: A Procedural Analysis of Matthew’s Redactoral Activity (AASF Diss.44; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1987), 40–41. 77–87.

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between the Johannine “books” might in some sense be articulated in terms of Jesus’ glory (1–12) and glorification (13–21), with the latter term implying a radical reinterpretation of Jesus’ glory. But any suggested outline falls short of depicting all aspects of the process through which the present Gospel emerged.

The Thesis: In the Beginning Was the Prologue My thesis is that Jn 1:1-1810 originally and ideationally introduced the main bulk of what is now included in Jn 1–12. I maintain that there is a thoroughgoing passion redaction of the Gospel, where the previous Gospel (of Jn 1–12) and not least the prologue have been reinterpreted so as to point to the passion and resurrection storyline. In other words, the prologue is “in the beginning” in a double sense: in the beginning of the present Gospel, but also in the tradition-history and redaction history of the Gospel. It is likely that the prologue, an elevated piece of tradition, had a separate Sitz im Leben in community tradition. The emphasis on Jesus’ revealed glory in the prologue and throughout Jn 1–12 (1:14, 2:11, etc., until 12:41, 43) shows that the prologue was not simply added afterward as an introduction but contributed to the thematic ideation of the work at an earlier stage. However, I do not propose that the prologue was the sole starting point for the ideation of the predecessor gospel.11 Rather, the basic story and its theological interpretation were developed side by side with the hymnic praise for the divine Logos. There are many highly sophisticated attempts to reconstruct the pre-gospel form of the prologue and its redaction, possibly by several hands, but I am quite content with the simple observation made by practically all commentators12 that vv. 6-9 and 15, which introduce John the Baptist, are interventions (by the pre-passion author) to adapt the material (somewhat clumsily) into its present context.13

10. I see no reason to limit the prologue to 1:1-14, as suggested by Jo-Ann Brant, John (Paideia Commentaries; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 26-27, 35. The Baptist’s testimony is clearly marked as beginning in v. 19: This is the testimony given by John. . .” The insertions in vv. 6-8.15 are only anticipations. 11. An early date of the prologue is also argued by Peter Hofrichter, Im Anfang war der “Johannesprolog”: Das urchristliche Logosbekenntnis—die Basis neutestamentlicher und gnostischer Theologie (Biblische Untersuchingen 17; Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1986). However, I cannot see how the prologue could be the beginning of gospel literature as a whole. 12. For one, James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (London: SCM Press, 1980), 239–47. In addition, Dunn cuts v. 13 from the hymn—I find this unnecessary, but if the verse is secondary, it comes in any way from the pre-passion author. 13. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 76, suggests that the Gospel once began with 1:6-7. See also Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor, 28. I see no need for such a hypothesis; the inserted vv. 6-7.15 are understandable as a means of tying the prologue and the Baptist’s

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In this chapter, I first discuss some representative interpretations of John’s Gospel and its prologue in order to point out what problems emerge when the whole Gospel is read into the prologue. In the second part, I present two linguistic analyses that seek to show that the prologue only introduces Jn 1–12. In conclusion, I will briefly summarize the consequences of the thesis for the literary evolution of John’s Gospel.

The Prologue as an Introduction to the Whole Gospel? In a seminal sociological interpretation of John’s Gospel, Wayne Meeks14 takes issue with Rudolf Bultmann’s religion-historical hypothesis concerning the origin of the Johannine picture of Jesus as the descending and ascending redeemer. Although Meeks does advance an alternative religion-historical hypothesis of the development from Johannine Logos christology to Valentinian mythology, the main focus of his study is on the dialectic between christology and social identity in the Johannine group: the high christological claims resulted in the group’s alienation from the Jewish society, which in turn triggered new christological motifs, so that there is “a continual, harmonic reinforcement between social experience and ideology.”15 However, Meeks detects a discrepancy on the ideological level, inasmuch as the group’s ideology does not include a mythological explanation for its own existence. While the Fourth Gospel “could be called an etiology of the Johannine group,”16 this etiology is not mastered mythically: “The Fourth Gospel is content to leave unanswered the question how there could exist in ‘this world’ some persons who, by some pre-established harmony, could respond to the Stranger from the world above and thus become, like him, men ‘not of this world.’ But that enigma cries out for some master myth to explain it.”17 The Valentinians provided such a myth. Meeks’s hypothesis is intriguing but, to my mind, suffers from the assumption that the Gospel does not explain how there could be, or rather become, a group of Johannine believers.18 In fact, it provides two rather different answers. The

testimony together. The “we” statements in vv. 14.16 similarly unite the prologue and the story proper and thus cooperate with the mention of the Baptist, as observed by Christina Hoegen-Rohls, Der nachösterliche Johannes: Die Abschiedsreden als hermeneutischer Schlüssel zum vierten Evangelium (WUNT 2/84; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1996), 266–67. 14. Wayne Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 91 (1972), 44–72. 15. Meeks, “Man from Heaven,” 71. 16. Ibid., 69. 17. Ibid., 71. 18. Of course, seen from a Valentinian point of view, the Johannine account could be regarded as insufficient, thus giving impetus to further speculation. Meeks (“Man from

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first answer is given right in the prologue in 1:12-13: those who received the Son/ Logos of God and believed in his name, were given the power/right (ἐξουσία) to become children of God. These people were born of God. What this means in practice is explained in ch. 3, where being born of God is expressed as being born from above, or more concretely, being born of water and spirit (3:5). Water and spirit most naturally refer to baptism, where the gift of the Spirit was received. In this light, the prologue appears to represent a relatively typical early Christian soteriology, not unlike that which we know from Paul’s letters or indeed from the letter of James, where salvation is produced by the implanted λόγος (1:21).19 The second answer is just hinted at in the first chapter (1:29, 36) and exposed more fully in the latter part of the Gospel, where the baptismal water is complemented with the blood of Jesus (19:34-35). Another debatable point is whether the prologue really highlights the descent/ ascent pattern. As Meeks remarks, the pattern is first introduced in 1:51. There and throughout the whole of Jn 1–12, the pattern is curiously connected, not to the Son or Logos of God, but to the Son of Man. I will soon return to this problem when discussing Adele Reinhartz’s interpretation, but I doubt that the explanation Meeks gives for the virtual absence of the ascent part of the pattern from the prologue is sufficient, namely, that “naturally more and more emphasis is placed on the ascent as the book progresses.”20 Instead, Meeks is right to observe that “the remarkable sentence in 13:1-5” indicates the dramatic turning point and “formally divides the gospel in half.” 21 Meeks also notes that the turning point marks a shift in emphasis: “If the ‘descent’ of the Son of Man, his ‘coming into the world,’ is construed in the early dialogues of John as the krisis of the world, the dramatic structure of the second half identifies the judgment rather with his ascent, his being ‘lifted up.’”22 What Meeks does not relate, however, is that ch. 13 is more than a formal divide and brings many more thematic shifts, which are not just different aspects of the same pattern. In an attractive narrative-critical study, Adele Reinhartz23 discerns in John three large-scale “tales”: the cosmological meta-tale, the historical primary tale,

Heaven,” 72) suggests tentatively this direction of influence by concluding against Bultmann that “it is at least as plausible that the Johannine christology helped to create some gnostic myths as that gnostic myths helped create the Johannine christology.” 19. Peter H. Davids, James (NIBC 15; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1983, 52) comments on Jas 1:18: “Regeneration language (which is very close to the Johannine tradition, for example, John 3:13, 1 John 3:9-10) and new creation language (which is closer to Paul, for example, 2 Cor. 5:17, Rom. 8:18-25) come together in this passage.” 20. Meeks, “Man from Heaven,” 62. 21. Ibid., 61. I think “remarkable” describes the opening sentence in John 13 better than the other than the other description that Meeks proposes, namely, “elegant.” 22. Ibid., 61. 23. Adele Reinhartz, The Word in the World: The Cosmological Tale in the Fourth Gospel (SBLMS 45; Georgia: Scholars Press, 1992).

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and the ecclesiological sub-tale.24 She contends that the cosmological tale of the sent (and returning) Son of God or of the descending and ascending Son of Man is the interpretative framework for the historical tale of Jesus’ earthly mission and for the tale of the Johannine community. The meta-tale would thus inform the reader about the right understanding of the story of Jesus and its contemporary significance for the community of believers. The critical question is just to what extent the prologue interprets the story that is actually told in the rest of the Gospel. In order to be a “meta-tale” for the whole Gospel, the prologue should embrace the whole narrative down to ch. 21. According to Reinhartz, the cosmological tale of the prologue unfolds in three phases.25 The first phase is the Word’s preexistence (1:1), partnership in God’s creation of the world (1:3) and continuing existence in some non-worldly realm after the world’s creation. The second phase is the Word’s entry into the world, which is anticipated by John the Baptist, who bears witness to the “light,” an alternate description of the “Word.” The entry is described explicitly in 1:9, and the subsequent verses (1:10-13) illustrate two possible reactions to the light, namely, rejection and acceptance, and indicate that a positive response of receiving and believing results in a transformation of the believers, so that they may become children of God (1:12). What about the third phase, the return of the divine Logos? Reinhartz continues: Verses 1:14-18 reinforce the idea of the Word’s entry into the world and its significance for humankind. . . . Finally, the Word’s departure from the world is implied in 1:18. This verse refers to the general purpose of the Word’s activity on the world, which is to make the Father known to the world. It also implies the Word’s departure from the world, by referring to the Son in the present tense as being close to (New RSV) or in the bosom of (RSV) the Father (εἰς τὸν κόλπον τοῦ πατρὸς).26

We need not here delve into the debate on precisely at what juncture the prologue displays the preexistent Logos’ entering and being active in the world, since in all cases the two first phases are certainly described in the prologue. The problem is that the departure of the divine Logos is, as Reinhartz admits, just “implied” in the very last verse. Whether even that much can be said is not obvious, since, as Reinhartz remarks, the last verse refers to the general purpose of the World in the world. Evidently the prologue does not focus on the departure of the Word, and it even seems that a fully developed descent/ascent pattern is lacking. Rather, the prologue focuses on the sending of the divine and preexistent Being into the world. Besides Jn 3:16, this sending pattern is found in Paul, for example, in Gal. 4:4-5: “But when the time had fully come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born

24. The same three tales are a structuring principle in Adele Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple: A Jewish Reading of the Gospel of John (New York: Continuum, 2001). 25. Reinhartz, The Word in the World, 17–18. 26. Ibid., 17.

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under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.” This formulation has, of course, some specifically Pauline emphases concerning the law, but on the whole it is in line with the Johannine prologue, where the divine Being’s coming into the world, or his earthly revelatory mission, inaugurates the new era: “For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ” (1:17). In Jn 8:34-36, the Pauline-type “liberation theology” is expressed with astounding clarity: “Truly, truly, I say to you, every one who commits sin is a slave to sin. The slave does not continue in the house for ever; the son continues forever. So if the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed.” The Son’s sending into the world and his mission in the world are, both in the prologue and in the main bulk of Jn 1–12, the moment of liberation. In contrast with Paul, however, it is not the death of the Son (who “died” to the law) that brings about the liberation. Rather, the liberation comes with “receiving” the Son, the revealer of God, which means “believing in his name” (1:12). It may be objected that Jn 8:34-36 speaks of a future event; but apart from the difficulty that Jesus in John 8 would then speak of a liberation that as yet, in the narrative world, is not available, there is the striking remark that the Son remains forever (ὁ υἱὸς μένει εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα, 8:35). It is certainly not emphasized here that the Son must depart, still less that he must die in order to fulfill his mission. Similarly, there is no hint in the prologue that the only Son’s departure is a necessary precondition for the believers to become children of God (1:11) or to partake of the fullness, grace (1:16), and truth (1:17). Admittedly, the prologue’s cosmological schema seems more developed than the sending pattern of Gal. 4:45, as it pays much more attention to the preexistent, creative activity of the One who came into the world. In this respect the prologue’s christology is on par with early deutero-Pauline innovations (e.g., Col. 1:15-20). It is striking in any case that so many Pauline motifs are found in the prologue (God’s sonship, faith in Jesus, grace not law, and the glory of Christ), together with some slightly later ideas of the Pauline school (the “fullness” of Christ, creation of the universe through him). All this does not render the prologue Pauline, but points to common roots in early Hellenistic Jewish and Christian thought, and possibly to some early Christian ideas that Paul was aware of but did not wholeheartedly embrace (cf. 1 Cor. 2:6-10). The closest synoptic counterpart to this two-phase christological pattern would be the ἦλθον (“I have come”) sayings, which are much more rudimentary (it is not indicated where Jesus has come from) and often polemically and antithetically accentuated (e.g., Mt. 10:34/ Lk. 12:51).27 In discussing the christological titles that carry on the cosmological tale, Reinhartz rightly observes that “the Son of God” or “the Son” appears most often in the context of the language of sending and agency, while the title “Son of Man”

27. See, however, Simon J. Gathercole, The Pre-existent Son: Recovering the Christologies of Matthew, Mark, and Luke (Grand Rapids and Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2006), 83–176, Gathercole argues extensively for the implied preexistence of Christ in the synoptic “I have come”—sayings.

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is firmly connected with the language of ascent and descent.28 Moreover, the Son of Man is the term for the one who does not remain forever (12:34-35). Well noticed, the Son of Man title does not appear in the prologue—a further indication that the prologue is attuned to describe, not a two-way movement from above down into the world and then back to heaven, nor a three-phase tale of a divine Being’s dwelling in heaven, coming into the world, and departing. Rather it seems that the prologue reflects a two-part scheme, where the preexistent and eternal Word is first described in his heavenly sphere and then as coming into the world, becoming a human being (1:14a) and showing his glory (1:14b) in the world. The effect of this event is that all good things from above—eternal life, light, sonship, grace, divine fullness, truth—now are within the reach for those who are willing to receive them through seeing and believing. The one who manifests himself also empowers the seers and believers to become “children of God” (1:12), “born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God” (1:13). To the extent that there is a three-part scheme in the prologue, the third part is not so much about the Word than it is about its offspring. In other words, the third phase is ecclesiological rather than christological. The final phase is not primarily about the departure or return of the Word, but about the begetting of new children of God and about the outpouring of fullness, grace, and truth. There is a chain of life, from the heavenly “begetting” of the life-giving Son to the birth of a new humankind. It is telling that Reinhartz quotes Jn 3:17-18 to illustrate the narrator’s point of view.29 Here, only the sending of the Son and its double impact on the world are in focus: those who believe are not condemned, those who do not believe are already condemned. With this focus, the two summary passages in John 12 are indeed the proper conclusion of the Gospel. This does not mean, however, that the prologue gives no further hint of how the story of the Son’s sending to “tabernacle” on earth would come to an end. That “the darkness did not overcome” the Light (1:5) implies that at the end of the story the Light still prevails. Nothing indicates that the darkness ever had a hold on Jesus, even for two or three days.

The Prologue as a Commentary on the Gospel? Another line of interpretation sees the prologue as secondary to the rest of the Gospel. To argue for this view, one refers to the prologue’s various linguistic and thematic connections with the rest of the Gospel. Mere lists of common themes30 are not conclusive, however. Unless the degree of commonality is assessed and

28. Reinhartz, The Word in the World, 30–35. 29. Ibid., 25. 30. Such as Kruse, John, 58. For another list, see Ed L. Miller, “The Johannine Origins of the Johannine Logos,” JBL 112 (1993), 445–57. Miller argues for the order Gospel proper—1 John—Prologue (p. 447).

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the direction of influence is analyzed thoroughly, there is a possibility that subtle changes in the use of common themes and secondary accommodation of secondary material into the language of the prologue are overlooked. In this respect, Michael Theobald’s detailed analysis of the prologue’s relationship to the rest of John and to 1 John31 is insensitive. Theobald aimed to show that the prologue belongs to the latest redactional layer in the Gospel. It is therefore crucial to his thesis that the prologue be shown to be a commentary on the Gospel, rather than vice versa.32 A hundred pages of comprehensive analysis of the thematic connections between the prologue and the rest of the Gospel are devoted to prove the case. Theobald does not consider the possibility that the prologue goes together with parts of the Gospel, while other parts are a relecture of the prologue. This option would naturally imply a redaction-critical sedimentation. At the same time, Theobald does appreciate a redaction-critical approach to John, as he assumes a three-stage developmental model and recognizes that the final redaction may have contributed much else besides the first chapter of the Gospel. The fact that ὁ λόγος of Jn 1:1 in the absolute, christological sense does not occur in the rest of the Gospel or in the letters is a challenge to any explanation for the prologue’s place in the Johannine Theologiegeschichte.33 Theobald argues that the pre-redactional “evangelist” prefers to speak of the Son (of God) and does not equal Jesus with God, which would render the Logos concept a later development.34 However, the prologue also describes Jesus as the (only) Son (of the Father) (1:14, 18). It is rather forced to make the Logos christology a later interpretative layer in the prologue. To the extent commentators distinguish redactional elements within the prologue (besides the insertion of the John the Baptist in vv. 6-8 and 15), it is quite usual to trace these elements toward the end of the prologue (1:14-18), where the Logos terminology shifts into the typically Johannine Father-Son imagery.35 Theobald then discusses the concept of life.36 Notably, all the connections he takes up are found in the first part of the Gospel. The concept of (eternal) life is very prominent in parts of Jn 1–12. Of the total number of occurrences of the word ζωή in the Gospel, 89 percent are found in Jn 1–12.37 These include, besides

31. See n. 6 above. 32. Theobald, Fleischwerdung, 294–300. 33. Miller, “The Johannine Origins of the Johannine Logos,” 452, argues that the Johannine Logos “is not a Christological title in the Fourth Gospel proper, but it is difficult not to feel it talking shape as such in the opening of verses of the First Epistle.” The thesis that the concept of Logos for Jesus is the result of a gradual development and theological reflection within the Johannine community has some undeniable plausibility, but it cannot replace wider tradition-historical discussion. 34. Theobald, Fleischwerdung, 302–03; see esp. footnotes 16 and 17. 35. For example, von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:1-2, takes vv. 6-9, 15, 17 as later additions to the traditional hymn. 36. Theobald, Fleischwerdung, 303–05. 37. Dettwiler, Gegenwart, 165 n. 206.

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the programmatic statement in the prologue (1:4), several pregnant formulations such as 6:45, 48; 8:12; 11:25. By contrast, in the farewell section the word occurs only three times, in what I would argue comes from an earlier tradition-historical stratum (14:6; 17:2, 3), and only once thereafter in the concluding statement of the Gospel (20:31). The light imagery of the prologue is even more clearly restricted to Jn 1–12. Theobald’s title “Das Offenbarungswort 8:12 und sein Echo in 9:4f; 11:9f; 12:35f(46)”38 speaks for itself. The fact is that after 12:46 the word φῶς is never used again in the Gospel. The disappearance of the light (cf. 12:35 and 13:30b) thus has a truly graphic representation in the Gospel. The prologue’s idea of the light’s coming into the word is also present in Jn 3:19 and 12:46, and Theobald puts much effort to proving that these are not interpretations of 1:9, but vice versa. For my purpose, it is sufficient to observe the close affinity between these verses, which suggests a thematic inclusio between 1:9 and 12:46—another indication that the prologue originally was meant to cover Jn 1–12. In discussing the reference to “God’s children” in 1:12, Theobald notes that the expression only recurs once in John, at 11:52. 39 He observes a slight difference between the two contexts, in that 1:12 speaks of becoming God’s children, while 11:52 takes the status of being God’s children for granted. However, there is also another, even more crucial difference: the prologue connects the becoming of God’s children to Jesus’ coming and being in the world (which made it possible to receive him and believe in his name, v. 12), while the latter context interprets Jesus’ death as the decisive event for his people.40 If the difference is interpreted in terms of redaction history, it is not obvious that the prologue should be regarded as a later development. The opposite conclusion is nearer at hand.41 Theobald’s analysis of the prologue’s concept of Jesus’ glory (δόξα)42 suffers from a partial negligence of the difference between glory and glorification in John. Clearly the concept of glory in 1:14 parallels 2:11 and 11:4, 40, but the verb glorify has a very intricate reference to Jesus’ death (e.g., 12:23, 28; 13:31)—and, in the very last chapter of the Gospel, to Peter’s death (21:19). While the δόξα of God,

38. Theobald, Fleischwerdung 305. 39. Ibid., 337–44. 40. Theobald argues that the expression ὑπὲρ τοῦ λαοῦ in Joh 11:50 is the Evangelist’s addition to a traditional passion story. Irrespective of the redaction-critical hypothesis, it is clear that the pericope 11:47-53 stresses the crucial effect of Jesus’ death—a theme not present in the prologue. 41. Theobald refers to Jn 3:3, 5, 7; 8:41-2, and “vielleicht” 20:17 as exposing the idea of becoming God’s children. The last reference is dubious, but John 3 and 8:41-42 are certainly relevant. Theobald’s conclusion is: “Es spricht manches dafür, dass 1,12 die Vorgaben des Corpus Evangelii unter besonderer Berücksichtigung von Joh 3 in eine prägnante proömiale Form gebracht hat” (p. 344). This may well be the case, but nota bene: John 3 argues for a rebirth through water and spirit. Nothing is said of the blood of Jesus. The prologue’s only reference to blood is a generic and strongly negative one (v. 13). 42. Theobald, Fleischwerdung, 356–71.

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manifested in the works of Jesus, was apparent to his disciples and others who believed in Jesus, the glorification of Jesus on the cross—the offering of his blood— was only testified by an anonymous witness, obviously the Beloved Disciple who first enters the scene in John 13. If we consider the likely line of development of the concept of glory/glorification, the odds are undoubtedly for the primacy of the concept we meet in the prologue: the specific idea of glorification through death emerged from the general idea of glory.43 In other words: Jesus’ glorification of God through death is a relecture of the prologue’s idea that Jesus manifested God’s glory through his miraculous works. Theobald does not discuss the role of the Beloved Disciple in John despite the remarkable parallelism between 1:18 and 13:23. In the prologue, Jesus the only God is depicted as being εἰς τὸν κόλπον τοῦ πατρός. In the last supper scene, the Beloved Disciple is said to recline ἐν τῷ κόλπῳ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ. As many commentators observe, there is a purposeful reference back to the prologue. But certainly there is no way of making 1:18 an interpretation of 13:23. Conversely, as I will show in the next chapter, there are many arguments for the view that 13:23 is a drastic relecture of the prologue.

The Prologue as an Introduction to Jn 1–12 While Theobald argued that Jn 12:44-50 was a later addition,44 Jerome H. Neyrey’s45 rhetorical analysis of John 12 finds that not only the two summaries in vv. 37-50 but the whole chapter is purposefully designed as a peroratio that concludes the literary whole that begins with the prologue. The two summaries recapitulate, respectively, the narrative and the argument of Jn 1–11, whereas the rest of ch. 12 fulfills other functions of a genuine conclusion by, for instance, recalling the main themes of the narrative (judgment, cf. 3:19-21 and 12:31, light, cf. 3:21 and 12:35b, walking in the darkness, cf. 3:20 and 12:35c) and by enumerating the chief characters of the story (the chief priests, the crowds, the original disciples) once

43. Martinus C. de Boer, “Johannine History and Johannine Theology: The Death of Jesus as the Exaltation and the Glorification of the Son of Man,” in G. van Belle (ed.), The Death of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (BETL 200; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2007), 293–326. De Boer argues that “this particular use of the language of glorification, viz., in connection with Jesus’ death, is probably a ‘secondary’ development” (p. 313). See further Margaret Pamment, “The Meaning of δόξα in the Fourth Gospel,” ZNW 74 (1983), 12–16. It is instructive, too, to observe how the idea of glorification through death becomes a martyrological concept in 21:19. 44. Theobald, Fleischwerdung, 326–29. Theobald concedes that this addition (“eine Sekundäre Redaktion,” p. 329) probably harks back to the prologue (p. 328), which is problematic in view of his overall thesis. 45. Jerome H. Neyrey, “In Conclusion . . . John 12 as a Rhetorical Peroratio,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 37 (2008), 101–13.

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more. Neyrey also deals with the second half the Gospel, concluding his analysis with the following suggestion:46 If John 1:1-18 is a prologue which finds its conclusion in John 12, then what about John 13:1-3 and a second conclusion? It would seem that John 20-21 would serve that rhetorical role, for all the major characters in John 13-19 return to the scene, such as the Beloved Disciple, Mary Magdalene and Peter.

This suggestion has some plausibility, but then it is intriguing that some of the characters that return in chs 20–21 only figure in the second “book.” The most prominent of these “new” characters is, of course, the Beloved Disciple. If we consider the observation made above that the characterization of this special disciple in 13:23 is a relecture of the prologue, it would appear that, in a sense, the whole of the latter part of John’s Gospel is a relecture of the first “book” of John.47 In another rhetorical analysis, Bruce W. Longenecker focuses on the transition from John 12 to 13.48 His suggestion is that Jn 12:20-36 and 12:37-50 together form a chain-link interlock, where the former part anticipates Jn 13–20(21) and the latter part looks back to Jn 1–12. This is not a chiastic structure (a-b/b’-a’) but a technique of linking greater sequences of text (A,B) by means of smaller units (a,b) in reverse order so as to produce an “interlock” at the textual boundary (A-b/a-B). This interpretation, suggested earlier by C. H. Talbert, is a priori quite plausible. There is no question but that Jn 12:30-36 anticipates the passion story, while 12:3750 sums up the main trust of 1-12. By and large, the end of John 12 thus functions as a kind of “interlock” that ties together, while at the same time separating, the main parts of the present Gospel. Before taking a closer look at Longenecker’s interpretation of John 12/13, we should notice the great variation of his other examples. Chain-link transition, according to him, is either “macro-level” or a “medial-level” structuring device, but no operative definition of these levels is provided. One of his New Testament examples has the whole of Luke’s Gospel (A) linked with the whole of Acts or at

46. Neyrey, “In Conclusion,” 112–13. 47. However, in his commentary on The Gospel of John (NCBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), Neyrey does not envisage such a redaction/relecture model. Thus, he comments on the prologue: “Most scholars plot the movement of the Logos in the prologue as a descent into the world from being ‘face to face’ with God, which is balanced with an ascent back to the heart of the Father. The formal repetition of this same pattern in 13:1-3 confirms the importance of this pattern” (pp. 46–47). In my opinion, this formal, rhetorical approach obscures the process of reinterpretation and the thematic and theological differences between the prologue and 13:1-3 (which Neyrey dubs a “second prologue,” p. 225). 48. Bruce W. Longenecker, Rhetoric at the Boundaries: The Art and Theology of New Testament Chain-Link Transitions (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2005), pp. 121–39, 153–64.

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least Acts 1:1-8:3 (B) through the anticipatory unit (b) Lk. 24:47-49(52-53) and the retrospective unit (a) Lk. 24:50—Acts 1:1-12. This is certainly a macro-level link, as it connects (while separating) the two volumes of Luke’s work.49 Longenecker also provides examples of more limited chain-link transitions, such as (A) 1 Cor. 8:4-6/8, (b) 8:7, (a) 8:8 and (B) 8:7/9-13. At Jn 12:47-50 he even discerns “a chain link within a chain link.”50 The chain-link structure seems flexible, as it can occur in both small and macro-scale compositional units.51 The other major Johannine chain-link interlock that Longenecker analyzes in detail is at (a) 14:30-31 and (b) 18:1-8, a link that he argues was eradicated when chs 15–17 were inserted into the farewell address. This in-depth approach is most welcome, but without sufficient discussion of proposed diachronic models of redaction there is a risk for over-simplification. Certainly there is a wide consensus that Jn 15–17 and 21 represent a late stage in the composition of John. However, whether just these insertions separate the final “edition” of John from the next-tofinal Gospel is a more complex matter. Turning to the John 12/13 interlock, Longenecker’s analysis also has a diachronic backup. He assumes, for the sake of the argument, John Painter’s three-stage compositional model to see if enough of the present chain-link interlock remains in the “first edition.” If a two-stage model were chosen, more of the present interlock would belong to the first edition. Since the interlock structure was essentially there even on Painter’s premises, it must have been there from the first edition. Longenecker’s strategy of building a fence around his interpretation is clever, but the safety margin does not protect the interlock against all reconstructions.52

49. A somewhat similar link is observable between Josephus’s two books Against Apion. However, the link between Josephus’s books is a simple technical device, whereas the Lukan interlock is complex both in regard with its narrative form and hermeneutical impact. Luke’s chain-link interlock consists of the repetition, with variation in detail, of one key event (the ascension of Jesus), or rather, a doubling of the whole resurrection-ascension interval. In Luke’s Gospel, the time span between the resurrection appearances and the ascension seems short. The teaching of the resurrected Jesus is mainly directed backward, by showing that his death, resurrection, and return to the glory were the fulfillment of the Scriptures. In the beginning of Acts, the time interval is forty days, during which Jesus taught his disciples about the kingdom of God. The resemblance of the interlocking sections has a uniting effect, while the considerable difference tends to separate the volumes into two distinct narratives that can be read on their own terms—though, of course, in close relation to each other. 50. Longenecker, Rhetoric at the Boundaries, 155. 51. This is of course confusing, because the number of chain-links will increase immensely if we consider lower-level textual structures; for practically every word and every clause in a coherent text has backward and forward connections. 52. For example, J. Becker, who works with a three-stage model, finds in his Semeia Source (a miracle source without passion narrative) nothing between the raising of Lazarus (11:1-44, 54) and the first summary passage (12:37-43). Wilkens, postulating two

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It is noteworthy that the new start at Jn 13:1-3 seems rather unconcerned to continue the terminology, themes, and chronology of ch. 12. Such observations are not fatal, because the interlocking effect is principally produced by the short inverted passages (b,a) between the larger units. More serious is that the terminology of the (b) passage Jn 12:20-36 does not unequivocally anticipate Jn 13–21 but, rather, rounds off the first “book.” In Jn 1–12, the reader is introduced to the figure of the Son of Man as early as 1:51, and subsequently more about his fate is revealed on several occasions. The crowds’ question, “Who is this Son of Man?” (12:34), is almost (save 13:31) the last occurrence of this designation in John. The question, it seems, is left unanswered. Whatever the reason for this silence,53 one of its effects is that the puzzling question is kept alive and is resolved through the passion-resurrection narrative. In this sense, but not otherwise, the image of the Son of Man might be argued to last until the final chapters of the Gospel. One of the prominent things attributed to the Son of Man in Jn 1–12 is that he will be “lifted up.” This terminology, which turns out to mean Jesus’ death on the cross and rising from the dead, as the reader will have learned at the latest at 12:32-34, also fades off in the latter part of the Gospel. Some terminological matches can be observed, however. The only time the Son of Man figures in the second part of John is at 13:31, where his glorification is at issue. The same term “to glorify” is used in 12:28, first in Jesus’ prayer to his Father, “Glorify thy name,” and then in the answer from heaven, “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.” One feasible interpretation of the double glorification is that the Father has glorified his name through Jesus’ ministry (the signs), and will glorify it again through Jesus’ departure (death and resurrection). Interestingly, this interpretation would most graphically mark the two-part structure of the Gospel. The glorification terminology recurs in 13:31 and then 17:1, where Jesus again prays: “Father, the hour has come; glorify thy Son that the Son may glorify thee.” This time no answer is heard, and is not needed either. The voice at 12:28 was for

main editions, has in the first edition (a Johannine Grundschrift, which included the passion narrative), the following sequence after the raising of Lazarus: Jn 11:55-57; 12:12-19; 12:37-41. Thus the whole of 12:20-36 would be absent from the first edition. Fortna’s Signs Gospel (a combined signs and passion narrative) contains after the last miracle stories the restoration of the temple (Jn 2:14-19) and the officials’ conspiracy (11:47-53). This leads directly to the summary passage 12:37-40. See Robert T. Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor: From Narrative Source to Present Gospel (London and New York: T&T Clark International, repr. 2004), 128–39. Markku Kotila includes in his Signs Source/Gospel after the raising of Lazarus an early version of the triumphal entry as well as Jn 12:12-13, 18-19, 37-40. See Kotila, Umstrittener Zeuge: Studien zur Stellung des Gesetzes in der johanneischen Theologiegeschichte (AASF Diss 48; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1988). These four reconstructions diverge, but in each of them the whole block of material in Jn 12:20-36 that constitutes the forward link in Longenecker’s interlocking structure is deemed secondary. 53. The simplest explanation is narrative-critical: the reader should begin to guess the answer by now and the narrative crowds would not understand anyhow.

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the crowds, but at 17:1 only the faithful disciples are involved. The correspondence between 12:28 and 17:1 seems purposeful, as it would appear to signal the second and decisive act of glorification (glorification through death). However, does 17:1 originally refer to Jesus’ death? Barnabas Lindars comments on the double glorification at 12:28 by referring to ch. 17: “God has glorified his name in that Jesus has ‘accomplished the work which thou gavest me to do’ (17:4). He will glorify it again in the final act which is just about to take place (cf. 17:5).”54 There is just a tiny disturbing detail, namely, that 17:4 implies that Jesus’ “work” is complete before or apart from his death. 17:4 and 17:5 do envisage a double glorification, but this consists of (a) the act of the Son’s glorifying the Father by accomplishing the work that the Father had sent him to do in the world (v. 4), and of (b) the act of the Father’s glorifying the Son after the completed work by giving the Son the glory he had before his earthly mission (v. 5). By contrast, in 12:28, the Father is the “glorifier” in both acts, first by sending the Son into the world and then by terminating his mission. The “work” (τὸ ἔργον) referred to in 17:4 seems to correspond to the one-day “work” of 5:17 and 11:9, according to which Jesus’ revelatory signs during his ministry constitute his mission. By contrast, 12:28 appears to envisage a two-part program where another work, or the completion of the work on earth, still lies ahead. Thus, Jn 12:28 not only anticipates the passion story, but reinterprets an earlier concept of Jesus’ mission in order to motivate the passion story. With these observations, we are approaching the conclusion that the forwardlooking elements in 12:30-36 come from a passion-oriented redaction, which reinterprets Jn 1–12 to match the latter half of the Gospel. In particular, the combined Son of Man//lifting up/glorification terminology gathers and “stabilizes” the various images for Jesus’ departure so as to point to the death-resurrection narrative. At this stage of composition, the chain-link interlock Longenecker sees at John 12 seems to provide a plausible description. The question is only: to what extent does it really unite the Gospel? The Lukan device of linking his two volumes by means of doubling, while altering, the narratives of Jesus’ resurrection appearances and ascension, has an ambivalent effect. While uniting, it also effectively separates the two volumes and indicates their raison d’être as self-contained albeit related narratives. The new piece of work should be a complete Gospel like its predecessors, while providing more by having a continuation.55 Hence the ambivalent effect of the interlock: the Gospel of Luke should be both a self-contained gospel in its own right and the first volume in a more comprehensive work. The interlocking effect of Jn 12:20-36 is not quite dissimilar from Luke’s double-edged ending. The effect of the assertion

54. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 432. 55. I am critical of all attempts to divorce the two volumes of Luke in the sense that they represent two distinct literary genres. In my opinion, Luke-Acts is ideationally a “gospel” in two volumes—an idea which of course extends the concept of gospel to its limits (or beyond).

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that “the hour has come” in Jn 12:23-27 is a case in point. It is clear that this assertion prepares for the second book of the Gospel, but it also rounds off the first book where, from 2:4 on, the reader is repeatedly reminded of the fact that “the hour” has not come yet.56 The ambivalent effect of the divide in John 12/13, then, corresponds to the duality of the passion redactor’s effort: on the one hand, the story of Jesus’ last evening with his disciples and his arrest, death, and resurrection are presented as a continuation of the story of his earthly mission as the life and light of humankind—yet it is a new story.

The Theological Provenance of the Prologue The tradition- and religion-historical origin of the Johannine prologue continues to be debated, and I have no intention to provide a definite solution to the problem. However, the thesis that Jn 1:1-18 belongs to the pre-passion stage of the Gospel of John suggests that the prologue’s thought-world coheres with the theological outlook of the pre-passion gospel. Although the prologue need not be a perfect summary of the community’s early message, the many thematic connections to the prologue in Jn 1–12 certainly suggest that the prologue is no Fremdkörper in this Johannine book. Mapping the theological provenance of the prologue may therefore give clues to understanding the pre-passion John. Seen in a larger early Christian perspective, the prologue’s reference to “the beginning”—and no doubt to the Genesis creation story—points to a protological interest. The prologue has been compared to such texts as the Trimorphic Protennoia (NHC XIII, 1)57 and the providence monologue in the Apocryphon of John,58 but the absence of advanced mythology rather commends a glance at the Gospel of Thomas. Elaine Pagels has taken a good look at the relationship between the prologue and Gos.Thom., and her analysis has the advantage of not

56. The theme of “the hour” is in itself curiously counteractive. It seems to function as an anticipatory passion-plot device in like manner as Mark’s passion-resurrection predictions, but actually it jeopardizes the very story narrated in Jn 1–12. At 2:4, Jesus seems to reject his mother’s request, yet immediately he fulfills her expectation. Still worse, the idea that Jesus would not act on that occasion because his hour has not come is imperceptible, as Ashton observes, for the simple reason that all the signs must necessarily be given before “the hour” comes—after that, there is no time for signs! See John Ashton, Studying John: Approaches to the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 141–65. To be sure, insomuch as the passion redactor thought that the real sign would be Jesus’ death and resurrection (cf. 2:1822), Jesus’ reply in 2:4 makes sense in the final Gospel. 57. Paul-Hubert Poitier, “The Trimorphic Protennoia (NHC XIII, 1) and the Johannine Prologue: A Reconsideration,” in Tuomas Rasimus (ed.) The Legacy of John (NovTSup 132; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2009), 93–104. 58. Michael Waldstein, “The Providence Monologue in the Apocryphon of John and the Johannine Prologue,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 3 (1995), 369–402.

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presupposing that John had read Thomas—even though I think we should be even more cautious in assessing John’s knowledge of Thomasine theology.59 Pagels is right to emphasize the differences between the two texts. I doubt, however, her conclusion that the prologue denies that the divine light has successfully manifested itself since the creation.60 The prologue does not seem to discredit the revelation through the Mosaic Law, although it was superseded by the greater grace brought about by the incarnate Logos/Son (1:16-17). The most telling difference between the prologue and Thomas is that the former applies the creation story in Genesis christologically, while Thomas takes an anthropological angle. The mention of the δόξα of the incarnated Logos in v. 14 is not just a recurrent theme in Jn 1–12. It also has an interesting parallel in 2 Cor. 3, where Paul compares the “glory” of Moses and Christ—in a way that closely reminds of the comparison between the law of Moses and Christ in the prologue (1:16).61 In this context (2 Cor. 3:17), Paul also equals Christ and the Spirit, and connects the Spirit with the idea of Christian freedom: ὁ δὲ κύριος τὸ πνεῦμά ἐστιν· οὗ δὲ τὸ πνεῦμα κυρίου, ἐλευθερία. The interest in the Spirit is well-attested in Jn 1–12, and as will be shown, it was one of the emphases the passion redactor was at pains to reinterpret in his new Gospel. The theme of liberty is also present in Jn 8:32 (ἡ ἀλήθεια ἐλευθερώσει ὑμᾶς).

59. Elaine H. Pagels, “Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,” JBL 118 (1999), 477–96. Pagels admits (p. 479): “We do not know, of course, whether or not John actually read the text we call the Gospel of Thomas, but comparison of the Johannine prologue with the above-mentioned cluster of Thomas sayings suggests that he knew—and thoroughly disagreed with—the type of exegesis offered in Thomas.” I am not convinced that the pre-passion or the final John was in a position to agree or disagree with Thomas, although I see a possible trajectory from Jn 1–12 to Thomas and a clear theological difference between the final Gospel of John and Thomas. I would also hesitate to speak of John’s or Thomas’s exegesis of Genesis 1, although both were influenced by the creation story. 60. The validity of Pagel’s conclusion (“Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,” 489) is implicitly refuted by Ruth B. Edwards, “XARIN ANTI XARITOS (John 1.16): Grace and the Law in the Johannine Prologue,” JSNT 32 (1988), 3–15. Edwards shows—rather convincingly, I think—that the cited expression in Jn 1:16 should be understood in the sense of a progressive movement: “The new grace is superior to the old . . . but the old covenant was still a gift of grace” (p. 8). This implies that the Law of Moses was a manifestation of God’s mercy, although the new revelation is better. Markku Kotila, in his Umstrittener Zeuge, argues that the Johannine attitude to the Mosaic Law became increasingly critical during the redaction history of the Gospel. Since I date the prologue as a whole to an early stage, it follows that I view its relation to the law as relatively positive. It is not quite clear, however, that this relatively positive view of the law (as prophetically pointing to Jesus) means that the prologue regards the law as a divine light. 61. It is probably right to see in Jn 1:14-18 a reference to the story of the giving of the law in Ex 33–34, a reference which is much clearer in 2 Cor. 3. See, for example, Lindars, The Gospel of John, 94–100; Anthony T. Hanson, “John 1:14-18 and Exodus 34,” NTS 23 (1977), 90–101.

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Despite these parallels, it is not necessary to assume that the pre-passion John was acquainted with Paul’s letters. The more probable option is that the early Johannine tradition had contacts with ideas that were present in some Pauline communities. As several commentators have assumed, Paul in 2 Cor. 3 is responding to ideas that were circulating in the Corinthian community. The prologue and the pre-passion John should therefore be compared with Paul’s traditions rather than Paul. The Christ hymn in Phil. 2:6-11 is another case in point, especially if we recognize that the reference to Christ’s death on the cross ([μέχρι θανάτου,] θανάτου δὲ σταυροῦ, v. 8) was not an original part of the hymn.62 The prologue also highlights the importance of wisdom traditions63 for the pre-passion John. While the precise sources of the prologue’s logos theology remain uncertain, it is beyond doubt that the creation story in Gen, and, in a larger perspective, the motif of God’s Wisdom as being involved in creating and sustaining the universe, are an essential background to the prologue’s presentation of the Logos/Son. The giving of the Torah, which is referred to in 1:17, also suits this wisdom background. An analysis of the pre-passion John will disclose further traces of wisdom theology. What is seldom noticed is the possibility that the motifs of begetting and sonship (vv. 12-13) may have wisdom connotations. While including the whole creation, the agenda of the prologue leans toward a dualistic view of humankind, as it divides people into fleshly humans and those born of God. If the Q people understood themselves as “children of wisdom” (Q 7:35) and Paul counted himself among the “matures” who speak “God’s wisdom, secret and hidden, which God decreed before the ages for our glory” (1 Cor. 2:6-7), the Johannine prologue also envisages of special group of people that are singled out from the rest of human beings. Such collective narcissism—I will return to this concept in the concluding chapter of the book—is of course not limited to the aforementioned groups. It is in the essence of strongly ideological groups, including early Christians, that one’s own people are the ones “in the know.” The interesting thing, however, is what kind of mythical elements are advanced to legitimate this specialness. As noted, Meeks was not quite accurate when claiming that the Gospel of John was in want of an explanation. It remains to be seen what more the pre-passion John has to say about the mystery of being begotten of God, and how Christ as the λόγος is involved in the making of God’s children. In this connection, the fact that Christ is called Word or Logos rather than Wisdom may prove important.

62. The contacts with Pauline traditions would be even more conspicuous if the humanshaped λόγος of the prologue were influenced by speculations on the original heavenly man (as in Philo), as suggested by Thomas H. Tobin, “The Prologue of John and Hellenistic Jewish Speculation,” CBQ 52 (1990), 252–69. However, there are no traces of an Adam typology in John (despite 2:25). 63. Dunn, Christology in the Making, 241, notes that “prior to v. 14 nothing has been said which would be strange to a Hellenistic Jew [emphasis in original] familiar with the Wisdom tradition or the sort of mystical philosophizing that we find in Philo.”

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The famous dictum, Καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο (1:14), should not be overinterpreted as conveying a doctrinal statement about “incarnation” and a refutation of a wrong “docetic” interpretation. Certainly, the juxtaposition of a divine, metaphysical λόγος and the mundane σάρξ is a rhetorically effective oxymoron or paradox. It does not follow, however, that the paradox indicates the precise nature of the “flesh” of Jesus. Schnackenburg was right in emphasizing that the σάρξ here does not mean the weak and sinful aspect of human beings. He was tempted to read a eucharistic nuance into the term in view of Jn 6:51, but stopped just short of claiming that this was really meant in the prologue; rather, the evangelist just recognized this nuance and exploited it in the Bread of life discourse.64 It is indeed possible that the passion redactor realized the connection, but it is not advisable to read his theology into the pre-passion gospel. If there is any hint of how the “flesh” should be understood in the context of the prologue, the best guide is what follows immediately. First, it is stated that the Logos “lived” or “tabernacled” among “us” (καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν). As many commentators notice, the expression reflects the idea of the divine Wisdom’s temporary dwelling on earth.65 Second, “we have seen his glory, the glory as of the Father’s only Son”66 reveals that there was something extraordinary about the Logos/Son in his earthly appearance. How this glory was seen is not specified in the prologue, but 2:11 suggests that it was apparent in the miraculous signs. Taken together, these hints do not suggest that the term σάρξ here has an antidocetic ring.67 Rather, the “incarnation” is depicted in nearly epiphanic terms, as an earthly manifestation of the divine Logos,68 although this by no means implies that his earthly dwelling was somehow illusory. Logos was once a human being,

64. Rudolf Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium (3 vols.; HTHNT IV; 5th edn; Freiburg-Basel-Wien: Herder, 1981), 1: 243: “Auch das ist fraglich, obi m Logoshymnus schon as das Sühnopfer, an das ‘Fleish für das Leben der Welt’ (6,51c) gedacht ist. Wahrscheinlich hört aber der Evangelist diesen Sinn schon mit, um ihn in der Lebensbrotrede herauszustellen; das in der Inkarnation vom Logos angenommene ’Fleisch ist die Voraussetzung für den blutigen Kreuzestod’ (vgl. Joh 19, 34; 1 Joh 5, 6).” 65. Thus also Schnackenburg, Das Johannesevangelium, 1: 244-245, referring to Sirach 24:8 and 1Enoch 42:1-2. The tabernacle allusion of course coheres with the temple motif in the pre-passion John, where the Spirit takes the place of the temple (4:20-24). The passion redactor went further by identifying the spiritual temple as Jesus himself (2:21). 66. Here I make an exception and render the alternative translation of the NRSV. 67. Cf. John Ashton, Studying John, 30: “Again, while the σὰρξ ἐγένετο, taken in isolation, might conceivably be thought to be protesting against a docetic interpretation of the Gospel, much in the manner of the opening of 1 John, it is hard to deny that the second half of the verse rounds off the Wisdom theme with a deliberate allusion (in the use of σκηνοῦν) to Sir 24.” However, the question is whether the opening of 1 John is precisely antidocetic. 68. Certainly the phrase ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο need not be understood in the sense that Logos was changed or transformed into flesh. See Klaus Berger, “‘Das Wort ward Fleisch’ (Joh. 1:14a),” NovT 16 (1974), 161–66.

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Jesus. How he was before or after his earthly mission—did he already have and does he continue to have a human shape?—cannot be gleaned from the prologue, and such metaphysical speculations seem alien to the pre-passion John as well.69 However, the readers and interpreters of that gospel, on both sides of the emergent schism, may have sought to provide answers.

1 John 1:1-4 and the Gospel Prologue My hypothesis about the order of the Johannine writings is that the letters were written between the predecessor gospel and the final John. Since I have reached the conclusion that the predecessor work already included the prologue, the possibility is in principle given that 1 Jn 1:1-4 is dependent on Jn 1:1-18. I am not fully confident that this is the case, because both texts may plausibly draw on community tradition.70 If, however, the letter writer was purposefully advocating the prologue of the predecessor gospel, Brown’s suggestion that the reference is “done in order to refute adversaries who are distorting the meaning of the GJohn Prologue”71 needs to be reconsidered. Although the affinity between 1 John and the Gospel cannot escape any Johannine scholar, it seems that the substantial parallelism is often understated while the differences are overstated. Thus, it has been denied that the “beginning” (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς) in the letter opening has anything to do with creation,72 which is a main theme in the Gospel prologue. There is indeed a difference in that only the Gospel prologue underlines the mediating role of the Logos in the creation. At the same time, both texts express the idea of Jesus’ preexistence, and neither the Gospel nor the letter finds much use for the image of the Logos as cosmic creator. The important thing in both texts is Jesus’ or the Logos’ primordial, eternal origin πρὸς τὸν πατέρα (1 Jn 1:2), πρὸς τὸν θεόν and εἰς τὸν κόλπον τοῦ πατρός (Jn 1:1, 18). While the “beginning” in the letter seems to be primarily the manifestation of the Word of Life, to which the community bears witness, the reference to the heavenly origin shows that the primordial “beginning” is also involved: the witness concerns the manifestation on earth of the eternal Word.73

69. The pre-passion gospel emphasizes the pneumatic quality of Jesus, but it is futile to try to pinpoint the precise meaning of, say, Jn 8:58 (who is this “I”—Logos, Jesus, God?). Some questions are better left unasked. 70. Sproston North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition, 31–34. 71. Brown, The Epistles of John, 178. 72. According to Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology, 53–54, the phrase “describes the whole saving event, including the incarnation, public activity, death, and resurrection of Jesus . . . without even the slightest reference to the creation.” However, the letter does not mention Jesus’ resurrection, so the precise manner of the vindication of Jesus’ death remains conjectural. 73. See von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:29-31.

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Another major difference, it is often emphasized, is that the letter opening does not speak of Jesus as the Logos, but describes the message or proclamation of life (περὶ τοῦ λόγου τῆς ζωῆς, v. 1) and the manifestation of life (καὶ ἡ ζωὴ ἐφανερώθη, v. 2). Also, what the community “has heard, seen and touched” is formally described as a “thing” (the neuter ὅ, “that which,” is used four times in v. 1) rather than as a person. However, what the community has experienced according to this graphic description cannot have been an abstract entity but a person—namely, Jesus Christ. This is precisely what the climax of this long period spells out (v. 3). It is not altogether implausible, as many commentators suggest, that the peculiar mode of expression—“the word of life”—was an earlier Johannine construct and that the Gospel prologue’s unambiguous christological Logos was a further development.74 However, I would deem it more probable that already the presbyter was aware of the notion that Jesus himself is the Logos. Whether or not the presbyter’s tradition also embraced the idea of the creation activity of the Logos is another matter. The reason why the presbyter expressed the notion of Jesus as the Logos in his peculiar way might be sought in his rhetorical purpose. The epistle is polemical against what he considered false teaching, or positively, it is an attempt to persuade the recipients that its message was the original and true one. At the same time, the letter writer tried to base his argument on the common tradition to show that he did not teach anything new, and here the logos tradition served his purpose. Eternal life was certainly a topic the dissidents, too, found congenial; as I will argue (in Chapter 7), the overarching image of Jesus in the predecessor gospel was that of a Life-giver. The presbyter then stresses that his message is precisely about eternal life. The agreement continues in vv. 5-7ab; the theme of light is another central element in the prologue and throughout in Jn 1–12. After that, however, the presbyter can no longer conceal the point of disagreement: Jesus’ blood, which implicates his death and the believers’ need to confess their sins. As far as the logos tradition is concerned, the dissidents would have been right to protest. This teaching was not there from the beginning.

74. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:31, thinks that the letter’s expression may have been “the catalyst for the full development of the notion of the Logos, as it will appear in the Prologue of the Gospel.” Cf. also Sproston North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition, 163.

Chapter 4 THE BELOVED DISCIPLE: LEGITIMATING THE PASSION STORY

The best guide to the concerns and techniques of the passion redaction of John is the Beloved Disciple. Those scholars who trace subsequent layers of editing typically regard this character as a latecomer.1 This enigmatic figure takes pride of place in the second ending of the Gospel, where he is the last character mentioned and pointed out as the writer of the whole Gospel (21:24). A comparison with the Markan and Matthean storyline shows that the Beloved Disciple is introduced in contexts where their story runs quite smoothly without his presence. It is curious, too, that no words of his are recorded. He is silent, seeing but not speaking until he in the last appearance scene recognizes Jesus: “It is the Lord” (21:7). Most peculiarly, he has no name. He has all the qualities of a pasted character. Why is this special character needed—and why is he needed precisely in the passion story? In fact the answer is given with the question. He is first and foremost a passion witness, having “a front-row seat to the key events of Jesus’ last hours.”2 This obvious conclusion has escaped many commentators who rather fancy about the identity of the Beloved Disciple—John the son of Zebedee, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Nathanael, John Mark, Paul, Judas!—without respecting the purposeful anonymity

1. One of von Wahlde’s criteria for the final, third edition is the Beloved Disciple: “In the third edition, the figure of the Beloved Disciple appears. He does not appear in the earlier editions” (The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:328). Jürgen Becker, Das Evangelium nach Johannes, 2:436, opts for the “church redactor” who finalized the “Evangelist’s” work and was especially active in Jn 13–21. Joachim Kügler, Der Junger, den Jesus liebte: Literarische, theologische und hisrtorische Untersuchungen zu einer Schlüsselgestalt johanneischer Theologie und Geschichte (SBB 16; Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988), 434, concludes: “Die Lieblingsjüngertexte sind nicht nur alle in ihrem Kontext sekundär, sie sind auch alle Produkt der Endredaktion [emphasis in original].” However, in much mainstream and conservative scholarship the Beloved Disciple is still taken as a genuine eyewitness. R. Alan Culpepper, The Johannine School (SBL Diss. 26; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1975), 266, assigns the character to the “Evangelist” with the exception of 21:18-25, which comes from the “redactor.” 2. Jason S. Sturdevant, The Adaptable Jesus of the Fourth Gospel: The Pedagogy of the Logos (NovTSup 162; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2015), 192.

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of this character. The last thing we should do is write his biography.3 This is not to say that there is no historical reference behind the character. But before trying to solve the mystery, we must see how the character works in the passion story and relates to other characters in the story.

A Dormant Witness? (1:35-51) The Beloved Disciple barely figures in the first book of John (chs 1–12). He only enters the scene at the last supper, where he is explicitly introduced (13:23). However, not a few scholars see a glimpse of this character as early as John 1, identifying him as one of Jesus’ first disciples. If the Beloved Disciple is a passion witness, as I argue, the simplest solution is to declare the anonymous disciple of John 1 as “sachlich und theologisch uninteressant.”4 But that may be too easy a solution. Although I suspect it is a false recognition to see the Johannine special character here, it is a useful one, because Jn 1:35-51 may have suggested some of the ideational elements that the Johannine passion redactor utilized in the portrayal of the Beloved Disciple. Jn 1:35-40 narrates how two disciples of John the Baptist began to follow their new master. One of these first disciples is Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, while the other remains anonymous—is he the Beloved Disciple? Neirynck has discussed the problem in great detail, and his conclusion is negative.5 Basically I come to the same conclusion, but some observations call for attention. First, Jn 21:2 uses a somewhat similar “blank strategy” for providing space for the anonymous Beloved Disciple. After the naming of five disciples, the narrator adds: “and two others of his disciples.” It is also noteworthy that the special character is referred to as “another/ the other disciple” in 18:15-16. Second, there are indications that the late redactor was alert in the narrative of the calling of the first disciples. John the Baptist’s words about the “Lamb of God” in 1:29, 36 are loose and unexplained in the context and seem therefore secondary, but at the same time, the Baptist’s passion testimony is vital in the narrative as it motivates why his disciples began to follow Jesus, v. 37: “The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus.”6 It is therefore feasible that the passion redactor thought that the Baptist’s testimony made them, as it were, passion witnesses in advance—a role later

3. Becker, Das Evangelium nach Johannes, 2:435, remarks that the identification of the Beloved Disciple as Lazarus, and by implication other similar hypotheses, “nur den Wert einer modernen biographischen Legende hat.” 4. Thorwald Lorenzen, Der Lieblingsjünger im Johannesevangelium: eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Studie (SBS 55; Stuttgart: KBW Verlag, 1971), 45. 5. Frans Neirynck, “The Anonymous Disciple in John 1,” in his Evangelica II: Collected Essays (Leuven: Peeters, 1991), 617–49. 6. Well noticed by Olsson, Structure and Meaning in the Fourth Gospel, 106.

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designed especially to the Beloved Disciple.7 A redactor who was so concerned with introducing the passion storyline at this early point of the narrative may well have observed the blank space in the calling story even if he had not created it.8 Thus, a close reading of John 1 may have given the passion redactor a technical clue to the introduction of the Beloved Disciple: he is “another disciple” with no name.9 A further contributing factor to the ideation may have been the idea that he and Peter should form a “pair” of disciples, as the first disciples were called as “pairs.” Catchpole finds that the suggestion concerning the anonymous disciple in 1:3540 “has very little to commend it.”10 However, he argues that the Beloved Disciple is indeed introduced in John 1: he is Nathanael, a true Israelite (1:45-50). Certainly this suggestion has even less to commend it, for if the name and identity of the character was no secret, it becomes very difficult to understand the circumlocutory expressions in Jn 13–21. In the best of cases, Catchpole may have captured a further tiny bit of the ideation of the passion redactor. It is interesting that Nathanael is mentioned in ch. 21, where his hometown Cana is mentioned (v. 2).11 This is one of several indications that the writer of John 21, rounding off the final Gospel by means of a thematic inclusio, is looking back to the beginning of Jesus’ mission: the calling of the first disciples (1:35-51) and the first sign in Cana (2:1-11). Something of the role assigned to Nathanael in the early story, perhaps his confession (1:49)

7. Obviously it is not a long step from this interpretation in terms of relecture to Bauckham’s suggestion that the Beloved Disciple is really introduced here as a passion witness. See Richard Bauckham, “The Beloved Disciple as Ideal Author,” JSNT 49 (1993), 21–44; p. 37. Yet I would not take the step; the redactor had already achieved his goal with the insertions in 1:29, 36. 8. For various interpolation hypotheses concerning parts or the whole of Jn 1:43, see Neirynck, “The Anonymous Disciple in John 1,” 619–24. The simplest and most attractive hypothesis is Boismard’s 1963 proposal that v. 43 in its entirety comes from a later hand. Why I hesitate to endorse this hypothesis is that the operation seems still a bit too complex in relation to the redactor’s disinterest to “activate” the character before ch. 13. 9. The influence of 1:35-39 on the ideation of the figure of the Beloved Disciple is also considered a possibility by Robert Tomson Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor: From Narrative Source to Present Gospel (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2004; originally 1989), 162 n. 365. Fortna comments on Jn 18: 15: “But more likely the nameless figure is a traditional detail as in 1:35-39, possibly understood by 4E subsequently as the beloved disciple (or even used as the basis for her or his creation of this figure) [emphasis mine].” 10. David Catchpole, “The Beloved Disciple and Nathanael,” in Christopher Rowland and Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis (eds.), Understanding, Studying and Reading: New Testament Essays in Honour of John Ashton (JSNTSup 153; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 69–92; p. 68. 11. It may well be that the passion redactor invented Nathanael’s hometown in 21:2 in order to remind the readers of the beginning of the Gospel.

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that preceded Peter’s (6:69)12 or his connection to the Cana sign, just might have inspired the redactor as he reread the story of the early ministry of Jesus. An interesting argument for the Beloved Disciple’s presence in 1:35-40 is that the terms “following,” “turning,” “seeing,” and “abiding” recur at 21:20-23, where the story of this character is brought to an end.13 However, if the recurrent vocabulary is not incidental as it may well be, the probability is that the passion redactor, once again, evokes images from the beginning of the story in order to create a loose inclusion: the calling of the disciples is now in a sense repeated, but accentuated more in the direction of sending and mission. The vocabulary is not identical, however, and the parallelism is rather superficial. In 1:38 Jesus “turns” (στραφείς), while 21:20 has Peter “turn around” (ἐπιστραφείς), and the “staying” (ἔμειναν) overnight in 1:39 can hardly be compared to the idea of the Beloved Disciple’s “abiding” (μένειν) until Jesus’ coming in 21:22. All things considered, there is a faint possibility that the redactor was engaging in a deliberate hide-and-seek game in 1:35-51, and a greater possibility that the redactor observed an intriguing gap in the predecessor gospel. What is perfectly certain is that the Beloved Disciple is not needed in the subsequent story of Jesus’ public ministry. He is not needed as a special witness to the miracles, the “signs” of Jesus. John 2:11, for example, refers to the (unspecified) disciples as those who believed in Jesus because of his sign. There was no need for a privileged character to “see and believe” such things, as the Beloved Disciple did in 20:8. Peter is good enough to articulate the christological confession in 6:69. The raising of Lazarus is witnessed by the disciples, Martha, Mary, and a crowd of Jews. The revelatory discourses in Jn 1–12 are not addressed to the Beloved Disciple, and so on. Until the eve of Jesus’ arrest, the Beloved Disciple is at best a dormant witness.14

The Birth of the Character (13:23-30) The overloaded and repetitive verses in the beginning of the second “book” of John signal a decisive new turn and introduce some remarkable new ideas. Never before (in chs 1–12) had the narrator spoken of Jesus’ love “for his own who were

12. However, even Andrew confessed Jesus as the Christ (1:41) before Peter (and Nathanael). 13. Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 391–92. 14. Brown, who finds the Beloved Disciple in ch. 1, explains that this character was “not yet” called by that name, because at that time he did not understand Jesus fully. This is speculative psychology, but Brown’s further remark is insightful: “I think it no accident that the Beloved Disciple makes his appearance by name only ‘in the hour’ (13:1). . . . He achieved his identity in a christological context.” Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 33.

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in the world.”15 Rather than explaining the new theme, the narrator takes it for granted, adding that Jesus loved them “to the end.” The theme of love ties together the beginning and the end of the farewell section (cf. 17:11, 26), while “to the end” anticipates Jesus’ death. The forward-looking interest is also evident in 13:2, where the last supper is mentioned in passing without any preparation. Judas Iscariot’s decision to betray Jesus is anticipated (cf. 13:27) in a seemingly clumsy way.16 The mention of “one of the disciples, whom Jesus loved” (13:23) comes then as a further surprise to the reader of Jn 1–12. Neither naming him nor explaining why Jesus loved him, the narrator reports that the disciple was lying in Jesus’ “bosom.” The subsequent remark in v. 25 that this disciple was lying “thus, close to the breast of Jesus” stresses again Jesus’ intimate relation to the Beloved Disciple. However, the imagery of “bosom” implies more. As many commentators since Origen have observed, there is a reference back to the prologue, where Jesus was described as being “in the bosom of the Father” (1:18).17 The meaning of this juxtaposition is relatively easy to approximate, but the precise theological nuances are more difficult to assess. Barrett comments that “the specifically favoured disciple is represented as standing in the same relation to Christ as Christ to the Father.”18 Catchpole speaks of a “chain of revelation” which stretches from Father to Son and from Son to the Beloved Disciple.19 Dunderberg, in turn, speaks of a “chain of tradition” and a “hierarchy of revelation.”20 All these descriptions certainly get the main idea but are inaccurate in detail. Of course, the favored disciple has not precisely the same relation to Jesus as Jesus has to his Father: the Son and Logos of the prologue is, somehow, God (1:1: καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος).21 Such intimacy cannot be assumed between Jesus and the Beloved Disciple. The Disciple is just a mortal human being. Also, the “chain” terminology is partly misleading, because the Beloved Disciple does not mediate revelation, while the Son does not mediate tradition. But these are minor points and only exemplify the problem of

15. The only people Jesus is said to love in Jn 1–12 are Lazarus and his sisters (11:3, 5). Since the passion redactor has shaped the Lazarus story considerably in order to anticipate Jesus’ death and resurrection, it is probable that the theme of Jesus’ love was either introduced or accentuated by him (at least v. 5 comes from his hand). The theme of Jesus’ love in the Lazarus story makes 13:1 less abrupt, but now the object of love is much more general: Jesus’ “own” people, that is, the disciples and through them all later believers “in the world.” 16. Such clumsiness is not alien to the passion redaction. Cf. 11:2. 17. See, for example, Ismo Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” in Ismo Dunderberg, Christopher Tuckett and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity, 243–69; p. 257. 18. Barrett, The Gospel according to St. John, 446. 19. Catchpole, “The Beloved Disciple,” 76. 20. Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” 257–58. 21. I will not discuss the precise import of this clause, how the unarthrous θεός should be understood, and so forth. But obviously the Logos/Son is “somehow” God.

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systematizing a theological thought-world beyond its limits. What we have here is a suggestive narrative metaphor, a juxtaposition of the prologue’s imagery and the image of Beloved Disciple. Here again, we do well not asking just what the Johannine idea is but how it came into being. Granted that 1:18 and 13:23 are purposefully linked through the “bosom” imagery, should we assume that the same author or redactor designed the link from the first, knowing that the prologue’s movement would be completed with the appearance of the Beloved Disciple? Surely not! The juxtaposition in John 13 is the result of a drastic relecture of the prologue. According to 1:18, the incarnate only begotten God/Son who “is”—essentially and apart from his earthly mission—“in the bosom of the Father,” has revealed or made known (ἐξηγήσατο) this invisible God. The reader of the prologue will certainly not expect to find another figure “in the bosom” of Jesus. The connection works backward and is only possible to detect after the introduction of the anonymous disciple in ch. 13. The “chain” or “hierarchy” that interpreters see here is the effect of this relecture. The prologue in itself does not suggest it. True, the prologue pictures (1) an offspring or family chain: from the unseen Father to his incarnate and manifested Son and further to those who believe in his name and are empowered to become children of God. But this chain of life (cf. 1:4) is complete in itself, continuing of course in the begetting of new generations of believers. There is no need for a mediator or an interpreter of the Son. In addition (2), there is the function of testimony, but the one who bears witness is John the Baptist (v. 6). The testimony of this God-sent man is partly eyewitness testimony (1:32-34) and partly prophetical (1:6-8, 23, 25-27) pointing to Jesus, but otherwise there is no need for a particular eyewitness. In place of an individual witness, there are the “we” who have beheld the Son’s glory and acknowledge the grace they have received. Finally (3), there is the function or authentic interpretation, but it is only the Son who has made God known (v. 18). There is no hint that the Son’s “exegesis” of God should need any complement, still less that the Son himself should be “exegeted.” Thus, the idea that a single disciple of Jesus should be his descendant, witness, or interpreter, is totally foreign to the prologue. The duplication of the “bosom” imagery is in fact an anomaly. How should we imagine another being in the “bosom” of the Son who is in the “bosom” of God? But then again, the whole setting of John 13 is unimaginable in light of the prologue. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (1:5). In the farewell scene, however, the night has fallen (13:30). The Life and Light of the world is preparing his disciples for his death. The situation is dramatically new, and Jn 13:23 is an equally dramatic reinterpretation of the prologue. One more difference vis-à-vis the prologue should be noted. While the “bosom” image of the prologue is a timeless still picture, embracing both the primordial and the final union of Father and Son, the recycled image in 13:23 involves a movement. The Beloved Disciple is initially with Jesus, in his “bosom” and thus figuratively in a state of becoming. This is the moment of his birth, his coming into the story, and symbolically, into the “world”—the world Jesus is about to leave. In this way, the Beloved Disciple represents all of Jesus’ loved ones “in the world” (13:2). As he emerges from the “bosom” of Jesus, he will simultaneously be a reminder and a

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token of Jesus after his departure. The chain of life in the prologue has turned into life from death: Jesus goes away, the Beloved Disciple is born. Apart from the deep symbolism, the Beloved Disciple has here more narrowly defined narrative functions. Lying closest to Jesus, the Beloved Disciple observes how Jesus extends the morsel to Judas. He is the only disciple to hear Jesus’ direct answer to the question about the traitor. Unlike the rest of Jesus’ company, he knows what is happening. However, he is not presented as a more understanding character, and he does not receive a secret revelation. He is only privileged to see and hear more so that he knows who the betrayer is. Or perhaps his most crucial task is simply to ascertain that all this really happened?22 Be it as it may, we see that he is introduced precisely when a reliable witness is needed to confirm the crucial event that sparked off the passion story proper: the reaching of the morsel to Judas, with the ensuing entering of Satan into him.23 As Haenchen has remarked, the whole scene at the last supper is artificial.24 The introduction of the Beloved Disciple contributes to its implausibility as a historical report. Even without a side-glance at Mark (14:17-21), it is evident that this new character is forced into the narrative.25 If an individual disciple would be needed to hear and see better than the others, then Peter—who in John already received a lesson in 13:6-10—might have been the natural candidate. In the present narrative, however, Peter has to ask the Beloved Disciple to ask Jesus about the traitor (13:24). This seems a pointless detour, but when the story proceeds, the reader will notice an unmistakable pattern. Peter and the other Disciple go together, but the latter is always nearer Jesus, better informed, more understanding, ahead of Peter—and remains always the one Jesus loves.26

22. Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” 260, points out that according to 13:28 the Beloved Disciple seems to be as ignorant as the rest of the disciples and that the disciples only understood Jesus after his resurrection. As I see it, this impression is the result of the passion redactor’s contradictory emphases. He presented the Beloved Disciple as an observant witness; yet he was forced to legitimate the passion storyline through the notion that the disciples did not at first understand Jesus’ passion. A similar clash of ideas is seemingly present in 20:8-9, but there the divergent emphases probably serve a unified purpose (see below). 23. To be precise, it is the omniscient narrator who informs the reader that the Devil entered into Judas; the Beloved Disciple could, of course, not really observe that. Yet the narrator has described very graphically the piece of bread that Jesus dipped in the dish and gave to Judas (13:26, 30a). 24. Ernst Haenchen, Johannesevangelium: Ein Kommentar (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980), 463 (“die ganze Szene ist von A bis Z künstlich”). 25. At least vv. 28-29 are an insertion into an oral rendering of Mark/Matthew, but the editing of the source is not limited to these verses. See Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (trans. G. R. Beasley-Murray; Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), 480. 26. Similarly von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:612: “Thus, Peter is immediately shown to be inferior to the BD in title, in position at table, in knowledge, and in access to Jesus.”

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The Faithful Follower (18:15-18) The Beloved Disciple is invisible in the farewell scene after the incident with Judas Iscariot, while other disciples are mentioned. Peter is in dialogue with Jesus once more after Judas has gone (13:36-38). Thomas, Philip, and the other Judas ask Jesus questions that are integral to the flow of thought in the first farewell address. In the second farewell speech (Jn 15–17), no individual disciples are mentioned. The silence of the Beloved Disciple in both the first and the second farewell speech shows that he is a character in the passion story rather than a receiver of Jesus’ farewell teaching. Of course, the final redactor allowed that this disciple, too, listened to Jesus’ farewell, but that was just a side-effect of the composition. Rather than receiving a private revelation or hearing secret words from Jesus, he observes what happened to Jesus. Many commentators see a close affinity between the Beloved Disciple and the Paraclete. However, since the Paraclete figures precisely and solely in the farewell speeches, we can assume that the two figures have different tradition- and redaction-historical origins. This is not to say that there is no parallelism between the two, but originally they are quite distinct characters. The Beloved Disciple is not mentioned in the arrest narrative, either. If this needs some explanation, it may help to observe that Peter figures in the arrest narrative. On two accounts, Peter and the Disciple par excellence have related but opposite roles. First, Peter does things: he tries, fails, and is corrected, much as in Mark. The other disciple does less but observes more. Second, when the Beloved Disciple does something, he does so in relation to and more adequately than Peter. The arrest narrative also portrays another character near the Beloved Disciple when he was introduced (Judas), as well as the disciples in general. So there is enough “vicarious presence” to suggest the presence of the Beloved Disciple as an observant bystander, particularly as he soon reappears in Peter’s company. The absence of one notorious Markan character is possibly significant: the naked young man (Mk 14:51-52). The Fourth Gospel shows elsewhere clear signs of opposing a Gethsemane narrative of the sort we have in Mark, and may do so here. In John, Jesus says: “If you seek me, let these men go” (18:8), and the narrator comments: “This was to fulfil the word which he had spoken: ‘Of those whom you gave me I lost not one’” (18:9). No disciple of Jesus fled, they were let go. However, Simon Peter followed Jesus after the arrest (as in Mark). “And (so did) another disciple,” the Johannine narrator adds clumsily (18:15). This “another disciple” is doubtless the Beloved One.27 Here is the first occasion where the favorite disciple is described in this discrete way. If the passion redactor 27. Certainly this “another disciple” is not Judas, as suggested by James H. Charlesworth, The Beloved Disciple: Whose Witness Validates the Gospel of John? (Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1995), 336–59. Charlesworth detects Judas already in 11:47-53 as included in the “Judeans,” which is a long shot. To the question, “Does the Johannine narrative not show us a Judas who was especially loved by Jesus?” (358), the only feasible answer is “no.” See Jn 6:70-71 (from the passion redactor). It also stretches one’s imagination that Peter went into the high priest’s courtyard together with the traitor. The redactor’s obscure formulation

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had read the calling stories as closely as I suggested earlier, he would have noticed how the disciples were called in pairs. In Mark they were sent in pairs, too (Mk 6:7). In the passion story, Peter and the Beloved Disciple appear as a pair. “The other disciple” was here ahead of Peter, since he “entered the court of the high priest together with Jesus, while Peter stood outside the door” (18:1516). Here, as in the last supper scene, the Beloved Disciple is also the helper of Peter. The narrator explains that the Beloved Disciple was able to enter the court because he was known to the high priest.28 This detail has occasioned far-reaching historical hypotheses, but the simple technique of implanting this character into the story does not encourage such attempts. The reason why the Beloved Disciple’s acquaintance with the high priest is mentioned is that it explained his entrance into the court; but the narrator never explains how this disciple could go there safely (though being a known person and a disciple of Jesus), while Peter was exposed as a follower of Jesus. The helper’s role is here, and it what follows, purposefully ambivalent. “So the other disciple . . . went out and spoke to the maid who kept the door, and brought Peter in” (18:16)—very considerate, though of course his aid only made it possible for Peter to deny Jesus.29

From Follower to Brother (19:26-27) At the crucifixion, the narrator first introduces four mourning women: “Standing by the cross of Jesus were his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene” (19:25). The list is derived from the passion source (Mk 15:40; Mt. 27:56), but the redactor has imported Jesus’ mother, mentioned again in the next verse, where suddenly one more bystander appears: “Jesus saw his mother, and the disciple whom he loved standing near” (v. 26). Culpepper’s suggestion that the mother of Jesus is a symbol for the church30 has some plausibility, at least in comparison to other proposed symbolisms. In the beginning of 2 John 1, the presbyter greets “the chosen lady,” and in the end of the same letter greetings are sent from “your chosen sister’s children.” might be indicative of his ideation in that the unnamed “other” disciple in the calling scene in chapter 1 gave him a model of expression. The redactor may here use the expression as a stylistic variation. 28. Brown, The Gospel of John, 2:822, asks that, if Peter’s companion was the Beloved Disciple, “how then could he be admitted to the high priest’s palace without question when Peter was interrogated?” This is a good question, but it only shows the fictional nature of the passages where the character appears. 29. Thus, it is not quite accurate to say that “in none of these episodes does the Beloved Disciple’s insight affect other characters or the action in the plot as a whole” (Lincoln, The Gospel according to St. John, 23). The reader of John might think that, without this disciple’s help, Peter would not have had the opportunity to deny Jesus. Nevertheless, it is typical of the passion redaction that the special character does not alter the Markan or Matthean plot. 30. Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 139.

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What do the terse words of Jesus “Woman, behold your son” and “Behold, your mother” (v. 27) mean? The practical consequence is spelled out: “From that hour the disciple took her to his own house.” But what else is implied? Possibly the eyewitness now gains more intimate knowledge of Jesus through his mother; but since the mother is a nameless “woman” with no privileged insight into Jesus’ “hour” (2:4), this cannot be the main point. The fact that the Disciple, rather than Jesus’ unbelieving (7:5-7) fleshly brothers, takes care of the mother, may be more significant.31 However, the narrator’s focus is clearly on the Beloved Disciple, so possible polemical concerns remain obscure. The safest conclusion is that the Beloved Disciple becomes a true brother of Jesus. In Mt. 28:10 (diff Mk 16:7), the risen Jesus speaks of his disciples as “brothers,” and Jn 20:17 has picked up the same idea. However, the Beloved Disciple is honored to become Jesus’ brother before the others and in a unique way by taking Jesus’ role as the caretaker of his mother.32 Jesus’ words on the cross establish a new family relation “from that hour” (19:27). The “hour” is the hallmark of the passion redaction, signaling the time of Jesus’ exaltation and return to his Father through crucifixion and death. So impressed was the passion redactor by the Markan “hour” that he expanded the time reference to include several moments in the passion storyline. Here, the passion narrator anticipates the consummation of Jesus’ final mission in 19:28: “After this Jesus, knowing that all was now finished . . .,” but in fact all was not finished. Immediately, Jesus must say “I thirst” to fulfill a prophecy, and more prophecies were yet to be fulfilled after his death (19:36, 37), not to mention Jesus’ return home (never narrated in John), which is still ahead at 20:17. A similar anticipatory device was used in the beginning of the second book, when “Jesus knew that the hour had come to depart out of this world” (13:1). A rough inclusion, thematic rather than strictly formal, is suggested. The end (of the former Johannine story) is the beginning of a new story, and the Beloved Disciple whose literary “birth” from the bosom of Jesus coincided with the last supper is now being separated from Jesus and taking some of Jesus’ earthly responsibilities as a family member. It should be noticed, however, that the use of family imagery in the passion story differs from the birth metaphor of the prologue. The prologue, I have argued, envisaged a chain of offspring, with the Logos being the only Son of the Father and

31. Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” 253:267-269, pursues this line of interpretation as far as it goes. 32. The symbolic value of Jesus’ mother is an oft-discussed problem, which cannot be treated here at length. Her function as a representative of Judaism, the “mother” of Jesusbelieving Jews, is a possibility (as also in Jn 2:1-5) and would fit in with 4:22 (which however comes from the predecessor gospel). Thus, for instance, Thyen, Studien zum Corpus Johanneum, 282–83. Another possibility, which I think is preferable, is that the mother has a mediating function as in John 4. Jesus’ mother is both in John 2 and 19 just a “woman,” who is needed to ensure the chain of progeny; through her, the Beloved Disciple becomes a brother of Jesus.

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begetting new children of God. How does one become a child of God? The prologue gives the recipe: life comes from life. The Logos is the Life and Light of the world (1:4), and through believing in him one is birthed into life. This is the original idea throughout Jn 1–12. Jesus gives living water, sows the seed of eternal life, makes the blind see, and raises the dead. The passion redaction orders another recipe: life from death. The Sower (John 4) becomes the seed that bears fruit by dying (12:24). Though seemingly opposite, the new recipe somehow includes the old concept. The seed “remains” in what it brings forth to the effect that the seed and its yield coexist as the vine and its branches (15:1-10). This coexistence prevents the chain of life from becoming an endless chain of progeny. While the prologue did not foresee any “interpreter” of Jesus, the idea of God’s children was there and could be reinterpreted in terms of Jesus’ “brethren.” The Disciple is now God’s child (in line with the prologue) by being Jesus’ brother (a relecture of the prologue). Such a “metaphysical” symbolism seems to surpass the Beloved Disciple’s primary function as a reliable eyewitness. However, he is a witness here, too. Contrary to the Markan and Matthean crucifixion story, indeed in tension with what the Gospel of John has to say elsewhere (16:32; cf. Mk 14:27, 50), the passion redactor is not content to have only women at the crucifixion—an observing disciple is there, too. The family symbolism is not exclusive to him either. Rather, he represents all disciples and believers, and this representative function is tied to his eyewitness testimony.33 Precisely how these functions go together will appear as the story proceeds.

The Testimony of Spirit, Water, and Blood (19:28-37) While the Beloved Disciple’s role as witness seems less vital in the preceding pericope, the aspect of testimony is all the more prominent in 19:35: “He who saw it has borne witness—his testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth—that you might also believe.” The identity of the witness is not quite clear in the immediate context, but the obscurity is, again, a result of the passion redactor’s insertion. Certainly, it would be unnatural to think of the soldier who pierced Jesus’ side.34 The pagan solder is the doer, the witness is the observer. Moreover, the witness is one who believes, since he bears witness “that you might also believe.” The confession of the centurion in Mk 15:39 is interesting, though, and may well

33. Catchpole, “The Beloved Disciple,” 76, suggests that 19:25-27 makes the favorite Disciple “in a real and unique sense the successor of Jesus” and “puts him in Jesus’ own position.” However, what is unique with the Disciple is his testimony. While he is the one who takes care of Jesus’ mother, he is not alone in becoming a “brother” of Jesus. 34. This was suggested, for example, by Paul S. Minear, “Diversity and Unity: A Johannine Case-Study,” in Ulrich Luz and Hans Weder (eds.), Die Mitte des Neuen Testaments: Festschrift Eduard Schweizer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 162–75; pp. 163–64. While the centurion’s words in Mk 15:39 were the passion redactor’s source of inspiration, the testimony in Jn 19:35 requires another witness.

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have triggered the ideation and placing of the Johannine testimony. The centurion’s admiring words “Truly this man was a son of God” were a reaction to the manner of Jesus’ death, and in John too, the witness observes carefully what happened to Jesus’ body.35 What precisely did the Beloved Disciple observe and bear witness to? Since he was present at the crucifixion, he could see virtually everything that was narrated, including Jesus’ last words (v. 30) and his giving up the spirit (v. 31).36 However, such details do not explain the solemnity of his testimony, except in the case that the redactor through these and other details wished to stress the very fact of Jesus’ corporeal death. That Jesus’ legs were not broken and his side was pierced are theologically significant as they substantiate the Baptist’s prophetical reference to Jesus as the Lamb of God (1:29, 36)—which no doubt denotes the paschal lamb.37 But scriptural proof accounts for these details (19:36, 37). What remains is the mention of blood and water immediately before the Disciple’s testimony: “At once there was a flow of blood and water” from Jesus’ pierced side. Most commentators have sensed the symbolic value of the “blood and water,” but too often the symbolism is obscured by too complex considerations and false dichotomies, such as the distinction between sacramental or non-sacramental meaning. What we have here is virtually polyvalent theological symbolism, but the main reference is rather plain as soon as we read the “commentary” in 1 Jn 5:6-8 (RSV, emphasis mine): This is he who came by water and blood, Jesus Christ, not with the water only but with the water and the blood. And the Spirit is the witness, because the Spirit is the truth. There are three witnesses, the Spirit, the water, and the blood; and these three agree.

The condensed formulation has the ring of a confessional affirmation, which was possibly used as a test for distinguishing the true faith from the deception of the

35. Here is another case (after 18:15-18) where the redactor “fails” to indicate clearly that the witness in question was the Beloved Disciple. If the explanation that the redactor was simply negligent seems insufficient, the possibility might be considered that the crucifixion narrative and especially the centurion’s pregnant testimony was so familiar, at least to some community members, that the redactor did not venture to put the Beloved Disciple explicitly in his stead. 36. Andrew T. Lincoln, “The Beloved Disciple as Eyewitness and the Fourth Gospel as Witness,” JSNT 85 (2002), 3–26; p. 13, rightly rejects the suggestion that 19:27b “from that hour” implies that the Beloved Disciple (and Jesus’ mother) left the crucifixion scene right after Jesus’ words. Surely the Johannine “hour” is, once more, an elastic concept. 37. The Johannine Passover chronology should make it entirely clear that this reference is at least one vital component in the expression “Lamb of God.” Jesus as the Passover lamb is rightly recognized as a central theme in (the final) John by Porter, John, His Gospel, and Jesus, 198–224.

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false brothers. The rhetoric of this solemn testimony is unmistakable. The sender of 1 John is engaged in an inner-community dispute and is intent on pointing out the agreement as well as his own stance on the issue of disagreement. The agreement was about the fact that Jesus came with “the water.” The disagreement was whether he also came with “the blood.” The letter sender’s conviction was that Jesus came “not only with the water but with the water and the blood.” There was a consensus about the water, but the blood of Jesus was the bone of contention. This much, I maintain, is perfectly clear. Problems begin with defining more closely what kind of theology the slogans “water” and “(water and) blood” imply, and how the role of the Spirit was understood in the Johannine camps. The role of the Spirit in these two Johannine groups will be studied more closely in subsequent chapters, but here the mention of Jesus’ giving up the Spirit (19:31) deserves attention. Does this imply that Jesus now leaves back the Spirit and hands it over to his disciple(s)? This might cohere with the “handing down” of Jesus’ mother to the Beloved Disciple, but the terse wording of 19:31 commends caution. John 20:19-23 is much more explicit in telling how the risen Jesus “breathed” and said to his disciples: “Receive the Holy Spirit” (v. 22). The right to forgive and retain sins is given on the same occasion. This resurrection scene may not the most profound pneumatological statement in John, but it should not be ignored. If the passion redactor’s idea was that Jesus handed over the Spirit at 19:31, he did not make his point too well. Who in that case would be the receiver? The group of disciples is not present at the crucifixion, and it is unlikely the Beloved Disciple alone would be the receiver of Jesus’ spirit. It seems more plausible that the redactor considered the Disciple’s becoming the son of Jesus’ mother in itself a sufficient symbol of his spiritual “adoption” into God’s family. Jesus’ giving up the spirit at his death then indicates simply that his Spirit was released. If so, there may be a subtle connection to the Beloved Disciple’s testimony. The passion redactor knew of the Spirit/Paraclete’s function as a witness to Jesus (cf. 15:26-27). The Spirit was not an independent witness while “remaining” on Jesus (1:32), but once released, the Spirit would be available as an external, independent witness to Jesus (cf. 5:31-32). Does the Spirit’s testimony begin at the cross?38 Then we would have the precise trias of witnesses from 1 Jn 5:6-8. The Spirit was obviously appreciated on the two Johannine camps, but the disagreement seems to have been about the Spirit’s relation to water and blood—or sacramentally understood, to baptism and the eucharist. Baptismal and eucharistic connotations are in all likelihood involved, but the solemnity of the Beloved Disciple’s testimony and the urgency of believing point to a “doctrinal” interest. A pneumatic understanding of baptism united Johannine Christians. The new accent in 1 John and John 19 is that the spiritual gift includes the cleansing and the act of love shown in Jesus’ death. The flow of blood and water from Jesus’ body

38. Cf de Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 298: “The testimony of the witness in 19:35, whoever he may be, is thus also the testimony of the Spirit.”

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reinterprets—that is, incorporates but surpasses—the imagery of living water (4:115; 7:37-39). Now the blood absorbs, as it were, into itself the salvific functions of the common Johannine faith associated with the water (baptism). Jesus’ blood, too, has a cleansing effect; it too mediates the Spirit and grants eternal life.39 In the beginning of John’s second “book,” the footwashing episode already expanded the water/Spirit imagery to include Jesus’ death—and in fact, without Jesus’ shed blood the water baptism would not guarantee one’s share in Christ (13:6-11).40 All three must go together: water, blood, and the Spirit. In 1 John, the three themselves are personified as witnesses. In the Gospel, such a personification was not possible, but the elements are there as witnessed by the Beloved Disciple.

The First Believer (20:2-10) The Beloved Disciple has seen Jesus’ death, so he is not needed to witness the burial of Jesus’ body. The passion redactor does not leave this episode without witnesses, however, but introduces two men who “took the body of Jesus and wrapped it, with the spices, in strips of linen cloth according to Jewish burial-customs” (19:40). One of the pious men was Joseph of Arimathaea, known from Mark and Matthew. The other man was Nicodemus, found in the old Johannine book (Joh 3) as the redactor meticulously reminds (19:39). A minor editorial slumber is perhaps the omission of women who saw where the body was laid (Mk 15:47), but this only shows that narrative pettiness was not his style. The way of Jesus’ dead body into the tomb was secured, and that was the main concern. On Easter morning, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb, saw the stone removed, and hurried to inform “Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved” (20:2). The two disciples ran to the tomb, but “the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first” (v. 5). He did not go in, but from outside the tomb “he saw the linen cloths lying there.” Then came Peter “following him, and

39. J. Ramsay Michaels, John (NIBC; Peabody: Hendrickson, 1984), 331, notes perceptibly but without recognizing the passion redactor’s relecture: “Just as he [Jesus] quenches thirst by becoming thirsty, so he provides ‘living water’ (4:14; 7:38) in no other way than by shedding his blood.” 40. Footwashing is a suggestive symbol for Jesus’ self-giving love, because it is a cleansing with water, like baptism. Footwashing was obviously practiced in the community, but the secessionists may not have accepted the symbolism that John 13 attaches to it. It is presented as a necessary complement to the water baptism: “He who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet” (13:10). I agree with de Boer (Johannine Perspectives, 290), who takes the (well-attested) exceptive clause as part of the final text but concludes that 13:10 without this clause represents the secessionists’ view. 1 John shows that the case in point was whether a baptized member of the community was wholly sinless. The secessionists obviously thought they were, and thus needed no further washing (except for hygienic reasons and perhaps in acceptance of hospitality).

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went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself ” (vv. 6-7). Only then did the other disciple “who had reached the tomb first” go in, and “he saw and believed.” The reader will recognize a familiar pattern: the Beloved Disciple was there first, observing the empty tomb, but considerately let Peter have the honor of entering the tomb first.41 However, as the reader will soon learn, it was the Beloved Disciple who held the “primacy of faith.”42 Peter is given the opportunity to act adequately, but does he? Peter just saw what was inside, but the other disciple both “saw and believed.” Does the narrator suggest Peter did not believe? The question is complicated by the narrator’s subsequent remark, “for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.” The remark is somewhat clumsy in its context, but we have already seen that the passion redactor is not too worried about narrative tidiness if the message is urgent. It might be argued that the reference to Scripture comes from a passion source, which the redactor did not bother to modify. Peter’s reaction, which was obviously amazement, would then be in accordance with the source, but the Beloved Disciple’s belief would seem premature and show the passion redactor’s intent on showing the Beloved Disciple’s superiority. But why did the redactor not simply omit the remark on the disciple’s lacking understanding? Scriptural proof is highly appreciated by the passion redactor, and the notion of the disciples’ not understanding “as yet” belongs to his typical rhetoric. It is therefore more likely that the passion redactor has purposefully stressed both the Beloved Disciple’s faith and the disciples’ ignorance of scriptural proof for Jesus’ resurrection. The Beloved Disciple’s belief was based on what he saw. Since none of the disciples could foresee that Jesus “must” be resurrected from the dead to fulfill the Scripture, the passion redactor indicates that Jesus’ resurrection has a multiple backup. Already the empty tomb was proof enough—indeed a sign for one who could see it—and it was especially valuable as independent proof.43 It was certainly no disadvantage that the Beloved Disciple’s belief was not based on scriptural interpretation. After

41. Charlesworth, The Beloved Disciple, 283, has another explanation: the Beloved Disciple/Thomas was a pious Jew who did not want to become ritually impure. Curiously, however, he enters the tomb right after Peter. Charlesworth also knows that this disciple went home for a period of time in order to purify himself, so he could not be present at Jesus’ first appearance. I cannot see the issue of impurity hinted at in the story, and Thomas’s absence was more likely a narrative excuse for adding the second appearance story, created by the passion redactor for making a theological point. 42. Barrett, The Gospel according to St. John, 561. 43. Many commentators see a connection between the two mentions of the σουδάριον, which had to be removed from the raised Lazarus (11:44-45) but found neatly folded in Jesus’ empty tomb. Brendan Byrne, “The Faith of the Beloved Disciple and the Faith of the Community in John 20,” JSNT 23 (1985), 83–97, is probably justified to interpret this connection as a “sign” and an indication of the “active rising of Jesus” (p. 88).

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all, the Disciple’s task was to witness what he had seen—all the better that Scripture would prove him right.44 The Beloved Disciple does not figure in the appearance stories in John 20. His special testimony was obviously less vital henceforth, because all the decisive moments down to the empty tomb had been narrated. Interestingly, a special role is reserved for Thomas. Since the favored Disciple was quick to believe in Jesus’ resurrection, the appearance stories had better use of a disciple who was not so easily convinced of the bodily nature of the resurrected one—hence Doubting Thomas was the perfect choice. But there seems to be more to this character than a simple example of doubt becoming faith. Although Thomas does not figure so often in the Gospel, the passion redactor seems to have reserved a very important role for him. His first appearance is in 11:16, when he exhorts his fellow disciples to join Jesus in the fatal journey to Judea. This short episode—which I argue comes from the passion redactor— seems to assign Thomas a prominent role among the disciples. In the first farewell speech, he also is the first disciple to ask Jesus about his departure (14:5). So, coming to 20:24, where he is introduced with his full name, the reader may wonder why this leading figure is not there with the other disciples, and why his absence is so important. Of course, his absence motivates the second appearance and heightens the narrative suspension. But this literary explanation may not exhaust the function of the character. Since the solemn conclusion in 20:3031 follows immediately after the Thomas episode and harks back to its main theological emphasis—faith in Jesus—the role of Thomas seems so vital that the reader may look for some deeper symbolic meaning behind the character. I will return to this issue soon, but it needs to be stressed that in order to grasp the symbolism we must begin with the text itself. The symbolic hints that I find are in the characterization of Thomas: he seems to have a leading or at least prominent role in 11:16 and 14:5, he is absent when the other disciples first see the risen Jesus, he is admonished by Jesus to change from ἄπιστος to πιστός (20:27), and he finally confesses the risen Jesus as his Lord and God. The symbolism should not be reduced to the question of whether his character is positive or negative.45

44. It is noteworthy that both here and in 19:34b-35, 36-37 the passion redactor appreciated the scriptural references while still finding the testimony of the Beloved Disciple necessary. The eyewitness testimony adds crucial details that confirm Jesus’ bodily death and resurrection. 45. This is the usual question that scholars address concerning Thomas in John 20, and the answers often depend on whether one regards Jesus’ words in 20:29 as critical of Thomas or not. See, for example, Christopher Tuckett, “Seeing and Believing in John 20,” in Jan Krans, Bert Jan Lietaert Peerbole, Peter-Ben Smit and Arie Zwiep (eds.), Paul, John, and Apocalyptic Eschatology: Studies in Honour of Martinus C. de Boer (NovTSup 149; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), 169–85. Tuckett concludes that “Thomas’ status in the story may be slightly questionable” (p. 175), and I agree, but not precisely for the same reason. Dennis Sylva, Thomas – Love as Strong as Death: Faith and Commitment in the Fourth Gospel (LNTS

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The nature of the passion narrator’s rhetorical aims must be assessed in a more nuanced way. In the two appearance stories, without and with Thomas, the passion redactor’s emphasis on the risen Jesus’ corporeality seems impressive. Unlike any other Gospel, John depicts the post-resurrection Jesus very graphically as a crucified body. At this stage of the study, we are not yet in a position to fully appreciate the hermeneutic behind the seemingly Pauline (cf. 1 Cor. 2:2) image, but it should be clear that the image of Jesus’ permanent wounds is an extreme relecture of the prologue’s incarnational theology: the incarnate Son is the crucified and pierced one. This was not envisaged in the prologue. However, in view of the Johannine crucifixion scene and 1 Jn 5:6-8 the image is not quite unexpected. If water and blood from the pierced body are the elements through which the Spirit’s salvific gifts flow forth, then how could the resurrected one not have his wounds left?46

The Abiding Witness (21:1-25) The Beloved Disciple’s virtual absence in the two preceding appearance narratives is compensated for by his vital role in the concluding appearance of the risen Jesus. He is in the boat together with Peter and some other disciples, being the first to recognize the stranger on the shore and to inform Peter (21:7). Peter immediately plunged into the sea; the reader may well understand that Peter was eager to meet Jesus first.47 Having again been observant and “helping” Peter, the Disciple retreats for a while in order to be found behind Peter in the final narrative episode (21:20).48 To ensure the Disciple’s special role as the passion witness, the narrator reminds readers of the character’s first appearance in 13:23.

434; London and New York: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2013), 131, finds Thomas “a border figure,” which is plausible, but the more precise conclusion that “Thomas is a figure who facilitates both the ingress of people into the Johannine community and who eases pressures that could lead to egress from it” (p. 144) is uncertain. Such a complex cultural mediator profile cannot be read from the few appearances of the character, nor can we reasonably analyze Thomas’s “psychological individuation” (p. 138). 46. Admittedly, “the erasure of wounds” (Rambo, Resurrecting Wounds, 149) is beginning already in John 21, where Jesus is not identified through the marks of crucifixion. 47. Lincoln, The Gospel according to St. John, 512: Peter “may have been outrun to the tomb, but he is determined to be the first to get to shore.” The narrative logic in the Beloved Disciple’s recognition of Jesus, which causes Peter’s reaction, is quite natural, so there is no reason to assume an echo from Lk. 5:8 (where Peter addresses Jesus as Kyrios). Contra Frans Neirynck, “John 21,” NTS 36 (1990), 321–36; pp. 330–31. 48. Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology, 19–21, argues that the Beloved Disciple’s role is changed in John 21, where Peter is the central figure. However, the pattern in ch. 21 is the same as in 13–20: the Beloved Disciple is Peter’s “helper” and therefore almost by definition lets Peter have the central position. What is new, of course, is the rehabilitation of Peter and

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Obviously, John 21 is an epilogue to the Gospel, as the previous conclusion in 20:30-31 makes plain. But how secondary is it? One argument for its being an integral part of John is that the stories of the Beloved Disciple and Peter are brought to a logical end. In particular, it might be argued that the redactor’s idea from the start was to make the Beloved Disciple the author of the Gospel—thus 21:24 was the very point of the final redaction. The question is complicated by the issue of the possible real-life reference of the Beloved Disciple. In terms of redaction history, the question is whether the added chapter comes from a separate redaction that only produced the new ending, or from a comprehensive redaction that included at least the previous insertions of the Beloved Disciple and, according to my hypothesis, the passion storyline as a whole. I think that the latter alternative is closer to truth, but at the same it may well be that the final redaction was a progressive undertaking, where the appended chapter may be slightly but not considerably later than the reworked form of Jn 1–20. At the same time, the possibility that the final verses (21:24-25), where the Beloved Disciple is presented as the author of the Gospel, are still later, raises a question worth considering. Was the Beloved Disciple originally designed as the fictive author of the Gospel? Hartwig Thyen, for one, has argued forcefully for this view. In his opinion, the Disciple’s task in John 21 is “bleiben und schreiben”: to stay (alive or not) and be a remaining witness through the written Gospel.49 However, the connection between staying and writing is not compelling. The issue of staying goes with the foregoing episode (vv. 20-23), where Peter’s predicted martyrdom is contrasted with the Beloved Disciple’s possible remaining in the world until Jesus’ coming. It is only in the tiny clause “and who wrote this” in v. 24a that this Disciple appears to be the author; otherwise, and even in this verse, his testimony is stressed. To the extent that his “staying” is symbolic, it stresses that his testimony remains valid and reminds the community of believers of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Moreover, if the reader is supposed to conclude from 21:20-23 that the Disciple is no longer alive, his authorship is undermined or at least modified beforehand. The reader will then be perplexed by the presence of the “we” (v. 24b) and the “I” (v. 25) besides the purported author. These hints may indicate that the Beloved Disciple’s authorship was something of an afterthought, or a relecture of the whole Gospel by the same final redactor who had introduced the Beloved Disciple. In fact, the Disciple’s enduring testimony is included in the Gospel in all cases, even without this authorial fiction, which only draws a confirmatory conclusion from the inserted Beloved Disciple passages.

the shepherd’s task he receives from Jesus; but the Beloved Disciple remains the authority of the Johannine community. 49. Hartwig Thyen, “Noch einmal: Johannes 21 und ’der Jünger, den Jesus liebte’,” in Tord Fornberg and David Hellholm (eds.), Texts and Contexts: Biblical Texts in Their Textual and Situational Contexts: Essays in Honor of Lars Hartman (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 147–89; p. 168.

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However, the need for an epilogue may have existed as soon as the Beloved Disciple was implanted into the story. The need may not have been met at once, but probably rather soon after the passages were planned, which took place as part of the passion redaction as a whole. The previous conclusion of the Gospel did not refer to the Disciple even as a witness, and the invisibility of this character in the appearance stories—where instead Doubting Thomas fills a similar function— might make the reader uncertain about his key role as the authenticator of the passion story or the whole Gospel. The redactor may have found it necessary to stress his role in the new ending, where also the relationship between him and Peter could be rounded off. One consideration led to the other: the introduction of the Beloved Disciple as a passion witness forced the redactor to think further and to tie the loose ends of the story. In other words, John 21 was part of the final redaction, but this comprehensive reworking may have been a longer process.50 At the same time, there were probably some new concerns that contributed to the expansion of the Gospel beyond ch. 20. A frequent hypothesis is that the Beloved Disciple’s death occasioned a new situation. This, of course, implies that there is a real historical person behind the character. Dunderberg has argued that nothing forces us to think of such a real-world explanation; even fictional characters may die.51 This is correct; but the question is whether the birth and death of a fictional character serves an intelligent purpose.52 Although the Beloved Disciple need not be entirely fictional—as I will argue, the redactor did have in mind a figure of authority from the community’s past—it seems risky to read the community’s history from his alleged biography. However, there are other elements in the story-world of John 21 that may reflect the situation of the final redaction. The redactor makes an effort to indicate that the new, last appearance belongs

50. The reference in 21:20 back to the last supper scene where the Beloved Disciple was introduced is sometimes thought to reveal a new redactor (as the application of the prologue’s “bosom” image in 13:23 reveals the passion redactor), but it is more plausible that the passion redactor makes a thematic inclusio and in this way “signs” his work. Crossreferences belong to his style (cf. 11:4 and 12:3; 13:2 and 13:27; in 19:39 the reference is back to the predecessor gospel). 51. Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” 249. Dunderberg also remarks that “the Johannine text contains no direct references to sweeping despair (vividly described by modern scholars) that would have been occasioned by his (sc. the Beloved Disciple’s) death in the Johannine community” (ibid.). Dunderberg suggests the delayed parousia and the need to warn against false belief in the Christians’ physical immortality as reasons for hinting at the possibility of the Beloved Disciple’s death. 52. Dunderberg, “The Beloved Disciple,” 269, concludes that the Beloved Disciple’s function is to combat the claims of Jesus’ “dynasty” or fleshly brothers. This interpretation puts much—perhaps too much—emphasis on one pericope, namely Jn 19:27-29. The idea of the disciples or Christ-believers as “brothers” of Jesus is not unique to John (cf. Mt. 28:10). Moreover, this interpretation does not explain the close relationship between the Beloved Disciple and Peter, which is obvious since the “birth” of this character in John.

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together with the earlier ones: “After this, Jesus appeared again” (v. 1). Afterward, the narrator notes that this was the “third” appearance (v. 14). Most of the characters are familiar from the previous story, even though the readers only now meet the sons of Zebedee and learn that Peter and his company were fishermen. But the whole setting is remarkable. The disciples had obviously went “home” (cf. 16:32; 20:10) and returned to their previous occupation. Had the two appearances not persuaded them after all? Where is all the joy in the awareness of a time for “greater deeds” (14:12)? The picture of the post-Easter period seems gloomy. The disciples had toiled all the night without getting any fish. And, of course, they were only seven (cf. 6:70). For John’s readers, the melancholic scene need not have come as a shock if they recognized in it their own distressed situation. The relationship between Peter and the Beloved Disciple is by and large the same as in Jn 13–20.53 Again, the favorite Disciple is sooner than Peter (in recognizing Jesus, v. 7), assists him (by informing him about Jesus, v. 7), is there, but withdraws (behind Peter, v. 20). As always, the Beloved Disciple is “a step off, either before or behind Peter.”54 John 21 rehabilitates Peter, but does so without devaluing the Beloved One. Peter’s threefold assertion of love for Jesus remedies his threefold denial. The Beloved Disciple does not need to assert his love; he has been faithful all the way when it counts (that is, in the passion story), and he is the object of Jesus’ love. After his renewed assertion of love, Peter is called to be the shepherd, and will glorify God through his martyrdom. There is no intention of belittling Peter, but neither does his leadership diminish the role of the Beloved Disciple.55 If there is anything new about this final juxtaposition of Peter and the Beloved Disciple, it is the explicitness of the larger perspective on the commonwealth of Christ-believers, with Peter as its head. But the larger perspective had been in the passion redactor’s mind all the time (cf. 11:51-52; 17:20-21). The function of the Beloved Disciple’s witness was to ascertain that the Johannine community, too, would concur with the Petrine church’s belief in the crucified and risen Lord. Actually, then, he never really competed with Peter. As a representative of Johannine believers, he was always superior to him: nearer to Jesus, quicker to understand and recognize Jesus. At the same time, he always sided with Peter and let him take the place of honor. For the Johannine community of believers, this portrayal of the Beloved Disciple had an obvious rhetorical appeal. Accepting his testimony, the Johannine

53. Keener rightly critiques Raymond Brown’s attempt to contrast John 21 with the rest of the Gospel: “Peter’s pastoral role is hinted elsewhere (1:42; 6:69) and connected verbally with ch. 21 (13:36). The beloved disciple compares favorably with Peter as much as in the rest of John, but Peter is not portrayed particularly negative in either. Peter comes off far worse in Mark.” Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (2 vols.; Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2003), 1:113. Kevin Quast, Peter and the Beloved Disciple: Figures for a Community in Crisis (JSNTSup 32; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 162, rightly points out that “the Johannine Peter fares well in comparison with the Synoptics.” 54. Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, 95. 55. Thus also Bultmann, The Gospel of John, 716.

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Christians would know they were part of the larger church of Christ-believers— yet a privileged part of it. Those in the Johannine community who distrusted the Beloved Disciple’s testimony were not likely to accept Peter’s authority either. In the end, both were blood witnesses: “Peter will be a μάρτυς (martyr); the Beloved Disciple will give true μαρτυρία (testimony).”56

The Beloved Disciple, Peter, and Thomas: A Symbolic Triangle? As my narrative three-world model suggests, characters and other literary entities can be analyzed in relation to two other levels: according to their eventual symbolic function and their real-life, historical reference.57 The symbolic function is often integral to the narrative presentation, as when a character is a model of discipleship; this corresponds mimetically to the way the character is described to follow Jesus, confesses Christ, behaves laudably, and the like. But there may also be more covert symbolism to a character, and then a proper assessment of narrative rhetoric, or in other words, the poietic axis of narrative communication, is needed. In the case of Peter in John, the last chapter is mimetically transparent: Peter is the “shepherd” of the “sheep,” meaning that he is the leader of the Christ-believing church. At the same time, the Beloved Disciple’s spiritual supremacy modifies Peter’s leadership. The Johannine “sheep” are part of the flock, but with a distinct identity. Peter’s leading role is also restricted by the notion that the sheep are not his but belong to Jesus (“my sheep,” 21:16). Then the vision of “one flock and one shepherd” (10:16) does not stress hierarchical order with Peter as the head, but rather describes the gathering of all Christ-believers. Besides, the Johannine community’s internal affairs are not really Peter’s business (τί πρὸς σέ, 21:22). Charlesworth expands the relationship between Peter and the Beloved Disciple symbolically to represent the rivalry between “East and West.”58 This view would be more plausible, if the Beloved Disciple is identified with Thomas, so that “East and West” would be the Petrine and the Thomasine domains of the Christian commonwealth. This identification does not hold, but Thomas may have another symbolic function in John, according to the passion redaction. If we consider the narrative hints, the picture of a salient but ambiguous figure in the Johannine group emerges, a figure who does not share the first resurrection experience of the disciples but is later invited by Jesus to become a believer. How should we, in light of these narrative traits, understand Thomas’s confession, which certainly is adequate and offers a model for all readers of the Gospel (20:31)?59 I suggest that the redactor’s intention is to stress Jesus’ invitation to faith (20:27), more precisely,

56. Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 121. 57. See Chapter 1 on methods (p. 22 n. 60). 58. Charlesworth, The Beloved Disciple, 390–413. 59. John 20:31 suits the “invitation” interpretation better if the reading πιστεύσητε (aor.) is original.

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invitation to the faith of the Beloved Disciple who believed even without such evidence. As Thomas then confesses Jesus as the risen Lord, this is the hoped-for outcome of the invitation. More concretely, Thomas embodies a former Johannine in-group, whose beliefs differ from the passion redactor’s program but whose acceptance of the Johannine κοινωνία would be most needed. In the final chapter, Thomas is again with the inner circle, literally in the same boat. We cannot know to what extent this picture matched the Johannine reality. If my suggestion concerning Thomas’s symbolic function is on the right track, the passion redactor’s attitude to the dissident group would seem more lenient—to say the least—than the presbyter’s polemic against the “antichrists” and “murderers.” It is unlikely that the letter and the Gospel target precisely the same group in the same situation, although there is probably some relationship. Nothing in the letters suggests that the adversaries appealed to Thomas (or some other apostle) as their hero. The opponents of the presbyter seem to have left the Johannine κοινωνία for good, whereas the “Thomas group”—whether they understood themselves as such or not—were more closely associated with the Johannine main group. These Johannine Christians had cherished the lofty present christology of Jn 1–12 and were asking what Jesus’ departure really meant; now they were invited, through Thomas, to endorse the new Gospel that included Jesus’ corporeal death and resurrection.60

Is there a Person behind the Character? Having befriended the Beloved Disciple as a literary character and as a symbolic representative of the faithful but progressive Johannine Christians, we must face the final question: is there any historical reference, any real person behind this peculiar character, or is it pure fiction? The issue is complex; even if the passion redactor had a specific person in his mind, this person’s relation to the literary character is not thereby settled. In modern fiction, real persons—with their real names, occupations, and further details—can appear in imaginary literary contexts. So too in ancient fiction. Scholars disagree on the extent to which Plato’s Socratic dialogues represent the historical person. In the apocryphal Acts of

60. According to Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 123, Thomas “is the model of the disciple who understands Jesus’ flesh but not his glory.” Thomas is therefore the opposite of Peter, who saw Jesus’ glory but could not accept his suffering. This description may highlight the contrast between Thomas and Peter; in the “triangle” they are represent opposite groups as seen from the Beloved Disciple’s perspective. However, otherwise the opposite description would be more accurate. Peter’s character in the above quotation is not based on John but comes from Mark (8:31-33); Peter’s confession in Jn 6:68-69 has nothing to suggest that he did not accept Jesus’ passion. From the passion redactor’s viewpoint, it was Thomas’s challenge to understand Jesus’ “glory” in a fleshlier manner, as including his corporeal death and resurrection.

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John, we meet a John who obviously shows minimal resemblance to the historical disciple. And how much of the character of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel is really a portrait of the Nazarene? There are two paths one might choose in an attempt to identify the possible reference of the Beloved Disciple. One path is to look for characters in the story, the other is to go outside the narrative world and look for a candidate in a putative historical reality. I have indicated that the first path is unviable from the start, because the character’s anonymity is hard to understand if he also had a name in the story. At the same time, the redactor’s ideation of this character may have been partly inspired by other characters in the story, such as “the true Israelite” Nathanael and Lazarus whom Jesus “loved.” Indeed, even Thomas may have lent some traits to this character, because the confession in 20:28 and Jesus’ words in 20:29 could have suited the Beloved Disciple as well. Such considerations, of course, just underline the fictional nature of the Beloved Disciple. The more firmly rooted in a real-life person, the less the character may be expected to borrow from other literary characters. But it is still possible that there is some historical person, however idealized, typified or dimly alluded to, behind the anonymous character. It is worth asking why a real person was not granted a real name in the story. Is it because the person’s relation to the Beloved Disciple is somewhat similar to the literary characters’ relation to this character—that is, inspirational? Yet a general consideration encourages to try the historical path. The first readers might not have been convinced by the witness of a character if there was no real person that could have been even remotely imagined as being referred to. Such a person must have been an authority in the community, or at least among a faction within it. In practice, the real persons that can be seriously considered61 are also literary entities, or to be precise, assumed referents of implied authors: the author of an earlier edition of the Gospel and the sender of the letters. The predecessor gospel differs so markedly from the passion redactor’s emphases that its author is unlikely referred to as the hero of the final Gospel. Instead, as I suggested above, Thomas may function as a near representative of the predecessor gospel’s concerns. Von Wahlde suggests that the presbyter of the Johannine letters was the intended person behind the Beloved Disciple.62 If we identify the presbyter as the Beloved Disciple, how does it fit the redaction history of the Gospel, and what purpose could the passion redactor have had in suggesting such an identification? My previous discussion has shown that the theology of 1 John does not wholly coincide with that of the passion redaction. In some respects, the Gospel

61. I do not think that John Mark or John the son of Zebedee are serious candidates. See von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:409-415. 62. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:416-434. I am critical of some of von Wahlde’s suggestions, for example, that the presbyter/Beloved Disciple was an acquaintance of the high priest (p. 426), and on the whole I regard it futile to use the Gospel as a resource to the person of the presbyter.

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develops ideas present in the letter; in other cases, a linear development may not be assumed.63 The crucial point of agreement is that the letter stresses the blood of Jesus as a soteriological means in addition to water. The letter also accentuates Jesus’ departure as a vicarious death “for” (ὑπέρ) the believers, which obliges the community members to show similar love for their brethren. If these theological convictions are narrativized, the result is much the same as we have in the final Gospel. Above all, Jn 19:34-35 would then prove the letter writer’s testimony accurate and trustworthy—he himself was there and saw it all. More generally, the language of testimony and witness of 1 John seems to have inspired the passion redactor. This does not imply that the presbyter was himself an eyewitness. Rather, the letter writer’s rhetoric of witness serves to legitimate his ideological position and its authenticity vis-à-vis the dissident group. But why would the Gospel redactor have created a phantom character to prove the presbyter’s theological stance? And why was the character made to witness other events in the passion story and to seemingly compete with Peter? I think that such a massive redaction becomes understandable, if the presbyter had an important role in a heightened conflict where his standpoint was closer to the Gospel redactor’s, and if the presbyter was considered useful as a guarantor of the Gospel redactor’s orientation toward the larger Christ-believing community. In a word, the image of the presbyter was one of the means of creating a sense of continuity. The redactor’s strategy was, of course, more likely successful if the presbyter was no longer alive and capable of protesting against the course taken in the community. Perhaps he would not have protested; but, as a deceased icon of the final Gospel’s orientation, he was sure to remain on the right side. This may be, in the last analysis, the reason why Jesus was said to love him: he was the true follower of Jesus, according to the Gospel redactor. The presbyter who presumably wrote 1 John was keen to underscore God’s love and the believers’ mutual love. In the Gospel, the love relation is turned into Jesus’ love for the Beloved Disciple—a theme anticipated by Jesus’ love for Lazarus and his family (11:5) and then carried further in 13:1. In this way, not only the Beloved Disciple but also Jesus himself is made to guarantee the trustworthiness of the passion redactor’s message.

63. See Chapter 2, The Gospel and the Letters.

Chapter 5 THE GREATEST SIGN: HOW LAZARUS’ LIFE TURNS INTO JESUS’ DEATH

Although the insertion of the Beloved Disciple into the passion story informs us a great deal about the redactor’s theological concerns, it was technically a relatively simple procedure which, as such, did not require large-scale compositional moves. In this chapter, we are able to see more of the redactor’s agenda and of the compositional work he accomplished. The resuscitation of Lazarus seems to have been in its present place as the last sign before the summary statements in ch. 12, which brought the earlier Johannine Gospel to an end.1 The passion redactor could use the Lazarus story in its climactic position by reinterpreting it as an anticipation and a direct cause of Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion. Therefore, the council’s decision was connected directly to the Lazarus story. To tie these new elements to the basically Markan passion story, further operations were needed, however. The temple cleansing narrative, which in Mark and Matthew was the cause of Jesus’ arrest, was moved to another place (2:13-22), where it functions as an early clue to the passion theme. The most ingenious way of combining the Markan passion story and the new Johannine elements was in the anointing story: the unnamed woman became Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and Lazarus.

1. Some scholars argue that John 11 is a late insertion. Thus, for example, Brown, The Gospel according to John, 1:414, 427-430; Sproston North, The Lazarus Story Within the Johannine Tradition, 40:130-134. There is a hiatus between chs 10 and 11, indicating that the material in chs 11–12 may have been added to an earlier form of the gospel, but I regard the addition as the work of the predecessor redactor. See my analysis in Chapter 8. Brown’s argument that “the switch of locale from the Transjordan to Jerusalem would be no more violent than that between chs. v and vi” (p. 414) is untenable. Without Jn 11–12, the predecessor gospel would lack the climactic sign that is appropriate at the end of the story, the travel route to Jerusalem, and the elaborate summaries in 12:37-50. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 50:378-382, considers only the “Lazarus material” (11:1-46; 12:9-11) an insertion.

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These compositional moves have the effect of making Jn 11–12 look like a transitory bridge.2 Much of ch. 12 has been added by the passion redactor to anticipate the account of Jesus’ death, but the predecessor’s end summaries, after the raising of Lazarus, have also been preserved, so an interlocking chain structure emerges to tie the parts together.3 Before the end of the earlier gospel comes, the reader is aware that the story continues. The two elements also meet inside the Lazarus story. Through a careful relecture of the earlier story, the passion redactor bends the greatest sign into something greater still.

The Family Affair: Lazarus, Martha, and Mary in John and Luke In John 11, Lazarus is presented as the brother of Martha and Mary. Jn 11:2 informs that “Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair.” Curiously, the anointing story follows first in the next chapter (12:18), so the author’s remark seems premature.4 We observe a similar anticipation of approaching events in ch. 13, where it is told that “the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray” Jesus (v. 2). Later in the same chapter (v. 27) we are told that Satan entered into Judas after he received the piece of bread from Jesus. Like the betrayal, the anointing too belongs to the passion storyline. Jesus himself interprets Mary’s action as referring to “the day of my burial” (12:7). Obviously, then, this anticipatory technique (prolepsis) belongs to a redactor who is keen to narrate the passion of Jesus. The anointing story has a parallel in Mark (14:3-9) and Matthew (26:6-13), but John’s displays some striking differences. Only John names Mary as the one who anointed Jesus, and she does not anoint the head of Jesus as the unnamed woman does in Mark and Matthew, but his feet. Despite these and other differences, it seems plausible to suggest that the Johannine redactor was directly or indirectly influenced by at least one of these texts.5 The anointing of Jesus, according to all these three Gospels, took place at Bethany, and the anointing refers to Jesus’ death both within the narrative itself and in its larger context. Luke, however, has no anointing story in the passion context, instead there is another anointing in

2. Raymond E. Brown, An Introduction to the New Testament (The Anchor Reference Library; New York etc.: Doubleday, 1997), 349, describes Jn 11–12 as “a bridge between the Book of Signs and the Book of Glory.” 3. See my discussion of Bruce Longenecker’s chain-link interpretation in Chapter 3. 4. The Greek form translated as “(who) anointed” is aorist participle (ἀλείψασα) and should grammatically refer to a past or previous event. It is, however, uncertain whether the redactor was counting on his first readers’ knowledge of the Markan or Matthean anointing story. 5. In this case, the Markan text is a slightly closer parallel to John’s pericope than the Matthean form, but due to secondary orality both texts can be John’s source.

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Lk. 7:36-50. The unnamed woman is a sinner, and her action was a sign of her repentance and gratitude. John’s and Luke’s stories share some similar details, above all the fact that the woman anointed Jesus’ feet and dried them with her hair. Both details seem to better match the Lukan story, because, in John, the woman first anoints the feet and then dries them with her hair (which makes the waste of expensive ointment even worse) while in Luke the woman first dries her tears from Jesus’ feet and only then uses the ointment. However, two observations warn against concluding that John borrows from Luke. First, John’s story is not necessarily less logical than Luke’s. The excessive amount of expensive ointment is a typical Johannine exaggeration6 to be compared with the hundreds of liters of water made into quality wine by Jesus according to Jn 2:1-11. The amount of liquid surely sufficed to motivate the need to dry Jesus’ feet. Luke’s account is not more realistic, because it is hard to imagine so copious tears that the feet required drying.7 Secondly, in Mark (14:3), the anointment took place “at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper.” At first, Luke does not name the Pharisee at whose dinner the anointing took place, but then, quite suddenly, Jesus in his reply to the Pharisee calls him Simon (7:40). Since Luke omits the Markan anointing story while in its immediate context following Mark’s storyline, this detail is a plausible indication that he nevertheless had read Mark and used, inadvertently it seems, the same name for the host of the dinner. Against John’s use of Luke can also be asked, why should John have turned Luke’s nameless sinner into Mary of Bethany? There are no signs in John 11 or in 12:1-8 that Mary was a sinner. This explanation becomes even more forced if it is assumed, as do many of those who claim John’s use of Luke, that John created the whole Bethany family on the basis of Luke’s Gospel. In that case, Mary of Bethany would be an amalgam of Mark’s unnamed woman and Luke’s sinner (Lk. 7:3650). That Mary is the sister of Martha was indicated already in John 11, but if the Johannine passion redactor’s source for this identification was Lk. 10:38-42, he would have gathered the whole Bethany family from that tiny, pale anecdote and from the fictive parable in Lk. 16:19-31—an unlikely procedure.8 Luke’s Mary is a blameless woman, so John’s alleged combination of a sinner and this woman—and of the unnamed woman from Mark—would be rather pointless. Conversely, if Luke took the two sisters Martha and Mary from John, we might perhaps better understand how he created the trivial and eventless scene in an unnamed village to stress, once again, his favorite idea of listening to the word. Mary the mother of Jesus already exemplified a similar attentive hearing and

6. This trait is seen in both the pre-passion and the final John. 7. Shellard, New Light, 245. 8. See my discussion of John and Luke in Chapter 2. Concerning the anointing narratives in Jn 12:1-18 and Lk. 7: 36-30, John’s priority has been defended by J. F. Coakley, “The Anointing at Bethany and the Priority of John,” JBL 107 (1988), 241–56. Unfortunately, Coakley also tries to prove John’s priority over against the Markan story as well.

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response to divine revelation (Lk. 2:19); now another Mary was paradigmatically digesting the words of Jesus. While the presence of Martha and Mary in both Luke and John might be incidental or due to some common tradition, such an explanation proves insufficient when it comes to Lazarus. In Luke’s parable of the rich man and Lazarus (16:19-31) the reader is introduced to the fictive character of “poor Lazarus” 9 who dies. His possible resurrection is dealt with toward the close of the parable. Yet, he is not brought back to life to warn the rich man’s brothers: “If they do not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rise from the dead” (v. 31). In John 11, Lazarus is presented as a real person and is indeed raised from the dead. How likely is it that John took a fictive character from Luke’s Gospel, made him the brother of two sisters from the same Gospel, and let Jesus raise him? I wonder if all who have proposed this scenario have really considered its implications for the credibility of the Johannine author. The raising of Lazarus is by far the most spectacular miracle in John, and it was clearly meant—already by the earlier Johannine author, as I will argue—to show that Jesus is “resurrection and life” (11:25). But how to explain the emergence of the Bethany family, if it is not based on Luke’s Gospel? I have already suggested that the passion redactor was familiar with the anointing story from Mark (or Matthew). The anointing took place at Bethany, and it is quite possible that the Johannine redactor chose this location for the Bethany family from Mark.10 Alternatively, Bethany comes from the Johannine tradition, where also the distance between Bethany and Jerusalem was indicated (11:18, about two miles). If Bethany was mentioned as the village of Lazarus in the Johannine predecessor source, it was natural for the redactor to connect the

9. It may not be quite incidental that the Markan anointing story mentions “the poor” (Mk 14:5, 7); as do the parallels in Matthew and John. Knowing Luke’s concern for the poor, the suggestion that it was quite in place to use the money for the ointment instead of giving it to the poor may have been unfitting to Luke and may have contributed to his turning this story into another anointing story. Labahn, Jesus als Lebensspender, 456, concludes that the figure of “the poor Lazarus” from the Lukan parable attracted legendary interest in the Johannine community: “So, wie sich Jesus durch seine Liebe dem armen, leidenden und sozial ausgeschlossenen Menschen Lazarus zuwendet, ist dies zugleich ein Anspruch für die christliche Gemeinde, ihre Liebestätigkeit auf die Armen auszurichten” (p. 456). The problem is that there is no trace of such concerns in the Lazarus story. Lazarus is not described as being poor or an outsider (cf. the many Jews who have come to mourn for his death!). John 12:1-18 implies that his sister Mary could afford an expensive perfume. Lazarus is a guest at the banquet, so Jesus’ words about the poor hardly include Lazarus. See Philip F. Esler and Ronald A. Piper, Lazarus, Mary and Martha: A Social-Scientific and Theological Reading of John (London: SCM Press, 2006), 51–52. Esler and Piper also argue (p. 54) that Mark’s “insouciance towards the destitute, that is beggars” was “a compelling reason why Luke could not tolerate the version in Mark.” 10. Thus Lindars, The Gospel of John, 385.

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Bethany family to the anointing story. Martha thus became the one who “served” at the dinner, while Lazarus was one of the guests (12:2).11 Scholars who discern different layers of redaction in the Lazarus story often tend to exclude either Martha or Mary from the earliest forms of the story and doubt the original naming of Lazarus.12 They also see editorial seams in the opening verses of John 11 which would point to a gradual growth in the tradition. At first, the sick man was just “somebody” (τις), and the two sisters would not have been presented as his relatives. However, these seams are probably in the observer’s eyes only. The opening verse (11:1) is quite economical, introducing first the new turn in the narrative (someone was sick—the reader gathers that Jesus must react), then the sick man is identified (Lazarus from Bethany), then the two sisters. We may regret that the reader is not immediately informed that Martha and Mary were Lazarus’s sisters, but then again, has not the narrator given the reader quite an amount of information concisely in the opening verse? To see real seams in the opening narrative, we may observe the prolepsis in v. 2 (which reveals the passion-oriented redaction) and the confusing dialogue between Jesus and the disciples in vv. 4-16 (which mostly comes from the author of Jn 1–12). I find no reason to exclude Martha or Mary from the early tradition.13 It seems likely, though, that the sisters appeared as a pair throughout the story. In any case they are so described in the beginning (v. 3: the sisters sent a message to Jesus about the illness of Lazarus).14 If we omit Jesus’ long dialogue with Martha (vv. 21-27),

11. In the Markan anointing story, the incident took place in the house of Simon the leper (Mk 14:3). The notion of the host’s illness may have contributed to the Johannine redactor’s idea to have Lazarus at the dinner; however, the redactor does not indicate that Lazarus was the host. 12. I find especially problematic the reconstruction in Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and Its Predecessor, 94. The Pre-Johannine (Semeia) Source would begin as follows: “Now there was a certain [Mary] (and her sister Martha) of Bethany, whose brother Lazarus was sick.” I cannot see the advantage of reshaping the present text in this way. Lazarus is quite logically mentioned first, because he was the central figure of the story—at least until the early redactor chose to use Martha for a theological lesson and the passion redactor invested in Mary. 13. Many redaction-critical analyses choose one of the sisters as original, and often she is Mary. According to Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor, 101, in the Semeia source “Mary was the principal and possibly the only interlocutor with Jesus.” W. Nicol, The Semeia in the Fourth Gospel, 37–39, seems to assume that both sisters belong to the source but regards 11:20-27, with its focus on Martha, as “Johannine.” Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:512-515, also seems uncertain about Martha but concludes eventually that there was a rudimentary mention of both sisters in the earliest version, while the final editor expanded Martha’s role. 14. One of the neatest reconstructions of the “original” miracle story of the beginning is as follows: (1) Ἦν δέ τις ἀσθενῶν, Λάζαρος ἀπὸ Βηθανίας (3) ἀπέστειλαν οὖν αἱ ἀδελφαὶ πρὸς αὐτὸν λέγουσαι· Κύριε, ἴδε ὃν φιλεῖς ἀσθενεῖ. Bernd Kollmann, Jesus und die Christen als Wundertäter: Studien zum Magie, Medizin und Schamanismus in Antike und Christentum

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which pauses the narrative flow, we see a smooth movement from vv. 17-19 to 32.34, with Mary’s rebuke possibly being originally the sisters’ words to Jesus. In this reconstruction, the sisters as well as Lazarus are already characters with proper names, although the sisters do not have distinctive roles but appear together as necessary mediators between Jesus and Lazarus. The plot of the underlying miracle story is straightforward: the sisters send a message to Jesus, telling that Lazarus is sick (vv. 1, 3). Jesus goes to Bethany, but at arriving there he learns that Lazarus had already died and was in the tomb (v. 17).15 The sisters rebuke Jesus (v. 32), but Jesus is led to the tomb (v. 34) where the miracle takes place (most of vv. 38-41, 43–44). It is possible that the source had already some narrative embellishments, such as the presence of mourning Jews (v. 19, part of vv. 31-33), but the main story is rather simple.16

Resurrection and Life: The Raising of Lazarus as the Climax of Jesus’ Daylight Work Since Bultmann’s commentary on John, the redactor who expanded the underlying material into a coherent whole and gave it a definite theological outlook has often been called “the Evangelist.” In my redaction-historical hypothesis, “the Evangelist” to some extent, although not entirely, corresponds to the redactor of Jn 1–12. In John 11, his contribution is essential in turning the relatively simple miracle story into Jesus’ self-revelation. In literary respect, this redactor’s first major engagement in the story is in vv. 4-15. In the traditional miracle story, Lazarus is reported to be ill, but when Jesus arrives he is already dead and buried. The sisters blame Jesus: had he been there, he could have cured their brother. It would then seem that the death of Lazarus came as a surprise to Jesus, a suggestion that must have been intolerable to an author whose christology was too high to admit Jesus’ ignorance. Jesus knew humans being fully and did not need anybody to tell him about man (cf. Jn 2:24-25). The first thing the redactor needed to make clear was that Jesus was aware from the outset that Lazarus would die. Instead, his disciples were ignorant and Jesus ironically plays with their misunderstanding. Another crux in the traditional narrative was that Jesus obviously was expected to hurry to cure

((FRLANT 170; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 269. I doubt, however, that precisely such a form existed; the predecessor author may already have known various permutations of the basic story. 15. The mention of four days may have been originally in the miracle tradition, but it is also possible that the predecessor redactor added the detail. 16. This rough reconstruction of the underlying miracle story comes very close to the Urform assumed by Becker, Das Evangelium nach Johannes 2:345. (I would doubt the wording in v. 3, which probably is reformulated by the passion redactor, and I would include the sisters‘ rebuke in the early tradition.) Many scholars present a more or less similar reconstruction. Opinions differ much more when it comes to the subsequent redaction(s).

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Lazarus but was too late to prevent him from dying. This suggestion triggered the redactor’s idea—which he had used elsewhere, too17—that Jesus deliberately chose to wait a few days before heading for Bethany (v. 6). This delay also ensured that Lazarus would be dead long enough to show that his resuscitation was really the raising of an irrevocably dead man and—theologically speaking—truly manifested the glory of Jesus and his Father (v. 4). That is why Jesus paradoxically rejoiced for not being there to heal Lazarus—now the disciples, seeing the glory of their master, would be strengthened in their faith (v. 15). Moreover, the early redactor saw here an excellent opportunity to expound his view of Jesus’ mission as a work day. In Jn 9:4-5a, in the context of the healing of a blind man, the same pre-passion redactor describes Jesus’ mission as a work that has to be completed in the daylight. The idea of Jesus’ working day already begins to take shape in the story of the Sabbath healing, where Jesus says: “My Father is still working, and I also am working” (5:17). In 8:12, the theme continues, and now, before going to raise Lazarus, Jesus explains (vv. 9-10): “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.”18 These words are an answer to the disciples’ protest against the dangerous journey to Judea (v. 8) and underline Jesus’ knowledge that he was secure in spite of the opponents’ plans. This logic implies that Jesus’ death was not in sight for the redactor. We see that the joint themes of work and daylight are developed consistently throughout Jn 1–12. In John 11, the reader is made aware that the last hour of Jesus’ work day is at hand. As far as the redactor responsible for Jn 1–12 is concerned, the story has reached its end at the close of ch. 12: the life and light of all humankind (1:3-5) has completed his mission. The raising of Lazarus from the dead is the last, culminating work of Jesus in the daylight and manifested Jesus’ glory, which is also the glory of God (v. 4; cf. 1:14 and 2:11).19

17. Cf. 7:2-10: Jesus rejects his brothers’ request to follow them to Jerusalem, but then he does travel there after all. 18. The daylight scheme will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 7. Scholars disagree on the redactional level of the scheme. For instance, von Wahlde (The Gospel and Letters of John, 1: xxiv) sees it as a creation of the final editor who also paired this scheme with the concept of “night.”; I argue that the “day and night” scheme (denoting Jesus’ ministry and passion) is the passion redactor’s relecture of the predecessor’s daylight scheme (which covered the whole of Jesus’ mission). In addition, von Wahlde refers the “hour” imagery to the second edition (ibid.), while I hold that it is a hallmark of the passion redaction. These differences between von Wahlde’s analysis and mine have considerable consequences for how we see Johannine redaction history. In the present pericope, it is more natural to regard the whole block of material in 11:4-15 (except for v. 5a, which is from the passion redactor) as the earlier redactor’s insertion. 19. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 387, thinks that “the word glory brings in a new emphasis. It is a special feature of John’s presentation of the Passion as the supreme manifestation of

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After Jesus’ dialogue with his disciples in vv. 4-15, the second time the redactor of Jn 1–12 is heavily engaged in the story is with Martha. If the short traditional story treated the two sisters as a pair, the pre-passion redactor focused on Martha in order to get through his theological interpretation of the whole story. To provide a scene for the lengthy dialogue between Jesus and Martha, the redactor has Martha meet Jesus outside Bethany (although the miracle source already had Jesus in Bethany, v. 17). In this dialogue, Martha represents a faithful believer according to most Jewish and early Christian standards: she knows that Lazarus “will rise again in the resurrection on the last day” (v. 24). She also appears to have a genuine faith in Jesus, though his brother has died: “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him” (v. 22). After his self-revelation, Jesus asks Martha: “Do you believe this?” Martha answers: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world” (vv. 26-27). This is a straightforward confession of faith which uses the high christological title “Son of God” and the epithet “the one coming into the world,” both echoing the prologue (vv. 9c.18). However, scholars have found it surprisingly difficult to decide whether or not the redactor accepts Martha’s faith as sufficient. When Jesus comes to the tomb and summons to take away the stone, Martha intervenes (v. 39): “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Did she not believe that Jesus could raise Lazarus? This is a pertinent question, but I think that it is partially a misapprehension to question Martha’s faith because of her realistic remark. For one thing, the intervention in v. 39 may well belong to the original miracle story. It highlights the human understanding of the irrevocability of death and the natural lack of understanding the extraordinary power of Jesus. Also, the self-revelation of Jesus as the resurrection and life (v. 25) would lose its force if the audience already believed that Jesus would raise Lazarus. Thus, the narrative logic demands that nobody expects the miracle Jesus performs. In this respect, Martha’s faith is as complete as it can be at the moment—that is, before Jesus reveals his power over death. There is one aspect, however, that makes Martha’s faith clearly insufficient to the redactor. Her resurrection faith was oriented to the future resurrection (“on the last day”), whereas Jesus promises life here and now. Many commentators see here a proximity to gnostic ideas, and this may not be quite misleading, but the developed gnostic systems only emerge in the second century. At the same time, it must be stressed that the background of the pre-passion redactor’s eschatology need not be searched outside the emergent Christian movement. According to 2 Timothy—a deutero-Pauline letter from the first half of the second century—there were those who claimed that the resurrection has already taken place (2 Tim. 2:18). This seems roughly parallel to Jn 11:25. However, it may

the glory of God to Christ; cf 12:23; 13:31. From this point of view the raising of Lazarus is a clue to the meaning of the Passion.” However, this specific “point of view” belongs to the passion redaction.

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be an overstatement to claim that there is a direct line from Jn 11:25 to the view opposed in 2 Tim. 2:18.20 The latter verse is only a short second-hand fragment and indicates the letter writer’s own interpretation of the opponents’ teaching. A comparison between Rom. 6:6-8 and Col. 2:12 shows how easily the Pauline balance between “already now—not yet” could be streamlined in favor of present eschatology. For Paul, the believers were already crucified and dead with Christ, but their resurrection—unlike Christ’s resurrection—lies in the future: “For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” (Rom. 6:6-8). Paul’s theological finesse was too subtle even for the “orthodox” post-Pauline writer of Colossians, who in fact stated that the believers have already risen from the dead: “When you were buried with him in baptism, you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead” (Col. 2:12). Perhaps the qualification “through faith” should be interpreted as modifying the manner of the Christians’ resurrection; nevertheless, it is easy to see why Paul’s fine distinction was hard to maintain. For Paul, too, the believers were already somehow living a “resurrection life” because their old nature had died, or in any case should be regarded as dead. The decisive turn in the Christian life was baptism, where the ritual itself was a concrete performance of the turn from death (i.e., the former life) to a new life—so why not call the new life resurrection? Even Paul believed that the new life that had begun with faith in Christ would continue ever after, irrespective of death. Two convictions prevented Paul from saying that the believers had already been resurrected. The first was of a “dogmatic” kind: he believed in the general resurrection that would take place at Christ’s coming. Thus, the present life in Christ could only be an anticipation of the future resurrection life. The second conviction was more existential, namely the agonistic perception of life as a struggle toward a goal. This agonistic trait asserted itself in the perceived antagonism between flesh and spirit: the flesh, the carnal old self, was not quite dead and buried. The Christian was therefore still a battlefield between opposite forces, but the goal was toward perfection. In theory, this would result in a progressive view of the Christian life. In practice, however, Paul often took refuge to a simpler shortcut scheme, where the good (the elect saints) stood against the bad (the outsiders). It is this shortcut variant that we have in the earlier Johannine Gospel. In both Pauline and post-Pauline theology, baptism was the starting point as the concrete watershed between the former and the new life. Baptism was also the moment of receiving the Spirit. This is, as far I can see, the common ground for most early Christian theologizing, including the theology of the Johannine authors. The redactor responsible for the main bulk of Jn 1–12, in his conviction that Jesus is “resurrection and life” (11:25), also thought that for those who had faith in Jesus had received the Spirit when baptized. In Jn 3:5-6, baptismal water

20. Thus, however, Joseph Wagner, Auferstehung und Leben: Joh 11,1 – 12,19 als Spiegel johanneisher Redaktions – und Theologiegeschichte (Biblische Untersuchungen 19; Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1988), 448–49.

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and Spirit go together in Jesus’ reply to Nicodemus: “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.” Here, we also see the Pauline shortcut that posits a sharp distinction between those inside and those outside: there is no progress or agony, there are just those who have been born again from the Spirit and all the rest who have not. Already in the prologue of the Gospel, we sense this sharp dualism: those who have faith are born, “not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God” (1:13). Although the Johannine predecessor’s baptismal theology has common early Christian roots, it has some distinctive elements and a specific imagery. The first distinctive element is the focus on Jesus as the giver and source of life (which is also the “resurrection”). This is evident in the prologue (1:4) and again in 11:25. In Jn 7:37-38, Jesus is presented as the source of the life-giving water, that is, the Spirit.21 In Jn 4:13-14, Jesus in his discussion with the Samaritan woman likewise speaks of the water he can give. The second distinctive element is that, instead of birth, the idea of birthing God’s children is emphasized. To be sure, this is a Pauline metaphor as well (cf. Gal. 4:19; 1 Cor. 4:15), but in Jn 1–12 it is Jesus who has the mission of begetting new children of God. The metaphorical field is even expanded to include the idea of Jesus’ bride. The imagery of bridegroom and bride is developed in the predecessor gospel in Jn 2–4, as I will discuss in a later chapter. The nuptial allusions serve the theme of begetting new life, that is, children of God, and for this task female mediation is needed. On a general symbolic level John 11 can be seen as advancing this theme, because the sisters are mediators whose assistance (the request, 11:3) is needed in order to bring Lazarus back to life. It is not excluded that the idea of Jesus’ bride was effective in a more specific way in the tradition-history of the story. Although the predecessor’s main interest seems to lie elsewhere, Martha may be said to fulfill something of the bridal function: the idea of new life given by Jesus is manifested through the raising of Lazarus and is explained in Jesus’ words to Martha. To the extent that there is a fuller embodiment of the “bride” in the present story, she is Mary, whose role has been emphasized by the passion redactor. Then, however, the bridal associations take a new critical turn. Mary is now involved in the death of Jesus, as the one who anoints Jesus in preparation for his burial (12:3-8). This role, too, is in a real sense bridal; for the passion redactor, the final and decisive act of begetting God’s children is through the death of the seed (12:24). Another Mary, the Magdalene, is present at the crucifixion (19:25), weeps at the tomb,

21. John 7:37-38 is notoriously obscure, because the one from within whom the living water flows can be interpreted as either Jesus or the believer. Kruse, John, 193, rightly points out that the main idea is nevertheless clear: “In the end it does not really matter which alternative is chosen, because the living water, the Holy Spirit, is given by Jesus to his followers. . . . Once given, it may well up to eternal life within them or flow out of them like streams of living water, but always its source is Jesus.” As in Jn 4:13-24, Jesus is the giver, but when one drinks, the water is within oneself.

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and then meets the risen Lord (20:11-18). If this is a love story, the prohibition to cling to Jesus (v. 17) marks its end, but again the essential female function is one of mediator: “Go to my brothers and tell them.” While this is another Mary, her function unites her with the one from Bethany, and it seems possible that the final Johannine author is already beginning to fuse the two women.22 Many commentators observe that Jesus’ self-revelatory speech to Martha in 11:25 practically makes the miracle obsolete.23 There is some truth in this observation, as we will see. It is also customary to claim that the “Evangelist” is highly critical of a faith based on miracles, but this I think is a wrong conclusion. After all, the redactor of Jn 1–12 has regularly used miracle stories as the basis for Jesus’ self-revelation. When Jesus transformed water into wine at Cana, the redactor interpreted this miracle as a manifestation of Jesus’ glory, and there is no critique of the disciples’ faith occasioned by this miracle. Quite the contrary, it was the sign that made the disciples believe (2:11). What the Johannine redactor criticized was rather that people—“the Jews”—did not believe in Jesus despite so many signs, and to the extent they did believe, they did not have the courage to confess their faith (cf. 12:37-43). While miracle faith as such was no embarrassment for the redactor, the raising of Lazarus was slightly unfitting in another respect. The story is not really about resurrection—neither in the eschatological sense nor in the sense that eternal life begins here and now. Lazarus was only brought back to ordinary life and was thus subject to physical death some time later (or sooner, 12:10). The remark in 11:25 that the believer will live “even though he die” seemingly removes part of the difficulty: physical death does not affect the believer’s spiritual life. The predecessor gospel does not tell if Lazarus had such faith in Jesus, but it does stress that Martha believed in resurrection on the last day. Since Lazarus was raised, the reader might conclude that he too had a faith in Christ. But if Lazarus was therefore spiritually “living” while physically dead, then why was it necessary to raise him physically? The miracle story was about the best possible example the Johannine author could use to concretize his message. Indeed, a story that would suit his abstract message perfectly is hard to imagine: how could one depict the living dead? Thus, the problem the redactor met was caused by the incompatibility of available narrative means and the theological idea. Only by raising Lazarus could Jesus say to Martha: “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” (v. 40) Previously Jesus had promised his disciples that the illness of Lazarus would be “for the glory of God” and would help them believe (v. 4). To increase the impact of the miracle on the narrative audience—the by-standing Jews—and to indicate that the miracle shows God’s (and not just Jesus’ own) glory,

22. See Mary Ann Beavis, “Reconsidering Mary of Bethany,” CBQ 74 (2012), 281–97. 23. Jacob Kremer, Lazarus: Die Geschichte einer Auferstehung; Text,Wirkungsgeschichte und Botschaft von Joh 11,1-46 (Stuttgart; Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1985), 108, puts the problem succinctly by speaking of the two Höhepunkte of the story: Jesus’ Selbtstoffenbarung and Auferweckungstat.

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the redactor lets Jesus direct a prayer to God before calling Lazarus out of the tomb. Unfortunately, the remark in v. 42 makes plain that this gesture is just for show: “I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” While the redactor’s high spirituality collides with the physical miracle, his high christology makes Jesus’ plea to his Father basically unnecessary. While there were moot points in this heavily amplified and interpreted miracle story, the recipe for human salvation and eternal life is clear: life comes from Life. The work that Father had given his Son was to be completed during the daylight. In fact, the Son was the (day)light, “the true light, which enlightens everyone” (1:9), and his task was to bring people to light (3:20) and, through divine begetting, to help them become children of God (1:12). With Jesus’ coming into the world, light was shining in the darkness and though many rejected it, “the darkness did not overcome it” (1:5). In view of this theology, the idea of Jesus’ death is unthinkable. How could the life and light of humankind die? Having completed his mission, the “Man from Heaven”24 would simply return to where he came from. The last words of Jesus, before he “departed and hid” from the world, were: “While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light” (12:37). To be sure, the Johannine community that this pre-passion gospel addressed, had burning unanswered questions. Where is Jesus now? Has he abandoned his children orphans in a hostile world? The first farewell speech in John 14, as well as the farewell prayer of Jesus for his own ones in John 17, try to answer these agonizing questions. But if Jesus just returned home to his Father without first dying on the cross, how could he be resurrection and life? The raising of Lazarus certainly presupposed his dying first, but with Jesus things might be imagined otherwise. In some second- and third-century gospels as well as in later Islamic traditions, the death of the Christ was really denied.25 However, since the death and resurrection of Jesus was proclaimed programmatically by Paul in the early 50s CE and was part of the tradition he had received (1 Cor. 15:3-4), it is not likely that the Johannine author or his community were completely unaware of this tradition. The idea of Jesus’ resurrection was a minor problem, because, like the imagery of ascension, it was basically a way of asserting that Jesus is still living in another reality. The problem was the death part of the scheme. A similar reluctance to narrate the death of Jesus is seen in the Q Gospel, although the cross is there used as a symbol for Christian life. Belief in the resurrection of the dead is also attested in Q.26

24. Cf. Wayne A. Meeks, “Man from Heaven,” discussed in Chapter 3. Meeks’s interpretation suits better the predecessor’s redaction of Jn 1–12 than the final Gospel, although the descent/ascent pattern is explicated in the final redaction, where the manner of Jesus’ return to heaven is shown to be a “glorification” through death. 25. See Chapter 9. 26. Q 11:31-32 describes the general resurrection at the day of doom. In the description of Q 17:26-37, resurrection appears as a sudden rapture of the righteous ones.

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If it is likely that the early Johannine community knew the passion-resurrection scheme, Jn 11:25 is best understood as an alternative interpretation of that scheme, or an acceptance of part of the scheme. The living Jesus is the source, not just of eternal life, but of resurrection as well. Principally, Jesus is the Life of humankind. He will not die any more than God himself can die. He is the primordial Logos who dwelt on earth a little while and then returned to his heavenly residence, yet remained visible for his own people. However, by birthing those who believe in him to be children of God, he also raises them from their previous existence of death into eternal life. Accordingly, Jesus is resurrection and life by virtue of his power to resurrect from death to eternal life those who believe in him—not in a distant future but here and now.27 In other words, resurrection is here equivalent to rebirth.

In the Shadow of the Passion For the earlier Johannine author, Jesus’ work was accomplished within the twelve hours of daylight. The passion redactor, however, had read from Jn 1–12 that after the daytime night will come (9:4b). The passion redactor then proceeds to narrate what happened in the long night (13:30b) when Jesus was betrayed, arrested, crucified—and rose from the dead. This is Jesus’ second work, a work accomplished too late to benefit those who had rejected him but a salvific event for his own people. The author who first crafted the daylight scheme seems not aware of this dramatic relecture of the working day idea. In his narrative world, the story would come to an end when Jesus leaves the stage at the end of ch. 12—when the Light and Life of humankind had manifested his glory in the world and departed before the darkness could seize him. In reworking the Lazarus story, the passion redactor did not change much within the earlier text but only added a few remarks. The more substantial redaction was by means of larger-scale editorial work, where the expanded miracle story was set in a completely new framework. However, there are several minor additions that reveal the redactor’s overarching passion perspective. In 11:4 the concluding “so that” clause comes very likely from this late redactor: “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may

27. The resurrection language thus coheres with the birthing imagery in Jn 1:12-13 and 3:1-8. The emphasis on faith is also an integral part of this theology. Cf. Walter Wink, “‘The Son of Man’ in the Gospel of John,” in Robert T. Fortna and Tom Thatcher (eds.), Jesus in Johannine Tradition (Louisville, London and Leiden: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 117– 23; p. 123: “John’s repeated use of the verb ‘to believe’ has usually been taken in the sense of a creed: believing that Jesus is the Son of God. In light of our discussion, we might interpret ‘to believe’ as something more akin to the ‘birth from above,’ or ‘rebirth,’ that Jesus discusses with Nicodemus. . . . It is to die, to enter the womb for a second time, and to be reborn to the other world.”

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be glorified through it.”28 While the earlier redactor used “glory” as a theological catchword to describe the heavenly origin and nature of the incarnate Son, the passion redactor tended to use the corresponding verb and especially its passive form to refer to the death and resurrection of Jesus as a means of glorifying God. The use of “to be glorified” in 11:4 thus implies that the raising of Lazarus, while showing God’s glory, will also be the reason for Jesus’ “glorification,” that is, his return to heaven through death and resurrection. In 12:28, Jesus prays to God: “Father, glorify your name.” Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.” The double glorification has been interpreted variously, but the most natural sense can be deduced directly from the passion redactor’s literary plan, which was a relecture of the previous literary work as a whole. During Jesus’ work day the name of his Father has been glorified through the miraculous signs, as the predecessor’s gospel showed. The passion redactor, however, knew that Jesus’ mission was to include another work, to be completed at the cross (“It is finished,” 19:30) or perhaps still later, when Jesus had ascended to his Father (20:17) or given the Holy Spirit to his disciples (20:22-23).29 The passion-oriented glorification language is paradoxical, for it is not customary to think of death as glorious—in Hellenistic Roman culture a death could be noble30 but hardly glorious in the Johannine sense. In Jn 21:19, the narrator comments on the resurrected Jesus’ words to Peter as indicating “the kind of death by which he would glorify God.” Because Jesus had told Peter that his destiny was to be taken “where you do not wish to go,” the glorification language has here ironic overtones. Irony, paradox, misunderstandings and riddles are typical of Johannine redaction history at large.

28. For example Georg Richter, Studien zum Johannesevangelium (Biblische Untersuchungen; Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1977), 285–86, and Wagner, Auferstehung und Leben 179–83, argue that this ἵνα-clause (11:4d) is a later addition. However, according to their analyses the Evangelist has added this clause to the underlying Semeia or Grundschrift text. 29. The ambivalence concerning Jesus’ final departure is heightened by the last appearance story in John 21. At the end of the Gospel, Jesus is still on the shore of the Galilean sea, together with his nearest disciples. One is reminded of the closing scene of Matthew, where Jesus commissions his eleven disciples but is never allowed to leave— instead, he promises to be “with” the disciples till the end of days (Mt. 28:20). Narrative is not to be confused with theological doctrine, of course, but it voice latent wishes that cannot be articulated in seemingly unequivocal doctrinal formulations. 30. “Noble death” as a Greco-Roman ideal has been discussed in early Christian studies especially since David Seeley, The Noble Death: Greco-Roman Martyrology and Paul’s Concept of Salvation (JSNTSup 28; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990).

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Another instance where the passion redactor seems to have been involved is 11:16.31 The verse stands somewhat superfluous in the context. Jesus had already said that they should go to Lazarus (v. 15), when “Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’” Thus, 11:16 looks like an accentuating relecture of Jesus’ words. Thomas is mentioned in the list of the twelve apostles in Mk 3:18 (par Mt. 10:3/Lk. 6:15 and Acts 1:13). Apart from 11:16 he is not mentioned in Jn 1–12 but figures in Jn 14:6, 20:24 and 21:2. Thomas thus seems to be of special concern for the passion-resurrection narrative. His role in 20:24 as “doubting Thomas” is well known, but scholars disagree on whether he is a positive or a negative model for discipleship. In 11:16, too, his role seems ambivalent.32 However, if we take his words as they stand in the present context, he clearly gives voice to the disciples’ bad feelings (cf. v. 8), which the passion redactor knew were well-founded: Jesus would really die.33 At the same time, Thomas’s readiness to die with Jesus was premature, as would also be Peter’s willingness to die for Jesus (13:37-38).34 At the end of the second farewell speech, in 16:31-32, the passion redactor criticizes the positive picture given of the disciples’ understanding in the preceding verses, letting Jesus say: “Do you now believe? The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, each one to his home, and you will leave me alone.” The disciples would not die with Jesus, not at that time at least. The passion redactor thus seems to use Thomas approximately the way he exploits “the Jews” a little later in vv. 35-37: by letting the characters inadvertently and partly misunderstanding reveal the divine plot.35

31. Wagner, Auferstehung und Leben, 113–24, has a thorough discussion of this verse and concludes that it is penned by the “redactor,” which in his model comes after the “Evangelist” and represents the latest redactional phase. 32. Sylva, Thomas – Love as Strong as Death, 11–62, gleans too much information from this one verse. It is by no means evident, for example, that Thomas here embodies “Spartan” values (pp. 34–37), that the saying of light and darkness in 11:9-10 has direct bearing on 11:16 (pp. 38–50), or that Thomas “contradicts the central message of Jesus” (p. 62). The thesis that Thomas is “a liminal adapter” who “enables the disciples to cross their threshold of intolerance to the opposition of Jesus” (p. 24) has some plausibility, but not in the way Sylva proposes. The contrast in 20:24-29 between Thomas and the other disciples cannot be read into 11:16, where Thomas voices the bad feelings of all the disciples, assents to Jesus’ decision to go to Judea and then seems to follow Jesus together with the other disciples. 33. Kremer, Lazarus, 63, sees here a parallel to the fear of the disciples on the way to Jerusalem in Mk 10:32. 34. Labahn, Jesus als Lebensspender, 414, suggests that Thomas might here represent the later Johannine community in a situation of persecution. I think the scene is too ambivalent to function as a positive paradigm of discipleship. However, Labahn’s argument that 11:16 is redactional because it takes up the theme of v. 8 and is disturbing after Jesus’ words in v. 15 is valid. 35. Cf. Kremer, Lazarus, 355: “Vielleicht hat Thomas nach der Ansicht des Erzählers Jesus nicht ganz verstanden und auch selbst nicht ganz erfasst, was er sagt.”

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Thomas may have grasped the fatal outcome of Jesus’ decision to help Lazarus, but he—like Peter a little later—did not understand that the “hour” of Jesus was his alone. While the predecessor had employed Martha as the vehicle of his theological message, the passion redactor—rather than deleting his predecessor’s message— used Mary to articulate his own interpretation. Jesus’ self-revelation in the dialogue with Martha was the center of gravity in the previous redaction (11:20-27), but now the passion redactor elaborated on Mary’s role as the reminder of Jesus’ death and burial.36 The dialogue between Jesus and Mary mainly repeats the rebuke Martha had already voiced. However, the passion redactor has other means of narrativizing his theology. He does so partly by portraying Mary through other characters, partly by letting Jesus himself signal the approaching passion. Mary is surrounded by Jews who have come to mourn together with the sisters.37 When she comes to meet Jesus, the Jews follow her assuming that she is going to the tomb (vv. 32-37). When Jesus sees Mary and the Jews weeping, “he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (v. 33). Jesus’ reaction is oddly twofold: he is “disturbed” (or “angry”) but also “moved.” The first description is modified so that Jesus gets angry “in spirit,” which is a strange combination, because anger is usually directed at an outside object (in this case Mary and the Jews, or rather the nonbelieving attitude they show by weeping). The second description that Jesus was “moved” corresponds to v. 35: “Jesus began to weep.” Here, the contradiction between the two descriptions becomes evident: how can Jesus first be angry at the mourners’ weeping, and then himself burst into tears? The best explanation, I think, is that the first reaction comes from the early tradition endorsed by the redactor of Jn 1–12: the miracle man, or omnipotent Son, is annoyed to see such unbelief. The passion redactor has added the notion of Jesus’ weeping, and edited the previous description of Jesus’ reaction by modifying the anger so that it was “in spirit” and adding that Jesus was greatly moved. Jesus’ weeping makes visible “the sharp contradiction” to the earlier form of the story, according to which “Jesus is incensed at the crowd’s mourning.”38

36. Sylva, Thomas – Love as Strong as Death, 50–58, interprets Mary’s role as similar to that of Thomas and opposite to that of Martha. I cannot see a fundamental difference in the characterizations of Martha and Mary. Mary is hardly “muted” (Sylva, p. 54) in the Lazarus story, but, since the predecessor had given Martha a prominent role, there was not much that Mary could add to the story. Instead she has an active role in the anointing story. 37. The role of the accompanying Jews was important to the passion redactor, because the unbelieving among them reported the Pharisees what Jesus had done (11:45-46) and thereby launched the process that led to the council’s decision to kill Jesus. 38. Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology, 167. I have modified my reference because Schnelle’s redactional model only separates “redaction” that produced the final Gospel and “tradition” which does not seem to be a written document.

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But why did the passion redactor want to depict a distressed and weeping Jesus? Scholars who see here the work of a late hand customarily interpret that his aim was to stress the humanity of Jesus against some docetic heresy (which is then identified as the standpoint of the opponents mentioned in 1 John).39 This is not quite wrong, but I suggest that the problem concerned more specifically the death of Jesus. The predecessor of the passion redactor narrated the raising of Lazarus as an alternative to the passion tradition. The Source of Life could not die, but during his mission on earth as the one sent by his Father, he rebirthed or raised into eternal life those who accepted his message. The recipe was life from Life. The passion redactor, obviously influenced by the growing impact of (post-) Pauline churches and particularly the Gospels of Mark and Matthew, crafted a new recipe: life from death. The new life of the believers was made possible by the death of Jesus. Then, of course, the gift of the Spirit would be given first after Jesus’ glorification through death. The weeping Jesus is not just a human person, but one who anticipates his own death as the only Son of God and as the source of humankind’s life. It is the passion redactor—and not the author of Jn 1–12—who interprets the raising of Lazarus proleptically as pointing to Jesus’ death and resurrection. To be sure, the passion redactor was not quite content with the Markan or Matthean presentation of the passion story. Like his predecessor, and much more than the miracle tradition before him, the passion redactor depicted a hero who was fully in charge of the events around him. According to Mark, Jesus was distressed in Gethsemane and “threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him” (Mk 14:35). The Johannine passion redactor was dismayed by such a portrayal of Jesus and removed the Gethsemane episode altogether. Not content with a mere omission, he also provided his alternative to Jesus’ Gethsemane prayer in another context (Jn 12:27-28): “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” Then a heavenly voice responds: “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.” Typically, and in a way reminiscent of 11:42,40 the redactor lets Jesus say to the crowds (12:30): “This voice has come for your sake, not for mine.” Thus the Johannine Jesus is allowed to be troubled, but, as in 13:21 when he announces the traitor, his passionate reaction also signals his divine foreknowledge. His reaction before Mary and the attendant Jews shows that he knew what

39. Thus especially Schnelle (ibid.), who adds other instances of the redactor’s emphasis on Jesus’ human reactions and feelings. However, it is not clear that all the descriptions of Jesus’ emotions stress his humanity; the God of the Hebrew Bible also had strong emotions. 40. Before removing the stone from Lazarus’ tomb, Jesus thanks his Father and says: “I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” Jesus’ prayer at the tomb comes probably from the predecessor’s redaction in Jn 1–12. Jesus’ new prayer in Jn 12:27-30, which comes from the passion redaction, combines the Gethsemane prayer with the tomb prayer.

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would happen—before the plot to kill him was made (11:47-53). The Jews who concluded that Jesus wept because he loved Lazarus so much (11:36) were not quite wrong, after all. What they could not foresee was that Jesus would give his life, not only for his beloved friend Lazarus,41 but for all his people (cf. 11:51-52) and friends (15:13-14).42 The detailed description of the clothing of the resuscitated Lazarus in vv. 43-44 parallel and partly contrast with the description of the first disciples’ findings in the empty tomb. Whichever the direction of influence was in the passion redactor’s planning, the resulting effects of anticipation (through similarity) and culmination (through contrast) are certainly purposeful. That Jesus “cried with a loud voice” (v. 43) as he called Lazarus out from the tomb recalls Jesus’ words in 5:28-29: “The hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and will come out.” A deliberate allusion to this saying by the same redactor has been rejected on the grounds that the former saying reflects future eschatology, while the “Evangelist” responsible for the dialogue between Martha and Jesus in vv. 21-27 stands for realized eschatology.43 Since I refer the resurrection and life dialogue to the “Evangelist” of Jn 1–12, there is no obstacle to seeing here the passion redactor’s deliberate allusion to 5:28-29, regardless of whether this saying is traditional or phrased by the passion redactor. How the tradition used by the pre-passion author thought of the last things is uncertain, but probably it was more mainstream Jewish than the predecessor gospel’s present eschatology. The passion redactor entertains a future eschatology (cf. 21:23) like most of his contemporary Christ-believers. Finally, the theme of Jesus’ love is the passion redactor’s great concern. Its importance is not quite obvious in the story itself, but when we come to 13:1-2 its centrality is all the more evident. The few places where the redactor brings in the

41. Several commentators suggest a connection between Jesus’ love for Lazarus and the Beloved Disciple introduced in the passion narrative. It is certainly a misinterpretation to identify “the disciple whom Jesus loved” with Lazarus, as suggested, for example, by Charlesworth, The Beloved Disciple. Instead, the relationship can be one of relecture: the passion redactor, who invented the character of the Beloved Disciple, may have in part been inspired by the figure of Lazarus. 42. There is one more instance in the Lazarus story where the passion redactor may have intervened, namely the precise description of the burial clothes of Lazarus (11:44) which seems to foreshadow the description of the remaining linen wrappings and cloth after Jesus’ resurrection (20:6-7). It is difficult to determine, however, whether the passion redactor added the details in the Lazarus story or shaped the story of the empty tomb in view of the Lazarus story. 43. Cf. Labahn, Jesus als Lebensspender, 432, who cautions against an Interpretationszusammenhang by referring to the literary (or redaction-critical) problem: “Dabei wird allerdings das literarische Problem der futurisch-eschatologischen Aussagen in Joh 5, 28f nicht hinreichend gewürdigt.” Labahn seems to prefer a connection on the level of tradition (p. 233).

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theme in John 11 are needed to prepare for the love theme’s treatment in the latter half of the Gospel. It is likely that the formulation of the sisters’ request in 11:3, including the phrase ὃν φιλεῖς, comes from his pen, because it is somewhat out of place in the narrative. There is no previous mention of Jesus’ acquaintance with Lazarus or the Bethany family, and the introduction of the story only referred to a “certain” sick person named Lazarus. In synoptic healing stories Jesus’ acquaintance with and love for a person is not used as a motivation for Jesus’ willingness to help. In addition, the vocative Κύριε in the same verse is often indicative of late redaction.44 A few verses later, the passion redactor’s intervention is clearer. The predecessor’s text included, as I have argued, the remarkable idea that Jesus intentionally delayed his journey to make sure that Lazarus was dead since four days at his arrival. For the passion redactor, such lack of human sensitivity was intolerable,45 so he asserted again Jesus’ love for Lazarus and his sisters. The effect of this remark is less fortunate, because the reader wonders how Jesus’ love for his friend motivates his delay. But while the addition is technically unlucky, the redactor has at least tried to alleviate the psychological dilemma of Jesus’ behavior by pointing out that whatever Jesus chose to do, it was motivated by love.46 The image of a weeping Jesus coheres with the emphasis of love and the consideration for human feelings,47 and stands in contrast to the predecessor’s lofty but psychologically insensitive hero.48 The Jews who saw Jesus’ reaction

44. See von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:237-241. According to von Wahlde, the religious use of κύριος is typical of the third edition, while the secular sense (“master, sir”) appears already in the earliest edition. In commenting on John 11, von Wahlde refers v. 3 to the earliest edition (2:495) but v. 27 to the third edition (2:494). However, it may plausible be argued κύριος is used here in a religious, confessional sense, see Esler and Piper, Lazarus, Mary and Martha, 80. 45. I will argue later that the passion redactor was much more psychologically attuned than the earlier redactor, whose christological concerns overshadowed mundane relations. Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, makes no such distinction in concluding that “Jesus is demonstrably less emotional than in the synoptic gospels” (p. 111). 46. Sproston North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition, 136–38, ascribes the two motifs of delay and love to the same redactor. Not surprisingly, she regards Jn 11:5-6 as “one of the strangest moments in the entire Gospel” (p. 136). 47. This concern is often seen as typical of the Gospel as a whole; see, for example, Marianne Meye Thompson, The Incarnate Word: Perspectives on Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Peabody, MA: J. C. B. Mohr Siebeck [Paul Siebeck], 1988); Petr Pokorný, “Der irdische Jesus im Johannesevangelium,” NTS 30 (1984), 217–28; Stephen Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions in the Fourth Gospel (Library of New Testament Studies 284; London: T&T Clark International, 2005; see also Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotion in the Gospels (London: T&T Clark International, 2011), 151–213. 48. The tension in the portrayal of Jesus is passed unnoticed when, as for instance in Fortna’s analysis (The Fourth Gospel and its Predecessor, 99–100), both 11:6, 15 and 11:35 are referred to the same (final) level of redaction.

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interpreted it in opposite ways: either positively as due to his love for Lazarus, or scornfully as proof of his inability as healer. There is often deliberative irony in the Johannine narrators’ dealing with the Jews’ and other characters’ responses to Jesus, as they misunderstand Jesus yet somehow catch a glimpse of the true meaning without knowing it. If Jesus’ weeping was directed at the unbelieving Jews, their misinterpretation would be too massive to allow any ironic overtones. If, on the other hand, they understood rightly that Jesus’ weeping had to do with the death of Lazarus, whether it be a sign of love or helplessness, their misunderstanding would be only partial and could be a basis for some more profound understanding of Jesus’ reaction. Those Jews who appreciated Jesus’ reaction as a sign of sorrow for a lost friend would then be right, but they would not grasp the whole significance of Jesus’ self-giving love to the point of death. Those who scorned Jesus would be right to the extent that Jesus did not prevent Lazarus from dying, but they failed to see that Jesus was able to do much more. Yet, paradoxically, Jesus himself would not be saved from death (cf. Mk 15:31: Ἄλλους ἔσωσεν, ἑαυτὸν οὐ δύναται σῶσαι). Whatever the passion redactor thought of the motives of the bystanders, the most important message was directed to the readers. They should notice that more was at stake than the raising of a physically dead man. A miracle man and the origin of eternal life was not the true identity of Jesus. The Savior of humankind was not a foreigner to human suffering, but one who would himself suffer death as the crucified One. There was a wound—a reminder of death—that marked the Giver of life from now on.

The Bethany Siblings—Johannine Prototypes? In their study of the Bethany family, Philip Esler, and Ronald Piper apply social identity theory and memory studies to show that the three Johannine characters function as exemplars or prototypes of community members. John would be “proposing Lazarus, Martha and Mary as maximally representative of the identity of the group and seeking to lodge these figures permanently in its collective memory.”49 Certainly the family picture—with intimations of friendship (11:3; cf. 15:15)—is suggestive of an ideal community, especially if the feast in 12:1-8 is seen as a community gathering on the Lord’s Day.50 The way of referring to communities as “sisters” in 2 Jn 1:13 is also noteworthy. The Bethany family stands for a community of believers who live in mutual love and are loved by Jesus. However,

49. Esler and Piper, Lazarus, Mary and Martha, 100. Interestingly Lazarus, Mary and Martha, “collective memory” here refers to the creation of a new memory. 50. Thus Esler and Piper, Lazarus, Mary and Martha, 62. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:524, comments that “there is no symbolism derived from the timing of the meal.”

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apart from such general in-group resonances it is difficult to see a deliberate effort to depict the characters as different types of community members.51 Esler and Piper stress the realistic, even pessimistic outlook of the prototypical community. The outside word is evil, and death is a reality for the believers.52 The notion that the adversaries planned to kill Lazarus (12:10) suits this interpretation well. At the same time, we should observe that this “realism” is an aspect of the author’s dualistic worldview and therefore highly ideological. According to my hypothesis, these traits in the story come from the same author who turned Jesus’ greatest sign into a prelude to his death.

51. Most of the alleged differentiation between the sisters is based on Lk. 10:38-42. That Martha confesses faith and serves at the table while Mary anoints Jesus’ feet seems only a distribution of narrative roles. Lazarus has no voice, he is just dead, resuscitated, and dining. Esler and Piper (Lazarus, Mary and Martha, 64–74) try to enrich the story of Mary by arguing that the ointment Nicodemus brought with him (19:39) was in fact supplied by Mary. So Mary used no more than one percent of her supply to anoint Jesus’ feet. 52. Esler and Piper, Lazarus, Mary and Martha, 95–96.

Chapter 6 REMEMBERING THE NEW PAST: THE PASSION STORYLINE IN JOHN 1–12

The work of the passion redactor was not confined to the passion story proper, or to its immediate anticipation in the Lazarus story and its sequel, the council’s decision to let Jesus die for the nation. In this chapter, I will analyze some techniques the redactor employed in order to legitimate the new Johannine Gospel and to make the transition from the predecessor to the final text smoother. The passion redactor was intent on showing that his message is in accordance with that which was “in the beginning” (Jn 1:1-18, 1 Jn 1:1-3). This was no easy task, because the proclamation of the cross was not in the beginning of Johannine storytelling and theologizing.1 At the end of this chapter, I will also look for indications that the Markan type of passion story was already disputed in the Johannine community before the passion redactor’s enterprise. The probability that the passion story was in some ways known to the community follows from the observation that the Johannine passion story is not a direct literary reproduction of the Markan or Matthean story, but is orally mediated. Under such circumstances, it is likely that the redactor was not alone in his community to be familiar with the story that was untold in the predecessor work.

The “Remembering” Disciples The passion redactor’s overall decision was to incorporate the predecessor text in the new gospel. Some emendations were therefore needed to redirect the old narrative. The first strategy was to show that the disciples who had witnessed the miraculous signs of Jesus remembered afterward that much else had also happened to Jesus: he was arrested, crucified, buried, and had risen. As mentioned in the first chapter, my relecture approach to John was originally encouraged by the motif of

1. Cf. de Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 236, commenting on Jn 6:5158: “Further, this denial or neglect of the importance of Jesus’ death is actually ‘what was from the beginning’ (cf. 1 John 1:1; 2:7; 3:11) of Johannine communal history, where the death of Jesus played a subordinate role. . . . The secessionists have a case.”

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the disciples’ “remembering” in 2:22, 12:16 and 20:9. These and other hindsight devices are well known in Johannine research and are often taken as indication of the Gospel’s truly hermeneutical nature: the community and “the Evangelist” look back to the earthly Jesus in the bright light of their post-Easter experience, in the guidance of the Spirit/Paraclete. There is no question that the hindsight devices unravel interpretive interests and hermeneutical awareness. But there is a much more mundane reason, too, why the motif of the disciples’ belated memory is so conspicuous in the final Gospel, namely, the need to authenticate the passionresurrection storyline. The Beloved Disciple was a useful innovation to that end, but it was not enough to have such a passion witness. The predecessor gospel, too, had to be reinterpreted to point to the death and resurrection of Jesus. The idea of a recovered memory was crafted to this end. The first occurrence of the motif is in the context of the temple cleansing, which comes immediately after the first “sign” at Cana. John 2:13-25 is composed of three units, which display distinctive characterizations of Jesus and therefore betray different layers of tradition and redaction. The temple cleansing story (2:13-16) portrays Jesus as a prophet-like character. His emotions are not described, but the action speaks for itself and corresponds to the scriptural interpretation by means of Ps. 69:9: Jesus’ “zeal” is so burning that it will eventually “consume” him (2:17). Taken in itself, the quotation is not necessarily a passion prediction, but may just describe Jesus’ holy anger.2 In the present context, the consuming zeal clearly envisages Jesus’ death, and the cleansing story is readily understandable as a part of a passion tradition. Together, the story and its scriptural backing make clear that Jesus’ action in the temple was a major reason—or the reason—for his death. It was also the immediate reason for Jesus’ arrest and death in Mark. The cleansing story also resembles the Markan or Matthean parallel for its concrete, straightforward style and the use of Old Testament quotations, while also showing some narrative embellishments. Instead of the Markan and Matthean quotation, according to which the temple should be “a house of prayer (for all nations),”3 Jn 2:16 has Jesus speak of “my Father’s house” which should not be made into “a house of trade.” This development was probably inspired by the word “house” in Mark and Matthew. Typically Johannine (both pre-passion and later) is the emphasis on Jesus’ close relation to his Father (cf. also “my Father’s house,” 14:2). This change is explainable as an instance of secondary orality based on the Markan or Matthean story.4 However, this is not marked as an OT quotation in John, although it seems to allude to Zech. 14:20-21.

2. Cf. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 199: “Most commentators see in καταφάγεται an allusion to the death of Jesus. . . . There seems however to be no good reason why the Psalmist and John should not both have spoken of consuming zeal.” 3. Matthew and Luke omit Mark’s “for all nations.” 4. There may also be some theological reflection behind the change. The passion redactor would not have interpreted Jesus’ action as a purification of the temple into a house of prayer, because he did not see any future function for the temple—it was superseded by

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The concluding passage (2:23-25) deals with Jesus’ “signs” (σημεῖα) and people’s faith in Jesus as a miracle worker. Despite the positive response Jesus received, he “did not entrust himself to them.” Jesus’ distancing himself from the people and his superior knowledge of human beings point to a “higher” christology than was present in the temple cleansing story, yet the passage in itself does not presuppose the passion storyline, so it comes probably from the predecessor’s work. The prepassion context of this passage might well be right here, just before the dialogue between Jesus and Nicodemus, but without the mention of the Passover festival in v. 23. The signs dispute (2:18-22) ties the other two passages together by continuing the temple theme and enhancing its reference to Jesus’ death-resurrection, and by introducing the signs theme. The latter theme was already inaugurated in 2:11 (Jesus’ first sign in Cana) and is then carried on in 2:23 and 3:2 (Nicodemus’ words to Jesus: “No one can do these signs that you do if God is not with him”). The Matthean retelling of the temple episode in 21:14-16, with its mention of Jesus’ amazing healings, may also have contributed to the ideation. This thematic coherence points to a large-scale planning, which would suit a late redactor. The passion redactor need not have invented this piece of tradition, however. Rather, it seems that the redactor combined the healings in Jerusalem, found in his prepassion source, and the temple cleansing narrative with ensuing healings that were in his (Matthean) passion tradition. The passion redactor only added the typical hindsight device in v. 22: “After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had said.” What scripture is meant here? The best candidate is obviously the one cited in v. 17,5 but then the scriptural testimony is not about resurrection, or building a new temple, but just about Jesus’ death caused by his zeal for his Father’s house. Since the passion redactor presented the raising of Lazarus as the main reason for Jesus’ death, this scriptural reference was not quite successful, but in any case the passion redactor has made the point that Jesus would die (v. 17; also v. 19 λύσατε τὸν ναὸν τοῦτον) and then be raised (vv. 19, 20). The passion redactor’s most important contribution was thus compositional. At this early stage of the Gospel story, he alerted his readers to the passion storyline and asserted that the death and resurrection of Jesus was a logical continuation of the story of the miracle man and the sovereign spokesman of the Father— indeed, it was to be his greatest sign.6 In addition to the composition, the passion redactor’s most creative contribution was the hindsight device in vv. 21-22. In the predecessor gospel, the disciples had neither witnessed the temple incident nor

the “place” of Jesus’ body (v. 21). But neither would the synoptic text have cohered with the predecessor gospel, which stressed the Spirit as the proper “place” of worship (4:20-23). 5. Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions in the Fourth Gospel, 124. 6. Thus, it was certainly not “some mistake” that the temple cleansing episode was placed here; contra J. H. Bernard, The Gospel according to John (ICC; Edinburgh: T. &. T. Clark, 1928), 1:88-89.

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heard Jesus’ enigmatic words. The passion redactor, in the guise of the narrator, therefore comments that the disciples only recalled afterward the words of Jesus and believed in the scripture (v. 22). In order to make the meaning of Jesus’ words clear, the narrator also plainly decodes the enigma in 2:21: “But the temple he was speaking of was his body.” In 12:16, the notion of the disciples’ recovered memory is used in a most revealing way. After the story of Jesus’ coming—for the very last time—to the Passover feast in Jerusalem, the narrator remarks: ταῦτα οὐκ ἔγνωσαν αὐτοῦ οἱ μαθηταὶ τὸ πρῶτον, ἀλλʼ ὅτε ἐδοξάσθη Ἰησοῦς τότε ἐμνήσθησαν ὅτι ταῦτα ἦν ἐπʼ αὐτῷ γεγραμμένα καὶ ταῦτα ἐποίησαν αὐτῷ. His disciples did not know these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him.

Many commentators read this as meaning that the disciples realized afterward that the event was prophesied in Scripture (Zech. 9:9).7 Keener, for instance, comments: “The disciples did not recognize the allusion to Zech 9:9 until after Jesus’ death and resurrection.” A few lines below, though, Keener, interprets the passage more accurately: “After Jesus’ glorification, the Spirit would come (7:39) and cause the disciples to remember Jesus’ message (14:26); his glorification thus allowed the disciples to recall Jesus’ action and understand it in light of Scripture here (12:16).”8 Keener’s latter formulation, perhaps inadvertently, takes the text at face value. The disciples’ initial ignorance concerns “these things” (ταῦτα), which most naturally refers to the narrated event as a whole. The disciples learned afterward, not only the scriptural interpretation of the event (the things that “had been written of him”) but the very event (that which “had been done to him”). Since the entrance scene inaugurates the passion story, the disciples’ ignorance is quite remarkable. We recall that in 2:22, too, the initial ignorance pertains both to the event (namely, that Jesus had said this) and its scriptural interpretation.

7. Typically Barrett, The Gospel according to St. John, 419: “Here they [the disciples] fail to see the messianic, royal, significance of the entry into Jerusalem. . . . They do not recognize in Jesus’ use of the ass the fulfilment of prophecy.” However, just below Barrett interprets ταῦτα ἐποίησαν as referring to the disciples’ involvement: “Only in the Synoptic Gospels, not in John, had they (the disciples) contributed to the event; John’s words show awareness of the older tradition, probably Mark.” This would obviously mean that the disciples, according to John, remembered only afterward that they themselves had followed Jesus’ order, untied the colt, brought it to Jesus and thrown their cloaks on it (Mk 11:1-7). That would be a truly massive loss of memory; but probably ταῦτα ἐποίησαν refers to what the crowd did. 8. Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (2 vols.; Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2003), 2:870. Emphasis added.

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In 20:9, we have the last instance of the hindsight pattern. When Peter and the Beloved Disciple had visited the empty tomb, the latter, seeing the same things in the tomb as Peter did, simply “believed.” The narrator then adds: “For as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.” As I concluded in an earlier chapter, the passion narrator’s idea was to stress that the Beloved Disciple believed in Jesus’ resurrection just because he had seen the empty tomb. At that time, neither he and Peter nor the rest of the disciples knew that this was prophesied in the scriptures, so the Beloved Disciple’s belief was based solely on what he saw. In 2:22 and 12:16 “the disciples” are those who remember afterward. Although 20:9 in its immediate context seems to refer to Peter and the Beloved Disciple, the idea seems to be the same: none of the disciples, including the first visitors to the tomb, knew from Scripture what should happen. The theme of “remembering” and the Beloved Disciple’s presence as a reliable eyewitness seem to have somewhat parallel functions as means of legitimating the passion storyline. It is not difficult to see why both means were needed. The Beloved Disciple was precisely an eyewitness, not an interpreter of Scripture; the whole group of disciples could not be present at all turns of the passion story (cf. 16:32; 18:8-9). Taken together, these different means of legitimating the passion-resurrection scheme show how strongly the final redactor felt the need of assuring his readers that things really happened this way. And besides the “disciples” and the One Disciple, there was still a third character who might be considered to confirm the story: the Paraclete. However, this role is implicit at best and certainly not attributed to the Paraclete from the beginning.

The Paraclete as a Legitimator of the Passion Story? The Paraclete is a character introduced in the farewell discourses. In the first and oldest farewell address, he is described as “another Paraclete,” which implies that Jesus, too, is a Paraclete. This coheres with 1 Joh 2:1. The (near) identity of Jesus and the Paraclete is obvious in the parallelism of their “coming” to, and into, the disciples after Jesus’ departure (cf. 14:17 and 14:23). In Raymond E. Brown’s terse words, the Paraclete is “the presence of Jesus while Jesus is absent.”9 The first farewell address also says that the Paraclete “will be with you forever” (14:15). He is the Spirit of truth, unknown to the world but known to “you” because he will “remain with you and be with you” (14:16). “The Paraclete, the Holy Spirit . . . will teach you all things and remind you of everything that I have said to you” (14:26). While the Paraclete’s function as a reminder of Jesus’ teaching is clearly stated here, the subsequent mentions of the Paraclete in chs 15–16 likewise stress his function as witnessing about Jesus (ἐκεῖνος μαρτυρήσει περὶ ἐμοῦ, 15:26). There

9. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:643. This is not the whole truth, however; see p. 178.

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are also some new functions. The Paraclete will prove the world wrong about sin, righteousness, and judgment (16:8-11). He will also “guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you all things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you” (16:13-14). The Paraclete/Spirit, then, will guide the believing community, remind of Jesus’ words, testify against the unbelieving world, and reveal the future. What is vital here, however, is that the Paraclete is not said to remind the disciples of things about the earthly Jesus that they did not “remember.” The main idea is that the Paraclete reminds the believers of Jesus’ words and teaching. To the extent that he teaches “new” things it is because these are things to come (16:13)—not because the disciples have forgotten what had happened to Jesus. However, one possible reference to the passion events is present at 16:12, where the departing Jesus says he has many things to say that the disciples are not able to “bear” at the moment. It is certainly not excluded that the passion redactor here is alluding to the “unbearable” (cf. 6:60) message of Jesus’ death. In fact, several commenters here suggest a reference to the passion storyline.10 On the whole, it may be surmised that the passion redactor, who was familiar with the farewell discourses and reshaped them, recognized that the figure of the Paraclete was useful for that end, too. Thus, the Paraclete could provide a tacit legitimation of the things the disciples “remembered” afterward concerning Jesus’ death and resurrection. In all cases, the redactor found the farewell speeches congenial to his plan. The redactor does not directly refer to the Paraclete or the Spirit when taking resort to the disciples’ failing memory. At the same time, it is clear that even if he designed the Paraclete primarily to fulfill other functions, the Johannine audience may have understood that the disciples’ recovered memory was the Spirit/Paraclete’s work.11

10. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:704, refers Jn 16:7-15 to the second edition but adds (n. 3): “It is possible that v. 12 comes from the second edition. The reference to the disciples not being able to ‘bear’ all that Jesus has to say could refer to the details of the coming Passion.” Kruse, John, 331, thinks that the disciples’ inability to bear more concerned “the terrible events soon to befall him and them.” Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:714: “More likely vs. 12 means that only after Jesus’ resurrection will there be full understanding of what happened and was said during the ministry, a theme that is familiar in John (ii 22, xii 16, xiii 7).” Lindars, The Gospel of John, 504: “There may be an apologetic motive at work here, for John is aware that his presentation of the Gospel is the fruit of reflection on the original tradition, and could be criticized on these grounds.” 11. Thus, I would modify the main thesis in Christina Hoegen-Rohls, Der nachösterliche Johannes: Die Abschiedsreden als hermeneutischer Schlüssel zum vierten Evangelium (WUNT 2, 84; Tübingen: J. C. B Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1996) by stressing that the postEaster perspective becomes a conscious hermeneutical key only in the final Gospel.

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The “Not Yet” Commentaries One practical device for keeping the readers aware of the passion-resurrection theme throughout Jn 1–12 is to tell that the time for the decisive events—the “hour” and “glorification” of Jesus—was “not yet.”12 By virtue of this proleptic device the final Gospel becomes much like a “passion narrative with an extended introduction” as Mark’s Gospel was famously described by Martin Kähler. As early as 2:4, Jesus says to his mother: “My hour has not yet come.” The words sound strange in the context. Why would the “hour” which is yet to come prevent Jesus from responding to his mother’s plea? Rather, awareness of “the hour” should have motivated Jesus’ action because after that hour there was no time to work. This was also the predecessor redactor’s program: “My Father is still working, and I also am working” (5:17). Moreover, despite his words Jesus does exactly what his mother had expected, as she knew he would (cf. v. 5). The whole episode in Jn 2:4 is thus unnecessary and seemingly counterproductive—but the redactor has made his point. When the reader comes to Jn 19:25-27, Jesus’ enigmatic words become understandable: now was the proper time for Jesus and his mother. In 7:39 the “not yet” remark is the passion narrator’s own comment. The comment is, if possible, even more awkward than Jesus’ words in 2:4. Jesus exhorts every thirsty person to come and drink, referring to Scripture: “Streams of living water shall flow out from within him.” The redactor then clarifies that Jesus was speaking of the Spirit which the believers would receive, and this is fully in accordance with the predecessor gospel. But the redactor adds: “For as yet there was no Spirit, because Jesus was not yet glorified.” This makes the whole passage inconceivable. Jesus “stood and cried aloud” (v. 37) on the last day of the feast of tabernacle, inviting people to come and drink. Then it is admitted that Jesus could not give the living water—the Spirit—that he was offering publicly. Not yet— only after his glorification. This would mean that the invitation to drink is valid only after Jesus is gone. So what is Jesus offering there, on the great feast, standing and crying aloud?13 Nothing at all; he is just saying that he will give something when he is not there anymore. This does not make good sense, nor does it cohere with the tenor of John 4, where the predecessor gospel plays on the same water/ Spirit imagery. Many scholars, of course, find here much sense in terms of Johannine theology, but I think that to speak of “Johannine theology” in general is a mismatch. The passion redactor embraced the predecessor’s stance, but only by means of a drastic

12. The last instance of this “not yet” (οὔπω, οὐδέπω) is 20:9, again in the passion narrator’s comment. 13. In Jn 12:44, the same verb form ἔκραξεν is used; in 1:15, the perfect is used for the Baptist’s proclamation. Kruse, John, 192 rightly notes that in John the verb is used “when important public declaratiuns are being made.” In addition, the verb is a sign of the predecessor gospel’s Wisdom traits.

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relecture.14 We should appreciate the two literary and ideological achievements on their own and not simply mix the two. One minor but illuminating addition that reflects the passion redactor’s “not yet” program is 4:2, where the narrator corrects the reference to Jesus’ baptizing activity: “Although it was not Jesus himself but his disciples who baptized.” This correction is somewhat ineffectual since Jesus was presented (already in the predecessor gospel) as baptizing people not just in this context (4:1) but even before (3:22, 26). What occasioned this belated and unsuccessful attempt to deny that Jesus baptized people? We have noticed that the passion redactor was very determined to reject the impression, given by the predecessor gospel, that the Spirit could be received during Jesus’ public ministry. The Spirit’s gift was only endowed after Jesus’ death and resurrection—and then not through the water alone but through water and blood. If Jesus were allowed to baptize people, then, according to the Baptist’s testimony (1:33), Jesus would baptize in Holy Spirit. From the passion redactor’s viewpoint that should not happen—not yet.

From Glory to Glorification Typical of the phenomenon of relecture is the way the passion redactor has modified his predecessor’s vocabulary. The most conspicuous example, and an important vehicle of the passion theme, is how “glorification” becomes a technical term for Jesus’ death and resurrection. Von Wahlde notes that the final (third) editor continues to use the language of “glory” and “glorification” in the same sense in which it was used in the second edition but also “with new connotations and applies it to new concepts.”15 This is something of an understatement. Loader discusses the nuances of John’s glory/glorification concept at length, discerning two related but different uses.16 There are indeed two strikingly different uses of the concept of glory in John, but these are not those detected by Loader. If we

14. Wilhelm Thüsing, Die Erhöhung und Verherrlichung Jesu im Johannesevangelium (NTAbh 21; Münster: Aschendorff Verlag; 3rd edn, 1979), 94 et passim, regards 7:39 as a decisive argument for the thesis that John reduced the meaning of Jesus’ earthly mission in relation to his glorification. Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology, 164–66, critiques this interpretation, but both fail to see the difference between the predecessor gospel and the passion gospel. The passion redactor was by necessity forced to relativize the earthly mission of Jesus, because the decisive “work” of Jesus was his glorification. 15. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:341; cf. 1:97-98, 192; 2:11. A comparison between von Wahlde’s list of the occurrences of δόξα and δοξάζω in the respective editions differs substantially from my list below. 16. Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 213–81; especially pp. 232–34. The two uses of glory are the heavenly glory (as in 17:5) and the revelatory glory (as in 1:14; 2:21). This is basically nothing but “a spatial and temporal distinction between the fullness of divine glory possible on earth and the fullness of divine glory possible in heaven” (p. 234).

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follow the passion redaction hypothesis, it appears that “glory” is the basic term in the predecessor gospel for Jesus’ and his Father’s primordial honor and—at the same time—for Jesus’ majestic divinity manifested in his mighty works on earth. This meaning is present in the prologue and in 2:11, where Jesus’ δόξα is the visible manifestation of Jesus’ divine nature. Seeing Jesus’ glorious works should result in belief: 1:14 καὶ ἐθεασάμεθα τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ, δόξαν ὡς μονογενοῦς παρὰ πατρός 2:11 καὶ ἐφανέρωσεν τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐπίστευσαν εἰς αὐτὸν οἱ μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ 11:40 Οὐκ εἶπόν σοι ὅτι ἐὰν πιστεύσῃς ὄψῃ τὴν δόξαν τοῦ θεοῦ; 12:41 ταῦτα εἶπεν Ἠσαΐας ὅτι εἶδεν τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐλάλησεν περὶ αὐτοῦ

Further from the predecessor gospel are the following occurrences, where the “honor” of God and Jesus is expressed. Everybody should seek the honor of God, as Jesus does: 5:41 δόξαν παρὰ ἀνθρώπων οὐ λαμβάνω 5:44 πῶς δύνασθε ὑμεῖς πιστεῦσαι, δόξαν παρʼ ἀλλ ήλων λαμβάνοντες, καὶ τὴν δόξαν τὴν παρὰ τοῦ μόνου θεοῦ οὐ ζητεῖτε; 7:18 ὁ ἀφʼ ἑαυτοῦ λαλῶν τὴν δόξαν τὴν ἰδίαν ζητεῖ· ὁ δὲ ζητῶν τὴν δόξαν τοῦ πέμψαντος αὐτὸν οὗτος ἀληθής ἐστιν καὶ ἀδικία ἐν αὐτῷ οὐκ ἔστιν 8:50 ἐγὼ δὲ οὐ ζητῶ τὴν δόξαν μου 12:43 ἠγάπησαν γὰρ τὴν δόξαν τῶν ἀνθρώπων μᾶλλον ἤπερ τὴν δόξαν τοῦ θεοῦ

The predecessor gospel could also use the verb δοξάζω to express the mutual “honoring” between Father and Son: Αὕτη ἡ ἀσθένεια οὐκ ἔστιν πρὸς θάνατον ἀλλʼ ὑπὲρ τῆς δόξης τοῦ θεοῦ ἵνα δοξασθῇ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ διʼ αὐτῆς (11:4). In the farewell tradition, which continues the predecessor gospel’s non-passion theology by focusing on the disciples’ role after Jesus’ departure, the “glory/glorify” pattern has some slightly new uses. The disciples are now drawn into the honor relation between Father and Son, and once the Paraclete is introduced (by the passion redactor) he too participates in the circle of honor: 14:13 καὶ ὅ τι ἂν αἰτήσητε ἐν τῷ ὀνόματί μου τοῦτο ποιήσω, ἵνα δοξασθῇ ὁ πατὴρ ἐν τῷ υἱῷ 15:8 ἐν τούτῳ ἐδοξάσθη ὁ πατήρ μου ἵνα καρπὸν πολὺν φέρητε καὶ γένησθε ἐμοὶ μαθηταί 16:14 ἐκεῖνος ἐμὲ δοξάσει, ὅτι ἐκ τοῦ ἐμοῦ λήμψεται καὶ ἀναγγελεῖ ὑμῖν

Jesus’ final prayer in John 17 is also a part of the farewell tradition and originally envisaged Jesus’ departure in non-passion terms.17 The use of δοξάζω in the context

17. The only occurrence of δόξα that I find difficult to assess redaction-critically is Jn 17:22: κἀγὼ τὴν δόξαν ἣν δέδωκάς μοι δέδωκα αὐτοῖς, ἵνα ὦσιν ἓν καθὼς ἡμεῖς ἕν. This

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of this prayer functions as a bridge from the non-passion departure imagery to the passion redactor’s novel use of the same verb: 17:1 Ταῦτα ἐλάλησεν Ἰησοῦς, καὶ ἐπάρας τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς αὐτοῦ εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εἶπεν· Πάτερ, ἐλήλυθεν ἡ ὥρα· δόξασόν σου τὸν υἱόν, ἵνα ὁ υἱὸς δοξάσῃ σέ 17:4-5 ἐγώ σε ἐδόξασα ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς, τὸ ἔργον τελειώσας ὃ δέδωκάς μοι ἵνα ποιήσω· καὶ νῦν δόξασόν με σύ, πάτερ, παρὰ σεαυτῷ τῇ δόξῃ ᾗ εἶχον πρὸ τοῦ τὸν κόσμον εἶναι παρὰ σοί

In 17:1, the mention of the “hour” comes from the passion redactor, but the rest of the saying, together with 17:4-5, builds on the imagery of the prologue and the predecessor gospel. The δόξα of Jesus is basically his primordial and eternal divinity. It was visible for the believers in his earthly works, but essentially and more fully it characterizes his pre- and post-incarnate heavenly status. Now, having completed his mission and before departing, Jesus asks the Father to take him back into the glory where he was in the beginning. The passion redactor adopted the idea that the glorification was the moment of Jesus’ departure from this world— but now the departure was through death and resurrection. This is a radically new interpretation of Jesus’ glorification: 7:39 οὔπω γὰρ ἦν πνεῦμα, ὅτι Ἰησοῦς οὐδέπω ἐδοξάσθη 12:16 ταῦτα οὐκ ἔγνωσαν αὐτοῦ οἱ μαθηταὶ τὸ πρῶτον, ἀλλ ʼ ὅτε ἐδοξάσθη Ἰησοῦς τότε ἐμνήσθησαν ὅτι ταῦτα ἦν ἐπʼ αὐτῷ γεγραμμένα καὶ ταῦτα ἐποίησαν αὐτῷ 12:23 Ἐλήλυθεν ἡ ὥρα ἵνα δοξασθῇ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου 12:28 πάτερ, δόξασόν σου τὸ ὄνομα. ἦλθεν οὖν φωνὴ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ· Καὶ ἐδόξασα καὶ πάλιν δοξάσω 13:31-32 Νῦν ἐδοξάσθη ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου, καὶ ὁ θεὸς ἐδοξάσθη ἐν αὐτῷ· εἰ ὁ θεὸς ἐδοξάσθη ἐν αὐτῷ, καὶ ὁ θεὸς δοξάσει αὐτὸν ἐν αὑτῷ, καὶ εὐθὺς δοξάσει αὐτόν

As is seen, the “not yet” device partly coincides with the occurrences of the reinterpreted concept of glory; it is typical of the passion redaction that the various means are employed together to reinforce one another. The last two occurrences are especially interesting. The double glorification announced by the heavenly voice in 12:28 refers obviously to the completed mission, during which the Father had always been with Jesus (cf. 11:41 etc.). The second glorification was still ahead in the narrative: Jesus’ death and resurrection.18 Jesus’ words in 13:31-32 are a

reflects probably the late non-passion stage of tradition of the farewell speeches, although the “ecumenical” perspective might also suit the passion redactor. The passion redactor’s involvement in shaping the farewell tradition is at times hard to ascertain. 18. Lincoln, The Gospel according to Saint John, 351–52: “God’s name has already been glorified, primarily through the signs, and it will be glorified again, through the death that is

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direct reaction to Judas’ withdrawal, which sparked off the chain of passion events. The verses are somewhat repetitive and obscure, but the interpretation of Jesus’ glorification as his death and resurrection is hammered in most effectively. The last occurrence of the death-permeated glorification is in the epilogue in 21:19, where the narrator comments on Jesus’ words to Peter: τοῦτο δὲ εἶπεν σημαίνων ποίῳ θανάτῳ δοξάσει τὸν θεόν. Here δοξάζω has become a term for a martyr’s death. What most commentators fail to recognize when praising John’s witty concept of glory as death is its element of psychological estrangement, if not denial.19 Like the eufemisms to be discussed next, the passion redactor’s language both conceals and exposes a traumatic experience.

From the Son’s Departure and Ascent to the “Lifting up” of the Son of Man It is rather commonly acknowledged that the title Son of Man appears only in secondary insertions in John, and de Boer has given good arguments for this view.20 Overall, as Ashton summarizes this figure in John, the Son of Man is a heavenly being whose descent and particularly ascent are in focus. Paradoxically, the title conveys neither his humanity (“man”) nor his sonship (“son”).21 In comparison with the synoptic figure, the Johannine Son of Man is different by being preexistent as is also the prologue’s Logos.22 Matthew has 30 Son of Man sayings, to be compared with 14 in Mark (and 23 in Luke), while John has 13, none of them directly paralleled in Matthew or Mark.23

now imminent.” This is by far the simplest and most logical interpretation of the verse. It also reflects the passion redactor’s literary plan very transparently: the first “book”—basically the predecessor gospel—was about Jesus’ public ministry, but there was more to come. 19. See, however, Andreas J. Köstenberg, “The Glory of God in John’s Gospel and Revelation,” in Christopher W. Morgan and Robert A. Peterson (eds.), The Glory of God (Crossway: Wheaton, 2010), 107–26. Commenting on Jn 7:39 and 12:16, Köstenbergt notes (p. 113) that the word glorified is “a euphemism deliberatively choosing to focus, not on the pain, shame, and suffering endured by Jesus at the cross, but on the glory brought to him in and through his sacrifice.” 20. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 102–05. See also von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:274-276. 21. John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 243. 22. This is stressed by J. Harold Ellens, The Son of Man in the Gospel of John (New Testament Monographs 28; Sheffield: Phoenix Press, 2010), 168–70. 23. Larry Hurtado, “Summary and Concluding Observations,” in Larry W. Hurtado and Paul L. Owen (eds.), “Who is This Man?” The Latest Scholarship on a Puzzling Expression of the Historical Jesus (Library of New Testament Studies [Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series] 390; London and New York: T&T Clark International, 2011),

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The origin of the Johannine use of the title Son of Man is difficult to assess, but we can start with the passion redactor’s concerns. Why does the redactor use this specific title for Jesus, when there were many other christological epithets in the predecessor gospel? The reason for the redactor’s fondness for this title is hardly his apocalyptic orientation, as von Wahlde assumes. A more plausible— but insufficient—explanation is that the use of the christological title in Mark and Matthew and especially in the passion predictions appealed to the redactor. As de Boer remarks, the three sayings about the lifting up of the Son of Man “seem to be the Johannine counterpart to the three Synoptic predictions of the Son of Man’s passion, which are also predictions of his resurrection (Mark 8:31; 9:31; 10:33-34, and parallels).”24 An indication of the redactor’s dependence on the Markan account is the element of necessity (δεῖ) present in Jn 3:13 and 20:9. At the same time, the Son of Man title gathers and crystallizes several ideas from the Johannine pre-passion tradition—and melts them into the Markan and Matthean figure of the crucified and risen Savior. Thus, the title became one of the most important vehicles in promoting the passion storyline in Jn 1–12. The title is used for the first time in 1:51, in a saying which is notoriously obscure. The later occurrences of the expression reveal gradually the mystery. By 13:31, when the title is used for the last time, the reader is definitely in the know about the Son of Man: he is the one who must die and be risen.25 Moreover, de Boer has observed how the various verbs for Jesus’ departure— ascend, lift up, glorify—function together in John. Three Son of Man sayings use the language of ascent (1:51; 3:13; 6:62), three other sayings speak of lifting up

159–77; pp. 163–65. Hurtado distinguishes the unarthrous construction in Jn 5:37 from the other occurrences in John, but I do not think there is any difference in meaning. The increase in the use of the Son of Man designation from Mark to Matthew is interesting. Part of the explanation is of course its presence in Q. Anyhow, the growing frequency makes the designation more 24. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 163–64. Brown, The Epistles of John (ABC 30; Garden City: Doubleday & Co, 1982), 78, describes the three lifting up sayings as “an interesting contrast to the three predictions of passion and resurrection in the Synoptic tradition.” 25. Benjamin E. Reynolds, “The Use of the Son of Man Idiom in the Gospel of John,” in Hurtado and Owen (eds.), Who is this Son of Man, 101–29, discerns three main themes in the Johannine Son of Man sayings: ascent and descent, lifting up, and glorification, distinguishing the following sayings as “misfit”: 1:51; 5:27; 6:27, 53; 9:35. However, as the passion redactor understood these sayings, they too are connected to Jesus’ death and resurrection, or else to Jesus’ eschatological role as judge (which is a Markan and Matthean theme). 1:51 is a prelude to the whole story. 5:27 reinterprets the present eschatology of v. 24 in terms of a future resurrection. 6:27 anticipates 6:53, which presupposes Jesus’ death. 9:35 is more exceptional but it, too, highlights Jesus’ heavenly origin and the (coming) judgment (see Reynolds, pp. 117–19).

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(3:14-15; 8:28; 12:34), and two further sayings employ the language of glorification (12:23; 13:31). There is a spiral-like progression from the language of ascent through lifting up to the language of glorification.26 The terms shift from one to another gradually and by way of an interlocking structure, where the first “lifting up” saying precedes the last “ascend” saying, and the first “glorify” saying precedes the last “ascend” saying.27 It is risky to lean too much on such a structural observation, but it is worth asking what redactional purpose this progression might serve. For the reader, the effect of the progression—or interlocking gradation—is that the shift from one terminology and imagery to another is smoother than it would be if the new language had been used consequently from the first. Also, the sheer multitude of different terms, which the reader can find perplexing, may serve a purpose. The polyphony has the effect of making the preconceived concepts more fluid and negotiable. If the Son of Man is the one who ascends, is lifted up, and is glorified, then would not ascent be tantamount to being lifted up and glorified? With that question, we are approaching the rhetorical purpose of the passion redactor’s multiple terminology concerning the Son of Man. In fact, ascent was originally (i.e., in the predecessor gospel) not another way of speaking of Jesus’ “glorification” through death and resurrection—and neither did “glorification” originally involve death. The gradually shifting terminology, then, serves to guide the reader toward the new conceptualization of Jesus’ departure. However, the irony in all these metaphors, especially in the “lifting up” imagery, is not just witty rhetoric. The amusement the reader may have in decoding the terminology, which the characters in the story seem so slow to understand, is but a plaster on a deeper wound, as I will argue in the last chapter of this study. While some form of ascension was the earlier Johannine tradition’s way of imaging the end point of the heavenly envoy’s mission on earth, it was probably not the earliest conceptualization, and in any case not the only early concept. The simplest description of Jesus’ departure in Jn 1–12 is that he is just “going away” (ὑπάγειν).28 The simplicity of the expression does not mean that there was no theology behind it. In 3:8, Jesus explains to Nicodemus: “The wind blows where it wishes . . . but you do not know where it comes from and where it goes (ὑπάγει). Thus is everyone born of the Spirit.” Jesus is the prime bearer of this Spirit; those outside faith could understand neither his origin nor his destination, because both of these are “above” the human sphere, and this is where Jesus was in the beginning and where he is going to after his sojourn on earth. The enigma of Jesus’ origin and destination was a theme throughout Jn 1–12, and the Jews were left wondering where he might be going (7:33-36). In the end, Jesus simply went away and hid

26. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 157–58. The “lifting up” imagery may also be present in the description of the Lamb of God that “takes away” or “lifts up” (αἴρων, 1:29) sins; thus Brant, John, 63. 27. Cf. the discussion of the interlocking structure (Longenecker) in Chapter 3. 28. The verb ὑπάγειν describes Jesus’ departure in Jn 7:33; 8:14, 21, 22; 13:3; 14:4, 5; 16:5, 10. The verb may be understood to imply Jesus’ departure in 3:8.

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himself from the unbelieving world (12:36). The community of believers, of course, was bound to ask further and seek an answer to where he had gone (cf. 13:5). In the farewell tradition we mainly see the development of ecclesiastical theology, but the christological question also had to be answered. Jesus was obviously going back to his Father; but how? There was, to be sure, a widespread early Christian tradition that Jesus was crucified, buried, and risen from the dead (1 Cor. 15:1-7), but to narrate all that would jeopardize the belief in the imperishable Logos, Light, and Life. So, for a while, it was not narrated, but some explanation was called for, and it was in terms of ascension. Having disappeared from the world (12:36-50), Jesus addressed his Father, reported the successful mission, and asked the Father to take him back to the glory he had with him before the creation of the world (17:5). If the question of the how of Jesus’ departure back to his divine glory was imagined quite concretely, the closest image would be that of assumption or ascension. If the above delineation of Johannine theology is on the right track, the figure of the Son of Man served the passion redactor’s purposes in several ways. It was the Markan and Matthean figure that most forcefully signaled the death and resurrection of Jesus, and even the future resurrection and judgment. At the same time, for readers of the Johannine predecessor gospel, it thematized the pattern of the ascending and descending Logos/Son, a pattern not explicit in the prologue but evolving in the subsequent pre-passion tradition, where the return of the Logos/ Son had to be visualized. The gradual unfolding of the nature of Jesus’ departure— beginning from the imagery of his ascent and leading to his glorification through death—was a pedagogical means of assuring the Johannine readers that this reinterpretation was true to the gospel they had heard “from the beginning.” The suitability of the Son of Man title for the redactor’s purposes does not mean that the redactor introduced a “synoptic” figure completely alien to his community. Although most of the thirteen Son of Man sayings in John are explainable as the redactor’s creations, some of them may have circulated in the community before the final Gospel. This is probable at least for 1:51, which promises a vision that apparently never takes place in the Gospel.29 The wording in 5:27 (ἐξουσίαν ἔδωκεν αὐτῷ κρίσιν ποιεῖν, ὅτι υἱὸς ἀνθρώπου ἐστίν) may also reveal the community’s previous awareness of this designation and its eschatological connotations.30 Since the title does not seem to appear in the predecessor gospel, the hypothesis is near

29. Hugo Odeberg, The Fourth Gospel, Interpreted in its Relation to Contemporaneous Religious Currents in Palestine and the Hellenistic-Oriental World (Uppsala and Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksells Boktryckeri, 1929), 37, held that “the fulfilment of the promise of 1:50.51 cannot be represented by the relation in the following context of any happening, or event, or σημεῖον. If 1:51 is to be connected with any particular passage in the following, it should be not with 2:11 or 11:0 but with such passages as 14:9.10.13.19.” 30. The “because” (ὅτι) seems to indicate that “Son of Man” was acknowledged as the herald of the coming judgment: Jesus has the authority to judge because he is this “known” apocalyptic figure. Many commentators (e.g., Lindars, The Gospel of John, 226) suggest that the saying is a direct allusion to Dan. 7:13-14.

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at hand that it became known in the community after the predecessor gospel but before the final work. In this respect, it is instructive to observe the strong apocalyptic orientation in 1 John, which I have dated to this time interval. The title does not appear in that letter, but the references to end times and antichrists reflect an apocalyptic worldview where the Son of Man would also be at home. I cannot pursue this question further in the present study, but if the Son of Man was known predominantly as an apocalyptic figure such as in Mk 14:26/Mt. 26:64 and Mt. 25:31, or directly from Dan. 7:13-14, the passion redactor’s wording in Jn 1:51 seems to shift the focus to events before or an identity not limited to the Son of Man’s end-time role.31 That is, the focus is either on his ascent/lifting up or on his permanent identity as the one who by descending and ascending is the “ladder” between the heavenly sphere and the world of humans. Both aspects of the Son of Man figure are seen in 3:13-15.32

The “Laying Down One’s Life for (ὑπέρ)” Formula The formula “to lay down one’s life for” and in some contexts the preposition “for” (ὑπέρ) alone are recurrent means of the passion redactor to convey the idea of Jesus’ vicarious death, which is also paradigmatic for the believers. The expression is already found in 1 Joh 3:16, where both aspects are explicit: ἐν τούτῳ ἐγνώκαμεν

31. The imagery of Jn 1:51 is inspired by the story of Jacob’s ladder (Gen. 28:10-17), but it is difficult to assess other ideational elements and intended references. The best discussion of this obscure saying is still Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 186–87. I concur with Barrett that a saying such as Mk 14:26/Mt. 26:64 may be another contributing source (“a relic of the old synoptic saying about the coming of the Son of Man accompanied by the angels adapted to the new framework provided by the story of Jacob”). If so, the passion redactor has de-emphasized rather than stressed the apocalyptic imagery of his tradition. Barrett concludes that the Johannine author “sees in Jesus, the Son of Man, not merely an eschatological but an eternal contact between heaven and earth, God and man, and uses the ladder and the ascending and descending angels to express his conception” (p. 187). In addition, the allusion to Jacob’s ladder (Gen. 28:12) may in part be a relecture of the predecessor’s description of the descending Spirit (1:32) and the open heaven may also be a reminiscence from Mt. 3:16. Whatever the precise meaning, the insertion of 1:51 shows that the passion redactor, too, used chapter 1 as a window to the entire story. In his story, there is not just the descent but an ascent—lifting up, death-resurrection—as well. 32. The insertion of 3:13-15 is a good example of the passion redactor’s relecture. The predecessor text included the well-known statement in 3:16, according to which God “gave his only Son” (τὸν υἱὸν τὸν μονογενῆ ἔδωκεν) to save those who believe. The “giving” here does not involve the Son’s sacrifice or death, but only his sending into the world. The theological stance corresponds to that of the prologue (note the attribute μονογενῆ). The preceding verses about the Son of Man borrow the idea from 3:16 but reinterpret it: this “Son” must be lifted up.

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τὴν ἀγάπην, ὅτι ἐκεῖνος ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἔθηκεν· καὶ ἡμεῖς ὀφείλομεν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀδελφῶν τὰς ψυχὰς θεῖναι. While 1 John never directly referred to Jesus’ death on the cross, the passion redactor uses the expression customarily to promote his storyline. In the Gospel, the first occurrence of the “laying down” formula is in 6:51, in the beginning of the eucharistic relecture of the bread of life discourse (see below). After that, the expression is found in the insertions that turn the discourse on the Good Shepherd (10:1-21) into an anticipation of Jesus’ passion (vv. 11b.14-18). The rest of the discourse comes from the predecessor gospel. Then the same formula is used in the context of the council’s decision to kill Jesus (11:50-52), a pericope that I have previously referred to the passion redactor (see Chapter 2). The following occurrence is in the appended farewell discourse (15:13) and comes also from the passion redactor. The ὑπέρ saying in the final prayer (17:19) borrows the sanctification language from the preceding verses (vv. 17-18) that represent the non-passion tradition. According to v. 17, Jesus asks the Father to sanctify the disciples in truth (ἁγίασον αὐτοὺς ἐν τῇ ἀληθείᾳ), which certainly has nothing to do with death. The implied setting of this petition is the commissioning and sending of the disciples to continue the work of God, as v. 18 shows (καθὼς ἐμὲ ἀπέστειλας εἰς τὸν κόσμον, κἀγὼ ἀπέστειλα αὐτοὺς εἰς τὸν κόσμον). Thus, sanctification or consecration here means “being set aside from the ways of the world and dedicated to the service of God.”33 It is only v. 19a where sanctification suggests that Jesus is offering himself as a sacrifice on behalf of the disciples (καὶ ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν ἐγὼ ἁγιάζω ἐμαυτόν).34 This passion-oriented relecture clashes with v. 19b (ἵνα ὦσιν καὶ αὐτοὶ ἡγιασμένοι ἐν ἀληθείᾳ), which resumes the idea of v. 17.35 The only occurrence in the passion story proper is 18:14, which refers back to 11:50-52.

From the Bread of Life to the Paschal Lamb John 6 is a rare occasion where the passion redactor has inserted a longer passage into the predecessor Vorlage. The material derived from (Mark and) Matthew is

33. Thus Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:730. 34. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 529, submits that “John is building on the tradition of the eucharistic words, which he paraphrases for the present context.” 35. Cf. von Wahlde’s comment (p. 731) on v. 19: “That is, Jesus gives himself in death. His death will bring about the consecration of the disciples although the specifics of how this is to occur are not made clear [emphasis mine].” Obviously the train of thought cannot be made much clearer, if vv. 17-19 are referred to the same redactor (von Wahlde: second edition). Lindars (The Gospel of John, 529), though, makes a good effort: “It is not suggested that the disciples will be sacrificed in the same sense as Jesus, but his sacrifice will be their constant inspiration. . . .The unique sacrificial act of Jesus is undertaken so as to have the lasting effect desired in the petition of verse 17.”

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probably partly filtered through earlier Johannine storytelling (feeding miracle, walking on the sea), and thus familiar to the Johannine readers before the final Gospel. The bread of life discourse in 5:26-50 is a typical pre-passion treatise and might in principle have been included in the predecessor gospel. It is possible but uncertain that in oral performances the feeding miracle and the bread of life discourse were already joined before the passion redaction. The passages that most directly present the passion redactor’s concerns are found toward the end of the chapter. As von Wahlde observes, vv. 51-59 repeat the contents and phraseology of the preceding verses and at the same time introduce the eucharistic interpretation of the “bread from heaven.”36 This procedure of repetition with reinterpretation is in the very essence of relecture, and its effect is that the new text seems to confirm the meaning of the earlier text while in fact pushing it in new directions: the bread from heaven becomes the flesh and blood of the descended Son of Man (the title was implanted already in 6:27),37 while the Son of Man’s ascent is hidden in the image of his giving himself. Why was this material so important that the passion redactor took the trouble to insert a whole new section in the middle of the predecessor gospel? The first clue is given in the introduction to the multiplication story: “Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near” (6:4). This is the second of the three Passover formulas, which according to Wilkens structure the Evangelist’s plan for his final Passa-Evangelium. The mention of the approaching Passover was, according to Wilkens, placed here in order interpret the feeding miracle and the bread discourse in light of the Passover theme.38 This purpose is confirmed by the relecture of the bread of life discourse in 6:51-59, which clearly refers to the eucharistic meal—the new Christian substitute for the Passover. However, while the passion redactor embraced the Exodus theme and the Moses typology, which were the main concerns for the pre-passion bread of life discourse in its polemic against “the Jews,” the redactor’s focus was on a schism within the community of believers. The disciples, representing some (former) Johannine Christians, find that Jesus’ word about eating and drinking his flesh and blood is “a hard saying” (v. 60), and so many of them left his company (v. 66)—that is, they left the Johannine community.

36. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:319-322. Thus I do not follow Borgen’s midrashic analysis, which argues for the unity of 6:31-58. See Peder Borgen, Bread from Heaven: An Exegetical Study of the Concept of Manna in the Gospel of John and the Writings of Philo (Leiden: Brill, 1965; 2nd edn, 1981); idem, Philo, John and Paul: New Perspectives on Judaism and Early Christianity (Brown Judaic Studies 131; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 131–44. Here form-critical and redaction-critical approaches differ—I put more weight on the change in vocabulary and theological imagery than on formal patterns. There is no reason why a redactor, in his addition to a midrashic exposition, could not imitate the same pattern. 37. Obviously the whole sequence 6:26-29 is the passion redactor’s creation, which connects the feeding miracle to the bread discourse (cf. v. 26). 38. Wilkens, Die Entstehungsgeschichte des vierten Evangeliums, 10.

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According to vv. 61-62, there was yet a greater scandal: “Does this offend you? Then what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?” How could seeing Jesus’ ascent be such a scandal? Obviously, because the “ascent” was in fact the crucifixion and death of Jesus, which was the very prerequisite of consuming the new paschal lamb, the body of Jesus.39 The notion of eucharist is basic to the passion redactor’s reinterpretation of the traditional bread of life discourse. If the feeding miracle was not transmitted together with the bread of life discourse in the pre-passion tradition, it would seem that the present chapter comes with something new by suggesting a concrete meal setting.40 The remark in v. 26 also shifts the focus from the miraculous to the eating itself. Nevertheless, John 6 is not explicitly introducing a new ritual, so de Boer’s point is right that “the passage is not giving teaching about the eucharist, but using eucharistic language and imagery to say something about Jesus himself.”41 The christological meaning of eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood is, as Menken states, “to believe in him as the one who dies for [emphasis mine] the life of the world.”42 Two points in this statement deserve attention. The finer christological and soteriological point is Jesus’ death for the life of the world—which in itself is a reinterpretation of the prologue’s and the predecessor gospel’s message about the Life of humankind. The simpler point, and the one I argue was the real bone of contention, was the recognition that Jesus had really died. Although the Gospel of John is not consistently designed as a two-level drama,43 here in 6:51-59, 60-66, 67-71 we do have a window into Johannine

39. Kruse, John, 177: “If the ’disciples’ who grumbled about Jesus’ hard saying about eating his flesh and drinking his blood should witness his ignominious death upon the cross they would be scandalized still further. How could one who claimed to come from God end his life in such a way?” 40. In v. 27 the concreteness seems to fade into a metaphor, but the shift can also be taken as being from the concrete story to the common meal in the Johannine community, whereby the feeding of the crowd is just a “carnal” equivalent of the real spiritual (but not just symbolic) meal that takes place within the community. The difficult saying in v. 63 might be understood in the same sense. 41. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 226. 42. M. J. J. Menken, “John 6,51c-58: Eucharist or Christology?,” Bib 74 (1993), 1–26: p. 16. 43. The thesis of J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (2nd edn; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1979, originally 1968) has been vividly discussed and increasingly critiqued in recent research. See, for example, Reinhartz, Befriending the Beloved Disciple, 37–41, 48–53; Hakola, Raimo. Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness (NovTSup 118; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005), 45–55. Much of the discussion centers on the date and reference of the Birkat ha-minim, which is not my concern in the present study. The passion redaction hypothesis implies that the redactor’s main point of reference was the predecessor gospel, and in that respect the redaction reflects a new situation in the community’s history. The predecessor also shows awareness and historical reflection of the time span between the narrated Jesus and the present situation. In principle, however, these distinctions are

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history. Of course, we only see some contours, but the literary progression is telling. The predecessor gospel was at odds with “the Jews,” who begin to “murmur” (ἐγόγγυζον, v. 41) and “fight” (ἐμάχοντο, v.52) when confronted with the exclusive christological claim. The passion redactor then seemingly continues the confrontation with Jewish adversaries. This appearance is still maintained in v. 59, which comes from the predecessor tradition, where it closed the bread of life discourse and marked it as Jesus’ teaching in a synagogue.44 But, for the passion redactor, the dispute is really one within the ranks of the Christbelievers, as the next verse indicates: “many of the disciples” were scandalized. The result from this Johannine schism is stated in v. 66: “Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.” The preceding verses give the impression that the schism is irreparable. Jesus makes no attempt to persuade them, he only fuels their anger (vv. 61-62) and finds them having no faith—indeed, they are like the betrayer (v. 64). Only the closest circle, the twelve,45 remains faithful (vv. 66-71). While the schism is irreparable, the faithful community is orienting toward a larger community of Christ-believers. Peter is the spokesman of the Twelve as in Mark and Matthew. A comparison between Mk 8:27-33 and Joh 6:66-71 shows that the passion redactor carefully avoided the “satanic” picture of Peter—not Peter, but Judas was Satan (cf. 13:2, 27).46

The Shockwaves of the Dismissed Gethsemane Story: A Sign of Internal Dispute? One of the major differences between John’s passion story and its Markan and Matthean counterparts is the omission of the Gethsemane episode. That this is an omission and not proof of John’s ignorance or independence from the “Synoptics” is seen in the marks that the episode has left in John. Apart from uncertain allusions to the Gethsemane story in the first farewell speech (14:1, 27), there is a clear echo in 12:27-32, which looks like a critical comment on Jesus’ anxious prayer in the Gethsemane story (Mk 14:36, 39 par Mt. 26:39, 42). As often, the Matthean

not unique to the Gospel of John. Rather, they highlight the basic form-historical (and then redaction-critical) idea: changing literary forms (and subsequent redactional layers) reflect changing historical situations. This is not to suggest that the story in itself would be designed as a two-level drama where the community’s history parallels the story of Jesus—despite the fact that the story of Jesus at times may reflect actual circumstances of the community. 44. Since a synagogue setting is often found in Mark and Matthew, it is not excluded that v. 59 comes from the passion redactor, but I find this less plausible. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:322, refers the verse to the second edition, but remarks: “It is difficult to know with any sort of certainty the origin of this verse.” 45. The mention of “the Twelve” is a clear indication of the late redactor, see von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:249-250. 46. See Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 170–72.

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parallel, where Jesus’ prayer is repeated (with a significant change of wording) in direct speech, might be a better candidate as the text that the Johannine passion redactor memorized, directly or through its oral performance. Matthew’s relecture of the Markan story shows that he already found Jesus’ petition theologically problematic and in need of some explanation. The changed wording of the second prayer indicates that Jesus now recognizes the necessity of his death, and only asks that his Father’s will be fulfilled. The Matthean Jesus thus exemplifies the model prayer, which in fact is the Lord’s prayer (Mt. 6:10).47 But Matthew’s addition a little later in 26:53-54 is symptomatic of a deeper theological problem. Could not God have sent tens of thousands of angels to rescue Jesus? Matthew’s answer, which is basically Mark’s solution too, is that Jesus’ arrest and death were necessary and in accordance with Scripture. Was the Johannine passion redactor just reacting against a literary text, or was he rather involved in an inner-community dispute over the Gethsemane tradition or the necessity of Jesus’ death? Heb. 5:7 has an interesting reference to the Gethsemane prayer: “In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission.” The letter to the Hebrews is here certainly referring to the Gethsemane prayer, because this was the prayer—in fact several prayers, as both Mark/Matthew and Hebrews count—that Jesus addressed to God before his arrest and death. The letter to the Hebrews, no doubt, presupposed that Jesus was crucified in spite of his repeated petitions, so his being “heard” by God must refer to resurrection or postmortem exaltation.48 The pathos expressed in Hebrews as well as the notion of God’s response are also found in Lk. 22:43-44, in what may be a gloss: “Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground.”49

47. See, for example, Ulrich Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (4 vols.; EKK, 2002), 4:137–38. 48. Cf. Heb. 13:20, which is the only relatively clear reference to Jesus’ resurrection in the letter. For a discussion of Heb. 5:7, see David M. Moffitt, Atonement and the Logic of Resurrection in the Epistle to the Hebrews (NovTSup 141; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011), 189–92. See also William R. G. Loader, Sohn und Hohepriester: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur Christologie des Hebräerbriefes (WMANT 53; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 99–104. 49. For the text-critical problem, see Bart D. Ehrman and Mark A. Plunkett, “The Angel and the Agony: The Textual Problem of Luke 22:43-44,” CBQ 45 (1983), 401–16. Their conclusion is that the verses are an interpolation inserted before 160 CE. Franҫois Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (EKK 3; 4 vols.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag/Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag, 2009), 4:300-302, discusses their arguments and opts for authenticity. In my view, the strongest argument for a gloss is that the verses deviate from Luke’s otherwise unpathetic portrait of Jesus in this context (and elsewhere in Luke). Ben Witherington III, New Testament Theology and Ethics (2 vols.; Downers Grove: Intervarsity

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It appears that the Gethsemane story, and Jesus’ prayer as its focal point, invited christological reflection in different quarters of early Christianity. What the Matthean Jesus in 26:53-54 and the Johannine in 12:27 rejected as a false alternative is much the same objection that Peter voiced in Mk 8:31-33—and was called Satan. The many responses to the denial of the necessity and meaning of Jesus’ death show that the issue was alive. It is therefore quite possible that Jn 12:27 is not just a reaction to the Markan or Matthean Gethsemane story, but reflects objections raised in the Johannine community. If the community was acquainted with a Jesus story that was silent about his death, and if they knew that there were gospels around that did contain a passion story, their first and immediate question must have been: why should we accept such a story? By dropping out the annoying Gethsemane narrative and objecting to Jesus’ debatable prayer the passion redactor shows that he was fully prepared to counter the criticism from the readers of the predecessor gospel. There are other indications that the intended readers may have had objections to the passion storyline. Thus, the delayed “remembering” of the disciples need not be a literary device only. It answers an obvious problem that the readers of the pre-passion gospel must have seen: why were these things absent from that gospel? The passion redactor’s “pedagogy”50 in gradually unfolding the passion theme also reflects the concern for persuading hesitant readers. By including the feeding miracle and the bread of life discourse, the redactor makes use of the same strategy, providing the more palatable parts first. This time the pedagogue is less patient with those who question the crucial teaching: they are devils and traitors (6:70-71).

Press, 2016), 2:166, who thinks the verses are a gloss, sees a connection to Heb. 5:7; I agree, though I wonder what Witherington might mean by “an early authentic tradition” (didn’t the disciples sleep?). 50. Sturdevant in his The Adaptable Jesus of the Fourth Gospel interprets the “pedagogy” in terms of characterization. This is a valid literary strategy, now popular in Johannine studies; redaction critics hold that it is ultimately the author who does the persuasion.

Chapter 7 THE BRIDEGROOM’S DAY: TRACING THE PRE-PASSION JOHN

When the passion redactor’s expansions and comments discussed in the previous chapters have been removed, what remains in Jn 1–12 is by and large the prepassion John. However, it is not certain that we are able to set apart all minor changes by the passion redactor, nor can the possibility be excluded that the redactor has omitted some parts of the predecessor text. A third thing to remember is that the structures and themes in the predecessor gospel already seem to be the result of editing of earlier material, and although that redaction is not my concern, some general observations may help understand some rough seams in the predecessor gospel. In tracing the pre-passion gospel, the immediate task is to ascertain its outline. After that, the most conspicuous literary, thematic, and theological features of the text will be scrutinized.

The Outline of the Pre-Passion John Any outline of John is a partial truth, a perception of some structures and thematic connections at the cost of others. All complex texts have multiple overlapping structures, which may be effective on various levels. In John, we could stress the chronological progression, the geographical routes, the festivals Jesus attends; or we could follow how approval of and opposition to Jesus unfold in the narrative, how the miraculous “signs” are distributed in the story, how narrative and discourse alternate, and so on. The problem is how to evaluate the weight of one formal or thematic structure against alternative structures. If we appreciate the authorial intent, we are approaching a redaction-critical approach, because the arguments for a specific authorial plan that go beyond purely text-centered observations typically refer to the author’s dealing with the available sources. Since my study is redaction-critical, I sympathize with this approach; but I have also limited the focus to the final redaction of John, so the redaction of the predecessor text is not my immediate concern; and of course the uncertainties grow with each step behind the present Gospel. The precise shape of the Johannine predecessor gospel is less clear than the final Gospel, and the sources of the predecessor are still more obscure. Something about the predecessor’s plan—its

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ideation, development, and parsing—can be said by assessing its overall dealing with its possible sources. At the same time, it is likely that the passion redactor did not know the precise sources redacted in the predecessor gospel, but for the most part only recognized its outline. I have serious doubts about Fortnas’s and Nicol’s reconstructions of a Semeia source, but these converge with von Wahlde’s model in postulating a straightforward narrative account of Jesus’ deeds, which was then—by Fortna’s Evangelist or von Wahlde’s second edition—expanded to include larger discourses. What I find unsuccessful is Fortna’s attempt to refer all the discourse parts and theological refinements after the Semeia source to the “Evangelist” of the final Gospel. Hence, von Wahlde’s tripartite model is more congenial to my hypothesis, although I find fatally wrong his assumption that both the first and the second editions narrated Jesus’ death. The one thing that Fortna and von Wahlde agree on, and I endorse, is that the first attainable Johannine material consisted mainly of narratives about Jesus’ miracles—even though I doubt that the stories were originally called “signs.” In von Wahlde’s model, the extensive discourse elaborations belong to a later stage, and insofar as the discourses do not presuppose Jesus’ death I would in most cases refer them to the predecessor gospel. Von Wahlde also suggests that the discourse parts of the predecessor gospel are weightier than the narrated miracles in defining its literary design; the redactor of the second edition was less interested in the narrative logic of his source and could dismiss it if the theological treatment of the subject matter called for it. This is partially true, although the theological and narrative threads of the predecessor gospel go hand in hand. An outline in the form of hierarchical order of main sections and subunits tends to obscure those thematic connections that go across sections. Such a structuring also makes it difficult to recognize units and themes that point simultaneously backward and forward in the text. However, it will appear that in many respects chs. 1–4, 5–10 and 11–12 seem to be the main sections of this earlier gospel—as they still are in the first “book” of the final Gospel.1 The prologue (1:1-18) sets up the main themes of the pre-passion story more clearly than is sometimes realized. The famous statement ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο (v. 14) is often taken as proof that the prologue, or at least its last subunit (vv. 14-18), is programmatically “antidocetic.” However, the immediately following ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν rather suggests a wisdom-oriented understanding: the divine Logos was temporarily “indwelling” or “tabernacling” among “us” humans. In 1 Jn 1:1-3, a similar tradition speaks of the “manifestation” or “appearance” to us (ἐφανερώθη ἡμῖν) of the eternal Life that was with the Father (v. 2). As Judith Lieu has remarked, “1 John’s reference to ‘the life was manifested’ could be as congenial

1. Burge, Interpreting the Gospel of John, 78–81, structures the first “book” in the present Gospel similarly. See also Brown, The Gospel according to John, 1:cxl-cxliv. Brown’s outline is also redaction-critically interesting, as he assumes—not without reason—that chs. 11–12 are secondary to Jn 11–12 and that “at one time the Johannine sketch of the public ministry came to a conclusion with x 42” (1:414).

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to docetists as to their opponents.”2 The prologue is not docetic, but neither is it antidocetic. It simply states that the divine Logos dwelt among human beings as the Jesus whose wonderful signs and teachings are the subject of the gospel. Besides the prologue proper, I would regard the whole of John 1 as an extended introduction to the ensuing story. By the end of the chapter, the necessary background is ready: Jesus has the Spirit “remaining” on him (1:33) and has drawn a nucleus group of disciples around him. Everything is ready for his mission and the first public “sign” in 2:1-11.3 The very term σημεῖον seems to have been employed by the pre-passion redactor as a structuring literary device with theological weight. It more or less envelopes the first main section (Chs 2–4) and resonates with the themes of witness, trial, and faith, as the summary statement in 12:37 shows: “Even after Jesus had performed so many signs in their presence, they still would not believe in him.” Jesus’ concluding promise to Nathanael about “greater things” (1:50) is another way of speaking of signs. The promise is getting realized already at Cana and then throughout the story until the raising of Lazarus; thus the pre-passion redactor seems to have understood the preceding narrative as a preparation for Jesus’ mission. The promise is formally to Nathanael but through him to all the disciples and ultimately to the readers.4 “From John the Baptist to Jesus” is a prominent theme in 1:19-50, and the following few chapters continue broadly to deal with the same theme. Therefore, 3:22-36 might seem to round off this section, with 4:1-3 looking back to this unit. However, Jesus’ travel route seems to be another thread in the early chapters: Jesus begins his public ministry in Cana (2:1-11), then visits Jerusalem, and heads back to Galilee through Samaria. The healing of the officer’s son while Jesus is back in Cana rounds off this itinerary in 4:54: “Now this was the second sign that Jesus did after coming from Judea to Galilee.” The “John and Jesus” cycle and the roundtrip “from Cana to Cana” seem to offer two different ways of structuring the opening chapters (1:19–3:21 and 2:1–4:54, respectively). Since 2:12 mentions a stay at Capernaum, another Galilean village, and 4:3 tells that Jesus “left Judea and started back to Galilee,” the itinerary “from Cana to Cana” includes the cycle “from Galilee and back,” which overlaps with the “John and Jesus” outline. When the temple incident in Jn 2:13-22 (from the passion redaction) is excised, the discourse with Nicodemus in ch. 3 may seem to stand too

2. Judith M. Lieu, “ʻAuthority to Become Children of God’: A Study of 1 John,” NovT 23 (1981), 210–28; p. 214. 3. Some scholars would take 2:11 as the end of the first larger section (e.g., Culpepper, Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel, 89–90). However, the sequence of preparation and beginning as well as the anticipatory saying about “greater things” (1:50) suggest that 2:1-11 commences a new section. 4. The saying about the Son of Man (1:51) comes from the passion redactor, who now uses a plural “you” and obviously includes Jesus’ death-resurrection as the culmination of the greater things.

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alone; was this nightly episode enough to motivate Jesus’ travel to Jerusalem and back to Judea? I think that the present order is sensible enough, if the predecessor gospel also included a short notion of Jesus’ healings in Jerusalem (2:23-25), which are the obvious reference of ταῦτα τὰ σημεῖα in 3:2. The pleonastic expression ἐν τῷ πάσχα ἐν τῇ ἑορτῇ in 2:23 suggests that the specification of the festival as Passover was not in the predecessor text or in 2:13a. The predecessor’s plan at this juncture of the gospel was to have Jesus perform miracles first in Galilee and immediately in Jerusalem, and to show that he met both belief and unbelief from the very beginning.5 From that viewpoint, the whole sequence with Jesus’ signs in Cana and in Jerusalem appears to be the intervening middle part in a “sandwich” structure designed to show Jesus’ superiority vis-à-vis the Baptist. The miracles performed in Cana and Jerusalem were not just signs (σημεῖα), but also external proof for Jesus’ superiority: “John performed no sign, but everything that John said about this man was true” (10:41). This superiority is made clear from the outset through the Baptist’s explicit witness to Jesus (1:19), apparently a vital theme because the pre-passion redactor even inserted it in the prologue (1:6-8). After the Jerusalem visit, Jesus returns to Judea (3:22) to baptize people (3:23-24). The parallel baptisms by Jesus and John then occasion the latter’s renewed assertion that there can be no rivalry between him and Jesus (3:25-36). The figure of John the Baptist serves the pre-passion redactor’s plan by legitimating Jesus’ mission positively through John’s witness and negatively through John’s lack of signs. John’s witness included the recognition that he only baptized with water, but the one coming after him is “the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit” (1:33). From this perspective, the “John and Jesus” cycle is, at the same time, specifically about the superiority of Jesus’ baptism. Since Jesus is expressly presented as baptizing people (3; 22; 4:1), the natural way of understanding Jesus’ baptism is that he was baptizing not only with water as John did, but with the Spirit. This understanding also makes sense of the dialogue between Jesus and Nicodemus, where Jesus is presented as a spokesman for all those “born again/ from above.”

5. The geographical notes in 2:1-11 (Cana: wine miracle), 2:12 (Capernaum), 4:43 (Galilee), 4:46 (Cana: reference back to the wine miracle), 4:46 (Cana–Capernaum), 4:47 (from Judea to Galilee), 4:54 (Galilee, probably a reference back to Cana) have invited various hypotheses about underlying sources and redactional layers. Dunderberg, Johannes und die Synoptiker, 77–83, concludes that the underlying text presupposed a Cana itinerary, while the late, synoptically informed redaction was aware of a GalileeJudea itinerary. In Chapter 2, I have argued that the healing miracle (including 4:47) was not based on the “Synoptics.” I would not exclude the possibility that 2:11, 12 and 4:46 belonged together in an early tradition, that is, that the two first Galilean miracles were narrated together in the tradition known to the pre-passion redactor. If that was the case, the putative Semeia source or its equivalent—not having anything between the two narratives—shrinks considerably, and the predecessor redaction would then have introduced the Galilee-Judea itinerary.

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The Baptist’s last words (3:29) point forward in the story: “He who has the bride is the bridegroom. The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. For this reason my joy has been fulfilled.”6 The image of Jesus as a bridegroom is developed in Jn 4:4-42, where Jesus’ meeting with a Samaritan woman plays on well-known biblical betrothal scenes in describing the Samaritan mission. As will be shown, the subtle (or not so subtle) betrothal hints elaborate on the idea of rebirth, now in the sense of birthing. Those who believe in Jesus are “children of God, born not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God” (1:12-13). Since this missionary birthing has everything to do with the Spirit and the baptism, we see that John 4 continues the themes presented in the “John and Jesus” cycle. John 5 launches a new cycle in the predecessor gospel. The geographical backand-forth continues, as Jesus goes to Jerusalem to one of the Jewish festivals (5:1). Although this festival is not specified, and while ch. 6 with its Passover theme seems not a part of the pre-passion sequence, the festivals of Booths (7:3) and Dedication (10:22) are mentioned, so it would be tempting to see the Jewish feasts as an organizing principle in Jn 5–10.7 However, the mention of the festivals may also be a convenient explanation for the fact that the events take place in Jerusalem, which now becomes the site for Jesus’ definitive clash with Jewish authorities. It is quite plausible that the named festivals are chosen to suit the themes of the discourses, but that would not prove that the idea of festivals anteceded the thematic progression in the predecessor’s literary plan. If the festivals were not the pre-passion redactor’s main concern in the chapters following chs 1–4, we do well to look for another chronological and thematic plan. Interestingly, the day of Jesus’ healing miracle—a Sabbath—is vital in ch. 5 as it explains why the “Jews” are upset seeing Jesus’ action. The day is mentioned twice in 5:10, first in the narrator’s comment (Ἦν δὲ σάββατον ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ἡμέρᾳ), and then in the adversaries’ mouth (Σάββατόν ἐστιν). In this context, the opponents’ zeal to kill Jesus is made explicit (5:18). The controversy triggers a theological dispute, where Jesus refers to testimonies higher than that of John the Baptist: those of the Scripture, Moses, and ultimately the Father of Jesus (vv. 31-47). The combination of Sabbath day and Jesus’ continuing work in 5:17 is also important, as will be seen. If Chapter 6 as a whole comes from the passion redactor who has reworked earlier Johannine material and inserted it here,8 the next narrative starts from Galilee (7:1) but leads to Jerusalem, where Jesus teaches in public (7:14). There was an attempt to arrest Jesus (7:32), but it was unsuccessful because the audience was divided (7:43-52). The next larger discourse unit in 8:12-59 has a similar setting,

6. That John the Baptist’s joy is “fulfilled” implies that his role in the gospel has come to an end; from now on it is only about Jesus, although in 10:40-41 he is mentioned once more in a negative comparison to Jesus. 7. Thus Burge, Interpreting the Gospel of John, 80. 8. See Chapter 2.

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but a new beginning is indicated in Jesus’ words that he is “the light of the world” (8:12). 8:20a seems to mark the end of the discourse, but without a change of place Jesus continues to speak, now telling that he is going away and cannot be found (8:21). Jesus speaks about his intimate relationship with his Father, but his tough words about the Jews as sons of the devil (8:44)9 annoyed them and they tried to stone him, “but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple” (8:59). While the issue of witness is raised from the very beginning with the Baptist’s testimony (1:6-8, 19, 32) and throughout the second main part, it is especially in chs 7–8 a forensic lawsuit motif surfaces. Notably, though, the “court” is in the open and in the presence of Jewish crowds rather than behind closed doors in the Sanhedrin. The lawsuit motif has often been scrutinized in Johannine scholarship,10 but I would take it precisely as a motif rather than an overarching structure. Related to this motif is the concept of Jewish “Wisdom tale,” which is too generalizing to describe the pre-passion John—which is not to depreciate the crucial importance of wisdom motifs in the pre-passion John.11 The seam between 8:59 and 9:1 is rough: Jesus “walks along” (παράγων) as if in no danger of life, the disciples suddenly appear, and a blind man is healed. Jesus also speaks with Pharisees and condemns them (9:40-41). He is then able to deliver a speech—presenting him as the Good Shepherd (10:1-10)—without being threatened, and leaving “the Jews” divided. Again the gap between 9:41 and 10:1 is unbridged, but the narrator—possibly already the pre-passion narrator— is aware of the sequence of the healing miracle and the Good Shepherd speech,

9. The observation that the Jews in 8:44 are those who according to 8:30, 31 had believed in Jesus has prompted far-reaching hypotheses about various groups in the Johannine community. However, Brown (The Gospel according to John, 1:354) may be right in suggesting a redaction-critical explanation: an editor had inserted v. 30 to break the discourse, which then necessitated the phrase in v. 31, but originally the discourse was addressed to the same kind of disbelieving Jews we see all along in John. Another, simpler explanation would be narrative-critical: Jesus’ previous speech has convinced some Jews (v. 30), and Jesus invites them to become disciples and be freed by the truth of his word (v. 31), but then the hearers step back—and become disbelieving Jews. 10. See, for instance, A. E. Harvey, Jesus on Trial: A Study of the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta: John Knox, 1977), where the whole Gospel is seen as “a presentation of the claims of Jesus in the form of an extended trial” (p. 17), and George L. Parsenios, Rhetoric and Drama in the Johannine Lawsuit Motif (WUNT 258; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), esp. pp. 34–41. 11. There is no one wisdom myth, but several variations of a common theme. Charles H. Talbert, Reading John: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Fourth Gospel and the Johannine Epistles (Macon: Smyth & Helwys Publishing, 2005), 75, discerns three main types: (1) Wisdom finds a resting place in Israel as the Law (Sirach; Baruch), (2) Wisdom finds a dwelling place in the souls of the righteous (Wisdom of Solomon), and (3) Wisdom does not find a resting place and returns to heaven (1 Enoch). The Johannine prologue, according to Talbert, makes the point that the Logos has found a dwelling place among the believers.

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because some listeners ask, “Can a demon open the eyes of the blind?” (10:21).12 The next scene is also in Jerusalem, at the festival of Dedication (10:22), but it seems that the chronological information (“It was winter”) and the mention of the festival are rather unmotivated, because Jesus continues to speak of himself as the Shepherd. Jesus’ messianic claim, which includes the special status of his “sheep,” is heightened from 10:31 on, as is also the reaction of “the Jews” who try to stone him. Not only does Jesus make himself equal to God (10:33), an accusation that Jesus in fact does not deny but, on the contrary, implicitly expands to embrace his followers by alluding to Ps. 82:6. “Those to whom the word of God came” (v. 35) may primarily refer to Moses or Israel who received the law, or to the Adamic humankind in the paradise (Gen. 3:22).13 However, for the community of those Johannine Christians who had received the “word” of truth and eternal life it must have implied a promise of divinity. Along with 6:45 (“It is written in the prophets, ‘And they shall all be taught by God’”), this scriptural proof too must have involved the Johannine Christians.14 There are clear indications that a main divide is meant between chapters 10 and 11, even though Jesus is presented as the Life-giver at the end of the first part of the shepherd speech (ἐγὼ ἦλθον ἵνα ζωὴν ἔχωσιν καὶ περισσὸν ἔχωσιν, 10:10), which anticipates the raising of Lazarus. The Jews’ question about Jesus’ messiahship (10:24) is formulated so as to indicate that similar issues have been discussed several times, and a final answer is expected. The Jews’ attempt to stone Jesus “again” (πάλιν, 10:31) and to arrest him “again” (πάλιν) serve the same purpose. There is no need for further disputes. Jesus’ withdrawal “across the Jordan to the

12. It is possible, but not certain, that 10:19-21 comes from the passion redactor, who had inserted 10:11-18 to interpret the Good Shepherd parable in terms of Jesus’ voluntary death for the sheep. The accusation that Jesus was possessed by a demon recapitulates the idea of 7:20 and 8:48-49 and may have been taken by the passion redactor from there. However, it is also possible that the pre-passion redactor, who added 10:1-10 after the healing of the blind man, formulated 10:19-21 as the conclusion of the discourse. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:461-462, concludes that the unit 10:19-21 may originally come from the first edition but was modified by the second author and possibly by the third, too. In any case, it is unnecessary to assume that 10:19-21 followed originally right after 9:41; the reference to τοὺς λόγους τούτους in 10:19 presupposes the Shepherd discourse (rightly Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 377). 13. See Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 188–91, who refers to midrashic interpretations of the psalm. For further suggestions, see Lincoln, The Gospel according to John, 307–09. A reference to foreign gods or angels is not likely. 14. Rightly Jonathan A. Draper, “ʻIf those to whom the W/word of God came were called gods . . .’: Logos, wisdom and prophecy, and John 10:22-30,” HTS Theological Studies 71 (2015), 275–82; p. 281: “Those who believe in Jesus as God’s logos, now incarnate in the flesh, are ‘taught by God’ as promised in Isaiah 54:13 (the probable source of the Scriptural citation) in John 6:45; they are those to whom the Word has come (they ‘have seen his glory’ 1:14) . . ., and so are also rightly called (in that limited sense) gods.”

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place where John the Baptist had been baptizing earlier” (10:40) harks back to the opening chapters of the gospel. The indications that the story was coming to an end—not only the end of the signs and disputes in chs 5–10 but of the whole ministry of Jesus in 1–10— force the question of the function of Jn 11–12 and have led to various hypotheses concerning the redaction history of John. Lindars thought that the raising of Lazarus in 11:1-44 was an insertion made in the second edition of the Gospel. This move then occasioned a chain of further changes and displacements in relation to the original edition, where 10:42 was followed by 11:54.15 Brown thought that the chapters are an editorial addition to the original outline, where Jesus’ public ministry ended with 10:40-42; the story would continue directly with ch. 13.16 Von Wahlde concludes that the first edition already had the same overall plot as the final Gospel, with the raising of Lazarus as the greatest sign that also caused the Sanhedrin’s fatal decision (11:47-57). Jesus’ dinner in Bethany (12:1-2, 9-10) and coming to Jerusalem (12:17-19) as well as the request of the Greeks to see Jesus (12:20-22) came from the same early story, which the second redactor enriched with Jesus’ royal entry (12:12-17). At the same time, von Wahlde concludes that the third author was responsible for the two dominant motifs that structure chs 11 and 12: Jesus’ power to give life and to judge.17 As I reconstruct it, the closing part of the pre-passion gospel began with the raising of Lazarus (11:1-44)18 and ended with the summaries in 12:37-50. What lies between these frames comes mainly from the passion redactor, who placed material from the passion story in this section in order to foreshadow the second “book” and to bridge the two very different stories by means of an interlocking structure.19 This redactional overwriting is so extensive that the intermediary or omitted pieces from the pre-passion text are hard to identify. There are, however, some narrative seams that may guide us a bit further. Brown observes that there are two or three different “crowds” involved in the entrance story. There were those who had come to Bethany to see Jesus and the raised Lazarus (12:9-11) and who obviously came with Jesus to Jerusalem. Then there were those who had witnessed the very raising of Lazarus (12:17). The third crowd was those who came from Jerusalem to meet Jesus as he enters the city (12:12-13, 18). “Despite the awkwardness,” Brown infers that the two first groups are seemingly identical, because the summary 12:17-18 only counts two groups.20 Brown concludes that the confusion is due to the “editorial framework” around the

15. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 50:377-378, 409. 16. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 1:414. 17. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:572. 18. The passion redactor’s contribution is seen roughly in vv. 2:5, 16, 28-37, see the analysis in Chapter 5. 19. For the interlock structure (Longenecker), see Chapter 3. 20. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 1:456.

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entrance narrative.21 In my hypothesis, the Lazarus story is the base line, while the anointing and the entrance are the passion redactor’s insertions. On this premise, the simplest explanation for the confusion is that the Jews who had witnessed the great sign and—unlike those who hurried to inform the Pharisees, 11:46—believed in Jesus because of the sign, accompanied him to Jerusalem bearing witness to the event. The “editorial” crowd, added by the passion redactor who inserted the entrance narrative, would then be those Jerusalemites who came to hail Jesus. This reconstruction implies that Jesus’ coming to Jerusalem followed immediately after the raising of Lazarus. If the early narrative had the witnessing crowds go ahead of Jesus and announce Jesus’ coming, 12:19-20 might also come from the same narrative; the Pharisees’ confusion in 12:20 could then have guided the passion redactor in shaping 11:47-53. A second seam comes after the request of the Greeks to “see” Jesus (12:20-22). The formal request chain is narrated meticulously: the Greeks address Philip, who talks with Andrew, and then they forward the request to Jesus—but after that, the Greeks disappear and we are not told if they ever came to see Jesus. Jesus’ reply seems to have a wider audience; when the audience is finally mentioned in v. 29 it is vaguely the “people” or the “crowd” (ὁ ὄχλος). The question is whether vv. 20-22 are a fragment from the predecessor text.22 I find the passion redactor’s invention more likely, because the appearance of the Greeks highlights his “ecumenical” program (10:16; 11:52; 12:32). The episode may have been inspired by 12:2. It also gives excuse for the paraenetic lesson in 12:23-26 and the alternative Gethsemane prayer in the ensuing verses. The “people” are also the audience in 12:35-36, before the pre-passion author turns to his readers and lets Jesus speak his final words from behind the scene.23

The Bridegroom’s Seed: A Soteriology in the Making The outline that I have described shows how strongly Jn 1–4, the first main section of the pre-passion gospel, is preoccupied with the joint imagery of baptism, Spirit, and becoming children of God. This conglomerate theme not only explicates the prologue (1:12-13), but develops it in the narrative through derivative metaphors of marrying and begetting. The nuptial imagery is plain in the wine miracle performed at a wedding (2:1-11), and is made more pointed by not mentioning the bridegroom and letting Jesus in fact take that role. Although Jesus is not really described as being the bridegroom, this is obviously an intended effect of the

21. Ibid., 1:459, 463-464. 22. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:546-547, takes 12:20-22 as “relics” from the first edition, noting though that the verses contain none of the language typical of that edition. 23. Brown, The Gopel according to John, 1:489-493, regards 12:44-50 as displaced; but why could the pre-passion account not end with the words of the hidden but living Jesus?

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story, meant to anticipate the Baptist’s words in 3:29: “The bride belongs to the bridegroom. The friend who attends the bridegroom waits and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete.” The Baptist’s words have tradition-historical affinity with Mk 2:18-20 and Mt. 9:14-15 (par Lk. 5:34-35), but a literary relationship is very unlikely. The reference to the “taking away” of the bridegroom and to the fasting of the wedding guests seems secondary in Mark (and Matthew). The traditional core saying only described the joyful time of the wedding, as does Jn 3:29, where the Baptist, as the bridegroom’s friend, has his joy fulfilled. Notably, the implication of 3:29 is that the bridegroom and his friend rejoice together: the friend’s joy is in seeing the happy day of the bridegroom. This connects the nuptial imagery to the missionary theme in ch. 4, where the sower and the reaper rejoice together (ὁμοῦ χαίρῃ, 4:36). Moreover, the reference to purification (περὶ καθαρισμοῦ, 3:25) in the immediate context reminds the gospel readers of the marriage theme of the Cana miracle (2:6 κατὰ τὸν καθαρισμὸν). Up to this point, no bride seems around, although 3:29 mentions a bride in the first place. Thus, the reader is encouraged to look for hints of the “promised” bride. In the immediate context, the crowds coming to be baptized by Jesus (v. 26) might be seen as taking that function.24 In the following story, the bride materializes as a Samaritan woman at a well.25 Even if one misses the suggestive sexual symbols in the dialogue between Jesus and the woman,26 the question of the woman’s previous and present husbands shows the presence of nuptial allusions. The Jewish readers of the pre-passion John certainly recognized the long conversation as a typical betrothal scene, where the future bridegroom—a patriarch—or his servant journeys to a foreign land and encounters a girl at a well. One of them draws water from the well, the girl rushes home to tell the news, and a betrothal is concluded after a meal (Jacob and Rachel, Gen. 29:1-10; Isaac and Rebekah, Gen. 24:1061).27 John 4 diverges from the pattern on key points, there being no marriage with a virgin girl. What is implied is only that the Samaritan woman becomes the receptive missionary “soil” for the divine sower’s seed.28 The decisive union is not

24. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 223, comments on ὁ ἔχων τὴν νύμφην in 3:29: “as Jesus by his teaching and baptizing is assembling his church.” 25. For a perceptive analysis of the story from the perspective of the bride/bridegroom theme, see Adeline Fehribah, The Women in the Life of the Bridegroom: A Feminist HistoricalLiterary Analysis of the Female Characters in the Fourth Gospel (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 1998), 45–81. Fehribach’s feminist critique is also to the point. 26. Consider the “deep” well and the (missing) vessel (4:11). 27. For the betrothal type-scene, see Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 51–62. 28. The Samaritan setting gives the story an additional twist: instead of marriage the story depicts an adulterous wife’s return to her true husband. Although this motif—in itself typical in the Hebrew Bible since Hosea—may have been more prominent in the earliest

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between bride and bridegroom, but between the sower and the reaper who rejoice together (4:33-38). The female mediation, while necessary, is ancillary. From John 4, it becomes clear—if the prologue’s staging of the Son in the Father’s bosom (1:18) would not reveal it outright—that the predecessor gospel’s theology is thoroughly patriarchal. That is nothing remarkable in its cultural milieu, but deserves mention in the context of birthing imagery, and because Jn 16:21—from the passion redactor—shows more sensitivity to the female gender. In Jn 1–12, the female mediation of regeneration is strictly instrumental, as when the Samaritans tell the woman (4:42): “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.” There is a patriarchal chain of life: from father to son, and on to the (male) progeny of the son. What counts is the imperishable semen or seed.29 The shift from a betrothal scene into the agricultural metaphors of sowing and reaping in John 4 is smooth, because either way Jesus is presented as the source of eternal life (1:4; 4:36). Thus, the sower (ὁ σπείρων, v. 36—cf. Mk 4:14)30 is obviously Jesus, and those who reap are his disciples. The perspective changes in vv. 37, 38, but the “others” (ἄλλοι, v. 38) still seem to include Jesus as the initiator of the sowing. Again, as in 3:11-12, there is no clear boundary between Jesus and the others who share the spirit with him: the sower and the reaper will rejoice together (v. 36). The chain of mission from Jesus to the woman and to the Samaritans who come to faith through her follows the same pattern as the gathering of the first disciples in ch. 1 and later in 12:20-22. The chain of mission does not imply a hierarchical order, however. The Samaritans’ faith is just as immediate as the messenger’s faith; the woman’s witness brought the Samaritans themselves to hear and see Jesus directly. 1 Jn 3:9 draws the conclusion: πᾶς ὁ γεγεννημένος ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ ἁμαρτίαν οὐ ποιεῖ, ὅτι σπέρμα αὐτοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ μένει, καὶ οὐ δύναται ἁμαρτάνειν, ὅτι ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ γεγέννηται. This is the only reference to God’s σπέρμα in the New Testament

tradition (4:22), the pre-passion redactor was more concerned to present Jesus’ mission as distinct from any Jewish/Samaritan disputes (4:21). 29. Fehribach, The Women in the Life of the Bridegroom, 72–73, points out that the Samaritan “woman”—characteristically, with no name—in John 4 represents the field to be sown. Her role is passive: “Whereas the male is active in this imagery as he sows the seed, the woman is merely the passive recipient of the seed. . . . Nevertheless, the story of the Samaritan woman may be the Johannine equivalent of the Synoptic story of the good soil that produces much fruit.” 30. The parable of the sower in Mk 4 is thematically prominent in the earliest survived gospel, as its detailed interpretation in that chapter indicates. See Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), esp. p. 175. I think the general theme was widely known in early Christ-believing communities. The redactor of the pre-passion John may well have been aware of the notion of Jesus as the “sower” of the “word” even though familiarity with the Gospel of Mark cannot be presumed.

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writings, but John 4 shows how the idea of God’s seed, logically deducible from Jn 1:13 (ἐκ θεοῦ ἐγεννήθησαν) and from the function of the divine λόγος, could be narrated in the Jesus story. In 1 Jn 3:9, σπέρμα hardly means collectively and biologically the “offspring” of God so that the ὅτι clause would say “His children remain in Him.”31 This would be tautological in the context, and 1 John prefers to speak of “children” of God rather than of his “offspring.” A purely agricultural sense (seed) would also be problematic, as it neglects the notion of rebirth. Rather, as Smalley argues, the σπέρμα of God combines a biological and an agricultural meaning: it is “the divine seed, or ‘nature,’ which is implanted in the person who is spiritually reborn, and which is responsible for the Christian growth and potentially sinless character of each believer.”32 Smalley further defines σπέρμα in 1 Jn 3:9 as a combination of “word” and “Spirit,” to the effect that it denotes “the word of God which is received in faith by the Christian, and which (through the inward activity of the Spirit) leads to rebirth, and the experience of increasing holiness by living in Jesus.”33 However, “the word” as such is not a major theme in the letter apart from the opening verse. Furthermore, the element of gradual growth is completely alien to the letter. There, anything is just on or off: truth or lie, light or darkness, us or them. In the prepassion John, too, dualism prevails. The Spirit is not mentioned in the prologue. It is probably implied in the prologue’s allusion to God’s creative word in Gen 1,34 and in the close affinity between God and Logos, which suggests that the Logos has a share in the divine Spirit, too.35 Nevertheless, the Spirit’s presence is only implied. This is important because the reader is then more prone to understand that Jesus received the divine Spirit later, as witnessed by the Baptist (Jn 1:32-34). Although the prologue is not a straightforward narrative, 1:11-13 must pertain to the ministry of Jesus after his heavenly origin. Thus, the begetting of God’s children (1:12-13) obviously implies that they receive the Spirit from or through the incarnate Logos, Jesus. There is a tension between the prologue’s implicit pneumatology and the predecessor gospel’s narrative pneumatology. In the prologue, the Logos/Jesus

31. This is the translation argued by J. De Waal Dryden, “The Sense of σπέρμα in 1 John 3:9: In Light of Lexical Evidence,” Filologia Neotestamentaria 11 (1998), 85–100. 32. Stephen S. Smalley, 1,2,3 John (WBC51; Waco: Word Books, 1984), 173. 33. Smalley, 1,2,3 John, 174. 34. See John Painter, “Earth Made Whole: John’s Rereading of Genesis 1,” in John Painter, R. Alan Culpeppr and Fernando F. Segovia (eds.), Word, Theology, and Community in John (St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2002), 65–84, Painter (p. 72) refers to Ps. 33:6, where word and spirit are paralleled: “By the word of the Lord the heavens were made, and all their hosts by the breath of his mouth.” 35. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, John and Philosophy: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 36–73, rightly emphasizes that the prologue and the Baptist’s witness in 1:19-34 belong together, thus showing the unity of logos and Spirit in John 1.

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seems to have the Spirit primordially, as a birthright, while the Baptist’s testimony seems to narrate the Spirit’s descent first on the incarnate one. Are there two different pneumatologies and christologies at work? The mismatch does not prove quite that much, but it does highlight the difficult bond between speculative and narrative theologizing. At the same time, the virtual gap between the prologue and the rest of Jn 1–12 is crucial for understanding the anthropology of the predecessor gospel. But anthropology and christology cannot be fully separated, and the concept of the Spirit is here a crucial mediator. It is clear that those who believe in Jesus and have been “born again/from above”36 receive the Spirit while on earth; there is no hint of an advanced mythology to describe the believers’ preexistence in any form, be it through predestination, a heavenly counterpart, or a primordial existence. Would it then not be natural to read Jn 1:32-34 in light of the Christian spiritual experience and in accordance with what the text almost indicates: that Jesus, too, received the Spirit at a certain point of his life? Traces of such an anthropological-christological cross-fertilization are getting visible in the prepassion gospel. While there is (yet?) no idea of the eternal origin of the believers, there is an impact of anthropology on christology through pneumatology. What, then, is the relationship between God’s λόγος and σπέρμα? The Stoic and Middle Platonic concept of λόγος σπερματικός is here instructive, albeit not in the sense Justin Martyr used the concept in his apologetic theology.37 Dietrich Rusam, in a short but substantial study,38 has rightly stressed the anthropological or biological aspect of the concept. While the idea of λόγος σπερματικός has a cosmic dimension, the “microcosmos” of birthing living beings is equally important. The male seed produces progeny that resembles and is akin to its originator. This means that the seed produces the same kind of progeny; therefore humans birth humans, animals give birth to animals.39 It also means that the progeny is “programmed” to become in the likeness of the seed, which will take some time of maturation,40 and

36. I do not see a theological difference between the two concepts; the pre-passion author is just playing with words in order to elicit a misunderstanding from Nicodemus. 37. The precise term is found twice in Justin Martyr (2 Apol. 8.3; 13.3), the expression τὸ σπέρμα τοῦ λόγου is also found in 2 Apol. 8.1; cf. 6.3; 13.5. Justin argued that the Greek philosophers could live prudently because of the logos planted in their souls. Yet, although “the seeds of truth (σπέρματα ἀληθείας) are present among all human beings” (1 Apol. 47:10), the original and whole logos is Christ, who also worked through Moses and the prophets. Such a philosophical tour-de-force is alien to Johannine thought. 38. Dietrich Rusam, “Die Samen- und Vererbungslehre der Stoa als religionsgeschichtlicher Hintergrund für die Bezeichnung der Glaubenden im johanneischen Schrifttum,” BZ 59 (2015), 279–87. 39. Cf. 1 Cor. 15:39: “Not all flesh is alike, but there is one flesh for human beings, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish.” 40. Cf. the exhortations in the Pauline type of paraenesis to “grow up” toward full adulthood. The maturation language may also have an eschatological point, as in 1 Cor. 13:11-12; cf. 1 Jn 3:2.

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that the progeny, in some profound way, is or shares with the original seed.41 The idea of the close relationship between the originator/seed and the progeny is not limited to Greco-Roman philosophy; when the Hebrew Bible speaks of “Israel” as an ancestor and a people, it is based on the same concept. Nor is the conviction that the believers are God’s children specifically Johannine. What is specific to Johannine tradition, however, is that it elaborates on the idea of becoming God’s children extensively by means of suggestive narrative images. A breach with the Stoic concept is evident when it comes to the cosmic dimension. How does the λόγος of the prologue—which, as the Life and Light, is a truly cosmic entity and pertains to all humankind (1:4)—relate to the specific “seed” that Jesus was sowing during his ministry (4:37)? It seems that Johannine theology has no clear answer. While preexistence is assumed not only in the prologue but throughout in the pre-passion John, as 1:30 and 8:58 show, the manifestation of the Logos is strictly limited to Jesus. We could reason that those who have been born from above have a share in this logos, but this is not how the predecessor and the final John conceptualize the relation between Christ and the believer. The relation is based on the same Spirit, or on believing in Jesus, but it is not indicated that the believers have a share in the logos. An important point of comparison to the Johannine concept of Logos is the “implanted word” (ἔμφυτος λόγος) in Jas 1:21. The problem in James, too, concerns whether the λόγος is something universally human or a specifically Christian property. In view of Jas 1:18, the question is whether God’s “birthing us through the word of truth” (ἀπεκύησεν ἡμᾶς λόγῳ ἀληθείας) refers to natural birth or a specific act of rebirth. Dibelius dubbed these alternatives cosmological vs. soteriological understanding,42 while another scholar contrasts creation and redemption as the two options.43 In a monograph on Logos and Law in James, Jackson-McCabe has argued that the assumed dichotomy is “entirely unnecessary.”44 Rather, the letter would combine a thoroughly Stoic conception of the Logos with a Jewish Christian Torah piety; James would represent a form of early Christianity where “soteriology centered not on rebirth through ‘the Gospel,’ but on observance of the Torah.”45 Such a combination would not be too difficult to imagine, granted the close connection with the Torah and Wisdom in much Second Temple Judaism and parts of nascent Christianity. However, I have elsewhere argued for the view that James indeed entertains the idea of rebirth through “gospel,” although the letter additionally merges the “gospel” with the law, which then becomes “the perfect

41. This aspect is vital in Jn 12:24 and 15:1-8. 42. Martin Dibelius, James: A Commentary on the Epistle of James (Hermeneia; 11th edn, revised by H. Greeven, tr. by M. A. Williams; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 103–04. 43. L. E. Elliott-Binns, “James I.18: Creation or Redemption?”, NTS 3 (1957), 148–61. 44. Matt A. Jackson-McCabe, Logos and Law in the Letter of James: The Law of Nature, the Law of Moses, and the Law of Freedom (NovTSup 100; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2001), 236. 45. Jackson-McCabe, Logos and Law in the Letter of James, 253.

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law of freedom” in conscious criticism of Pauline theology of the law.46 This I think is probable in view of the unmistakable baptismal paraenesis in 1:21 (ἀποθέμενοι πᾶσαν ῥυπαρίαν καὶ περισσείαν κακίας ἐν πραΰτητι δέξασθε etc.) and in the explicit reference to faith in Jesus Christ (2:1). The combination of law and gospel was alleviated by the tendency we can observe in post-Pauline tradition of merging the effective “word” of God and the proclamation of the “gospel” (Heb. 4:12, etc.). Perhaps the “word” of the “sower” in Mk 4:14 is the very first example of that merging: ὁ σπείρων τὸν λόγον σπείρει. But Jackson-McCabe may well be right in seeing Stoic influences in Jas’s logos concept. The combination of a merged law/ gospel as “word of God” and the Hellenistic logos philosophy may seem strange, but in fact it need not be so far-fetched for an enlightened Jewish Christian teacher who was convinced that the Jewish law—conveniently epitomized in its ethical demand47—was made perfect in the universally valid teaching of Jesus. The complex blend we see in James may be rare, but without the specific law/ gospel assimilation it would be more mainstream in nascent Christianity. Thus, in 1 Pet. 1:23, the divine seed, word and spiritual rebirth go together: ἀναγεγεννημένοι οὐκ ἐκ σπορᾶς φθαρτῆς ἀλλὰ ἀφθάρτου, διὰ λόγου ζῶντος θεοῦ καὶ μένοντος.48 The precise relationship and function of seed and God’s word—which in itself assimilates God’s creative word in general and the proclamation of the gospel—is somewhat blurred here. The use of different prepositions (ἐκ and διά) may suggest a functional difference. In what follows, the attribute imperishable (ἀφθάρτου, v. 23) goes with the word of God rather than the seed (τὸ δὲ ῥῆμα κυρίου μένει εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα, v. 25). This blend shows that the letter author, while aware of the notion of the believers as God’s “seed,” is not interested in proceeding along this anthropological path but rather stays within the more conventional word-of-God theology. Obviously the logos concept in the letter of James diverts from the pre-passion (as well as later) Johannine concept, where the appreciation of the Mosaic Law is

46. Kari Syreeni, “James and the Pauline Legacy: Power in Corinth?” in Ismo Dunderberg, Christopher Tuckett, and Kari Syreeni (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity, 397–437. 47. The letter nowhere stresses the validity of purity laws, Sabbath observance or circumcision. 48. The term σπορά occurs only here in the New Testament, the more common word for ‘seed’ being σπέρμα. J. Ramsey Michaels, 1 Peter (WBC; Waco: Word Books, 1988), 76, thinks that the choice of term focuses on the process of sowing rather than the seed as such. It is quite obvious, however, in which sense a process of sowing can be “imperishable.” A distinction between seed and word is indicated by the use of different prepositions, but the distinction is not easily maintained because the conceptual blend “the word is a seed” is already there. 1 Peter shows the mythological potential of the seed metaphor, but is not interested in developing it. The imperishable seed is contrasted with perishable human and natural bodies (1:24), which might have led to speculations about the imperishable divine nature of the reborn people (cf. 2 Pet. 1:4). However, the author chooses to stress the eternal word of God, which merges with the proclaimed gospel (1:25).

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considerably lower—beginning with its subordination to the grace revealed through Jesus Christ (1:17). However, the prologue’s universal claim and the equation of the word of God and Jesus indicate that there may be some tradition-historical connection between the forms of Jewish Christianity represented by these two documents. The combination we see in 1 Peter is apparently closer to John in not suggesting the law/gospel assimilation, but otherwise its conventional word-ofGod theology does not match the christological logos of the Johannine prologue. Although the image of Jesus as baptizer is prevalent in the early chapters of John, there are elements that suggest it might be developing toward a parallelism between the spiritual “baptism” of Jesus and that of the Christian. In the Nicodemus discourse, Jesus is depicted as a spokesman for those who are born from above and possess the Spirit: “Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony” (3:11). There is no substantial difference between Jesus and the rest of the pneumatics. According to 3:34, God “gives the Spirit without measure.” If this is true of Jesus, would it not be true of all those who are born of God? But the logic easily cuts the other way round: if the believer received the full Spirit at baptismal rebirth, did not Jesus become Christ at baptism too? Or again, if Jesus received the Spirit directly from God, would not the believer receive it likewise? Such considerations show that a sharp dualism and a focus on baptism and the Spirit tend to produce possessionist christology49 and the idea of already attained perfection. What is only a possible reading of Jn 1–12 is attested in 1 John. The letter describes the reception of the Spirit twice (2:20, 27) as χρῖσμα, anointing—from the same root as χριστός, the Anointed. This anointing comes directly from God, the Holy One, and guarantees that the believers “know everything” (v. 20) and “have no need that anyone teach you” (v. 27). Obviously the author was reminding his addressees of a teaching that he shares with his adversaries. Where he disagrees is the adversaries’ claim that they are sinless, although this, too, seems to have been a shared conviction before the schism. This is why the letter’s teaching on sin is so perplexing. The sender will have it both ways: those born of God cannot sin (3:9; 5:18), yet they do and must therefore confess their sins (1:8-10). It is then likely that the predecessor gospel’s anthropological outlook included the notion that those born of the Spirit were sinless and morally perfect. Sin is the lethal sickness of all nonbelievers (8:21-24). Indeed, the idea is not far that the outsiders are already dead. Since the believer’s eternal life means that he has passed

49. For a bird-eye view of early possessionist christologies, see Michael Goulder, A Tale of Two Missions (London: SCM Press, 1994), 107–42. Goulder’s overview is of course simplified, but his preference for the term possessionism rather than docetism (p. 117) is instructive. (There is genuine docetism, too, as in the Acts of John.) See also Matti Myllykoski, “Cerinthus,” in Antti Marjanen and Petri Luomanen (eds.), A Companion to Second-Century “Heretics” (Vigiliae Christianae Suppl. 76; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005), 213–46, esp. p. 236, where Myllykoski refers to Norbert Brox, “‘Doketismus’ – eine Problemanzeige,” ZKG 95 (1984), 301–14.

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from death to life (μεταβέβηκεν ἐκ τοῦ θανάτου εἰς τὴν ζωήν, 5:24), it follows that the pre-faith existence is one of death. In the Valentinian Gospel of Philip, this conclusion is explicit (Gos.Phil. 52: 15-19): “A Gentile does not die, for he has never lived in order that he may die. He who has believed in the truth has found life, and this one is in danger of dying, for he is alive.” The above discussion highlights some of the consequences of what is, to a certain extent, a “masculinization” of the concept of God’s Wisdom into the concepts of Logos and Son. As is generally acknowledged, one tradition-historical background of the Johannine prologue is the idea of Wisdom as God’s hypostasis. Traces of a Sophia christology have found their way into Q and Matthew. Traits in the pre-passion John also echo this tradition, as when Jesus stands up and cries aloud, inviting people to come and drink (7:28-29, 37-38) and more generally, when Jesus is the supplier of nourishment: living water (4:10) and spiritual bread, as in the traditional Bread of Life discourse in John 6.50 The (pre-passion as well as later) Johannine Jesus, of course, supersedes the early Jewish idea of Wisdom.51 Moreover, subsumed by the overarching male Logos/Son imagery, Wisdom’s “sex appeal”—Wisdom as the object of male lust52—is modified. God’s male surrogate is now the one looking for a bride, a female object to inseminate. Thus, there are tendencies in the pre-passion John that some scholars would describe as “gnosticizing.” A full-blown Gnostic mythology is certainly not present; the soteriology is based entirely on belief in Jesus, not on receiving secret salvific knowledge. There is no speculation on the primordial divine origin of the believers; preexistence is the property of the divine Logos who was manifested on earth through Jesus. At the same time, the pneumatic affinity of the believer with Christ is so emphatic that a kind of reciprocity or exchange of attributes is close at hand, which opens the possibility for theological mutations. If the Spirit was the tie between Christ and the believer, then was Jesus an ordinary human being endowed with a divine element, an anointed (χριστός) pneumatic like any believer?53 Or also, if Christ’s mission was to sow the divine seed into human minds, was it not precisely this imperishable seed, the token of eternal

50. For the Wisdom motifs in John 4 and 6, see Karl-Gustav Sandelin, Wisdom as Nourisher: A Study of an Old Testament Theme, Its Development within Early Judaism and Its Impact on Early Christianity (Acta Academiae Aboensis A 64, nr.3; Åbo Akademi: Åbo, 1986), 173–85. 51. Rightly Sandelin, Wisdom as Nourisher, 185. 52. Cf. Silvia Schroer, Wisdom Has Built Her House: Studies on the Figure of Sophia in the Bible (A Michael Glazier Book; tr. Linda M. Maloney and William McDonough; Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 2000), 93–94. 53. The χρῖσμα mentioned in 1 Joh 2:20, 27(bis) is of course interesting in this connection. Brown, The Epistles of John, 370, comments: “Anointing with the Holy Spirit was surely associated with the ‘anointing’ of Jesus by the Spirit at his baptism (Acts 10:38).” While the reference to Luke’s Acts shows the vulnerability of Brown’s certainty, there is a good possibility that the shared community tradition of 1 John connected the unction with

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life, which separated the believers from the rest of humankind—from those who had no life in themselves? We do not know precisely how the Johannine Christians read the early gospel, and what innovations they made on its basis. Some further developments must have taken place before 1 John was issued, for otherwise the letter’s polemic against their christological tenets would be difficult to explain. Raymond Brown opined that 1 John’s “insistence on the death of Jesus corrects the secessionist error,” an error that according to him was their “lack of interest in the death of Jesus.”54 Now, the epistle hardly calls the dissidents liars and antichrists just for their “lack of interest.” The polemic is more understandable if they denied Jesus’ death, or else they did not want to hear and read about it; it was not their gospel. Whatever path their theologizing took, this defiance must have been a catalyst that made them stress the importance of other features in the pre-passion gospel.

Working in the Daylight: A Time Concept of Jesus’ Mission The most impressive string of thematic connections designed by the pre-passion redactor consists of the concepts of sign, work, day, and light, which through the connection between light and life forms a chain of associations to interpret the whole mission of the Logos in the world. It is possible, in some measure, to trace the developing ideation of the pre-passion gospel and see how a theologically motivated literary plan has guided the use of existing narrative traditions. As von Wahlde and basically all variations of a Semeia hypothesis suggest, the concept of sign lies at the bottom of the early narrative tradition. Von Wahlde also argues that in the second edition this concept recedes in favor of work.55 These are interesting suggestions, but it is another matter whether an early continuous “signs” source can be reconstructed on this basis. The fourteen occurrences of σημεῖον or σημεῖα in the Gospel cover very evenly the first “book” of the final Gospel (2:11; 2:18; 2:23; 3:2; 4:45; 6:2; 6:14; 6:26; 7:31; 9:16; 10:4; 11:47; 12:18; 12:37), but after that the vocabulary is used only in 20:30. Von Wahlde suggests, somewhat hesitatingly, that the first edition ended with a reference to the “signs” in 20:30-31.56 I would refer 20:30-31 to the final editor, who thought this was

Jesus’ baptism. If so, the anthropological-christological cross-reference and the association of χρῖσμα and Χριστός are near at hand. 54. Brown, The Epistles of John, 78. 55. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 1:155-156. 56. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:873-877. His uncertainty about 20:30:31b is symptomatic of the problem of the passion story: “Given the existence of 12:37 (first edition) at the end of the public ministry and since the current verses are from the first edition also, it seems most likely that they are intended as a conclusion to the entire Gospel in its first edition and that, although the signs proper occurred during his public ministry [emphasis mine], final belief in Jesus was not complete until his Resurrection” (p. 875).

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an appropriate homage to the previous gospel—before he realized the necessity of bringing the story of Peter and the Beloved Disciple to an end in ch. 21. The passion redactor knew both the “signs” and the “works” as descriptions of Jesus’ missionary actions. The passion events were not really suitable as Jesus’ “work” (cf. 9:4; 13:30; 17:4), whereas the wounds of the crucified and risen Jesus (20:27) could well be his lasting “sign”—in itself a remarkable instance of relecture. The pre-passion redactor’s progressive ideation can be seen in the healing story in Chapter 5. The healing occasions a theological dispute because the day was a Sabbath. The general model—a Sabbath healing with ensuing controversy—was widespread in early Jesus traditions, and it served as a basis for christological statements as in Mk 2:28. In the Johannine form, the focus is much more on the controversy, which gives Jesus the opportunity to unfold his message. The traditional model implied a close connection between Sabbath and work, and it looks as if this connection gave an impetus for the pre-passion redactor to develop the idea of Jesus’ whole mission as “work.” The controversy discourse sets off with Jesus’ principle statement in 5:17: “My Father is still working, and I also am working.” It is not impossible that the saying refers to scribal discussion on whether God can to work on Sabbath,57 but more plausibly the saying just states a more general truth (God is not otiose) which holds true for Jesus as well: he is bound to work as long as he dwells on earth. Another Sabbath healing in ch. 9 develops the idea of work into the concept of working day. If the whole of Jesus’ mission is his work, consisting of a number of works, it is something that can be looked back as a completed work (cf. 17:4) at the end of the day. How the day metaphor was first suggested to the redactor is uncertain, but part of the explanation may be the light imagery, which was suggested by the prologue and its allusion to the creation story in the Hebrew Bible. It seems far-fetched, however, to structure the opening sections of John according to the days of creation, with the wine miracle taking place “on the eight day” of the new creation. The casual numbering of days seems just a convenient way of transition. A more obvious scheme is found in the recurrent references to daylight in Jesus’ mouth: 8:12 “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” 9:4-5 “We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” 11:9-10 “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.”

57. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:221, with references. I think von Wahlde here and elsewhere may overestimate the “sophisticated Jewish religious argument” of his second edition.

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12:35-36 “The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” 12:46 “I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me should not remain in the darkness.”

John 8:12 states a general principle and harks back to the prologue’s combination of light and life (1:4). It functions as an opening statement and leads immediately to a christological dispute. The next two sayings about light are in the beginning of a miracle story. They are somewhat loose in their context but carry further the idea of Jesus’ mission as a work that he must fulfill while on earth. These sayings not only combine the imagery of work, day, and light, but alert the reader to the temporal limit of Jesus’ mission. In 11:9-10, the hours of the day(light) are mentioned, and both here and in 9:4-5 it is warned that after the day, there will be dark so that no one, not even Jesus, can work anymore. This gives a clear signal that the end of Jesus’ mission is approaching. At the same time, the sayings have a paraenetic tone: hearers of Jesus are urged to work while there is daylight, and to have the light in them by following the Light. In the closure of the gospel, the light theme is again hammered in both christologically and paraenetically. In accordance with the gospel’s dualistic outlook, light is good and darkness is bad. The night is not Jesus’ time. Hence it is clear that the hours of the day in 11:9 have nothing to do with the “hour” stressed by the passion redactor; the origin of that concept is to be found in the Markan and Matthean passion story, particularly in the Markan Gethsemane story (Mk 14:35, Jn 12:27).58 The “work day” motif in the latter half of the gospel imposes a kind of chronology on the material which otherwise is less concerned with chronology and narrative progression. Besides that, the motif is helpful in indicating that there was an end to Jesus’ mission. The hymnic prologue only thematized the inauguration and lasting effect of Jesus’ mission, not its duration and end, but in a narrative there must be some sequential logic and an end. A related function is the impression of urgency it creates by stressing the limited time. In this function, the motif is accompanied by the references to Jesus’ approaching departure—his hiding himself—and the unsuccessful seeking after him that it occasions.

Hiding and Seeking: The Departure of Jesus and the Attempts to Seize Him Another recurring theme in the second main section, and until the end of the gospel, is Jesus’ hiding himself. Cognate to hiding is the notion of Jesus’ “going away,” which is often coupled with the listeners’ or adversaries’ seeking after him.

58. See ch. 6.

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The attempts to seize, even stone and kill Jesus also belong to this conglomeration of themes. In 8:21-24, for instance, Jesus’ going away and the Jew’s seeking go together (ὑπάγω καὶ ζητήσετέ με, v. 21). In this context, there is no attempt to kill Jesus, the adversaries just speculate whether Jesus might kill himself, but later in the discourse Jesus sees through their bad intentions: ζητεῖτέ με ἀποκτεῖναι (v. 37). The notion of the adversaries’ failed attempts to seize Jesus is so recognizable in the predecessor text that the passion redactor, too, could employ it to remind the readers of the dreadful “hour” to come; thus, 7:30bc (οὐδεὶς ἐπέβαλεν ἐπʼ αὐτὸν τὴν χεῖρα, ὅτι οὔπω ἐληλύθει ἡ ὥρα αὐτοῦ) and 8:20c (καὶ οὐδεὶς ἐπίασεν αὐτόν, ὅτι οὔπω ἐληλύθει ἡ ὥρα αὐτοῦ).59 The passion redactor emphasized that nobody could lay a hand on Jesus before Jesus himself permits it (cf. 18:6-8).60 The predecessor, too, was fully aware of Jesus’ sovereignty, but the pattern is different, as is seen in 8:59: the adversaries try to stone Jesus, but Jesus just hid himself and walked away (Ἰησοῦς δὲ ἐκρύβη καὶ ἐξῆλθεν ἐκ τοῦ ἱεροῦ). Although this reaction coheres with other cases where Jesus withdraws and avoids being arrested or killed, the most interesting feature is that the adversaries’ attempts fail because Jesus disappears. This pattern is a further illustration of the prologue, where it is stated that the light shines in the darkness, and “darkness did not overcome it” (1:4).61 Taken together with the references to seeking and (not) finding, there is also a hint of the end of the divine Logos’ tabernacling on earth. The references to Jesus’ withdrawal from publicity and away from Judea are a simple structuring device to mark the shift from one textual unit to another. At the same time, they keep on reminding of the opposition against Jesus. The disappearance motif, however, goes deeper and is combined with a curious “hide and seek” game, which is a reflection of a rudimentary “wisdom tale” or rather, a few modified wisdom motifs. The abode of God’s Wisdom is hidden to the mortals.62 Only those who find it can find light—and a life without sin.63 Furthermore, to

59. Besides the passion signal ἡ ὥρα, virtually all occurrences (all but 8:57) of οὔπω come from the passion redactor. At 7:30, the passion redactor’s intervention has caused a literary tension, first in the same verse (how does ἐζήτουν οὖν αὐτὸν πιάσαι fit with οὐδεὶς ἐπέβαλεν ἐπʼ αὐτὸν τὴν χεῖρα?) and then shortly after (7:32, pre-passion), where there is another attempt to seize Jesus. Obviously, the passion redactor took notice of the predecessor’s dictum in 7:30a and 7:32, interpreting it to suit his own agenda: nothing could happen to Jesus before the set time. 60. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 1:318. 61. The meaning of this verse in the prologue is aptly explained in 12:35 (ἵνα μὴ σκοτία ὑμᾶς καταλάβῃ). Of course, darkness cannot understand or accept the Light; but the story shows how it tried to rescind it and leave the humankind in the dark. 62. Job 28:12-13: “But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding? Mortals do not know the way to it, and it is not found in the land of the living.” 63. Baruch 3:14-15: “Learn where there is wisdom, where there is strength, where there is understanding, so that you may at the same time discern where there is length of days,

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what Meeks rightly saw as the tenor of Johannine dialogues—“the picture of . . . the heavenly Wisdom that seeks a home among men only to be rejected”64—can be added the motif that the divine Wisdom/Logos is calling people to him (e.g., 7:37-38).65 While there is time, when the Logos/Light is gone, people will seek and not find. A similar thought is found in the Gospel of Thomas (38:2): “There will be days when you look for me and will not find me.”66 The seminal words of Jesus in 7:33-34 contain an enigma not grasped by the narrative audience. After speculating about where Jesus might be going, the hearers simply repeat Jesus’ words (7:36). The same words are spoken by Jesus to the disciples in 13:33, and basically the same question is posed by Thomas in the first farewell discourse (14:5). Thus, the words of Jesus were an enigma not for the “Jews” alone, but for the narrative disciples as well. For the readers of the pre-passion gospel the enigma of Jesus’ departure was also as concealed as was his advent, his coming into flesh (1:14). The first time the reader meets the Logos, Light, and Life on earth is when Jesus appears together with the Baptist. His former history on earth is not told, he only enters the scene as an adult and as one whom no one knew, not even the Baptist (1:26). His departure was just as enigmatic. Having fulfilled his mission, he hid himself and disappeared. The beginning and the end were equally mysterious. To understand Jesus’ words in 7:33-34 in the pre-passion gospel, we should not take recourse to how the passion redactor reinterprets them in 13:36-38, where Peter asks Jesus where he is going (ποῦ ὑπάγεις) and Jesus tells Peter he cannot “follow” there—not now, but later. This relecture makes plain that Jesus is speaking of his death; and indeed Peter would “follow” him onto death later (21:19). In 7:33-34, however, it is not implied that Jesus would “go away” through death. He is simply going back to the Father. In this context, there is no idea of following Jesus; it is all about seeking him. Those who seek him will only experience that he is gone. To imagine that Jesus was referring to his death by crucifixion would make all such

and life, where there is light for the eyes, and peace. Who has found her place? And who has entered her storehouses?” 64. Meeks, “The Man From Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” 59. However, the prepassion John also stresses that some of the audience did receive Jesus. Thus, the κρίσις enacted by the coming of the Light has two aspects, see Jn 5:19-21. 65. Cf. Sirach 24:19-21: “Come to me, you who desire me, and eat your fill of my fruits. . . . Those who eat of me will hunger for more, and those who drink of me will thirst for more. Whoever obeys me will not be put to shame, and those who work with me will not sin.” The (pre-passion) Johannine Jesus, of course, offers a better satisfaction: those who drink of him will not thirst anymore (Jn 4:14). 66. Stephen J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus (Sonoma: Polebridge Press, 1993), 87 notes that while Gos.Thom. 38:1 is comparable to Mt. 13:16-17/Lk. 10:23-24, Gos. Thom. 38:2 “would be very much at home in John,” referring to Jn 7:33-34; 8:21; 13:33; 16:19.

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seeking absurd.67 The cross was not a hiding place, it was a place where Jesus was publicly seen (Ὄψονται εἰς ὃν ἐξεκέντησαν, 19:37). However, the mysterious coming and going of the “Man from Heaven” was bound to raise unsettling questions among the pre-passion Johannine believers. What was the fate and mission of those left behind? Were they left alone in a hostile world? This is where the pre-passion tradition—partly written, but in a fragmentary form—set in. The quest for the Jesus that was, and would, in some way, continue to be present with his own people, was the vital issue in the farewell section (Jn 13–17). A full answer to these burning questions, however, was not given in that tradition, but by the passion redactor—and then the whole concept of the Logos’ temporary sojourning on earth was revised.

67. This, however, is how nearly all commentators interpret Jn 7:34. Typically Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 325: “The primary reference of course is to the death of Jesus.” Lindars, The Gospel of John, 297–98, is probably right to suggest that there is some irony with the various connotations of “seeking”: the Jews were looking for Jesus in order to arrest him (7:11), but in 7:34 they would obviously want to have what Jesus came to give—but too late.

Chapter 8 A LONG FAREWELL: THE WATERSHED IN JOHANNINE THEOLOGICAL EVOLUTION

Some half a century ago, Ernst Käsemann depicted the Johannine farewell discourse, particularly the final prayer in John 17, as “the last will” of Jesus modeled on “the farewell speech of a dying man.”1 In the Gospel as it is now, the farewell section in Jn 13–17 certainly looks like the testament of a dying man, but of course of a divine man who would be raised from the dead. The passion redaction hypothesis, however, implies that there was a pre-passion tradition in parts of Jn 13–17, according to which Jesus’ last discourse was not a dying man’s testament. In that tradition, the farewell was Jesus’ last advice to his disciples and his concluding prayer to his Father before his departure back home. The redaction history of Jn 13–17 is utterly complex, because on the one hand, the pre-passion tradition and the passion redaction are not easily separated in the discourse parts, and on the other hand, because the passion redaction seems to have proceeded in two stages, as the aporia at 14:30-31/15-17/18:1 indicates. I will first discuss the form-critical issue concerning the farewell address. Then an attempt will be made to distinguish between the pre-passion farewell and the final form of Jn 13–17. Finally, I will focus on the pre-passion farewell tradition and try to explain how it was refashioned by the passion redactor.2

Literary Testaments and Farewell Addresses: Jewish and Greco-Roman Models In his 1950 encyclopedic entry on “Abschiedsreden,” Ethelbert Stauffer distinguished between Greco-Roman, Old Testament/early Jewish, and New Testament/early

1. Ernst Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus: A Study of the Gospel of John in the Light of Chapter 17 (trans. Gerhard Krodel; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 4. German original: Jesu letzter Wille nach Johannes 17 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1966). 2. As for terminology, I refer to the whole of Jn 13–17 when speaking of the farewell section, while the first farewell speech (discourse, address) is found in ch. 14, the second speech in ch. 15–16, and the final prayer in ch. 17.

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Christian farewell addresses.3 In Greco-Roman literature, the speaker may be a famous man at the end of his life, a divine man before his transfiguration and ascent, or a god in human disguise before departing to the heavenly realm. In early Jewish literature, the first two Hellenistic categories correspond to the farewell of a man of God, the third type being that of a divine epiphany. Stauffer also noted the increasing influence from Greco-Roman literature on the Christian farewell addresses. However, in an appendix to his New Testament Theology, Stauffer only compared New Testament valedictions and farewell speeches with “Old Biblical Tradition.”4 Until recently, most scholars have largely followed this narrower path in explaining the background of the Johannine farewell speeches. So, for instance, Martin Winter, in a monograph on the literary form of Jn 13–17, only set off to detail the customary derivation of the Johannine form from Old Testament and early Jewish tradition.5 When scholars imagine a typical farewell speech, the model mostly comes from the Hebrew Bible: Jacob’s deathbed words (blessings and promises) in Gen. 48–49 and Moses’ farewell in Deut. 31–34. In Deuteronomy, the three main elements of a testamentary farewell speech that recur in early Jewish literature are already present: historical summaries, moral admonition, and prophetic utterances. The mix is variable, however. Later testaments show increasing wisdom and apocalyptic traits, with extended discussion on divine justice and end-time predictions, as well as visions and chariot rides. If the apocalyptic interest prevails, the testament genre may end up being a pretext for secret revelation. Where the paraenetic interest reigns, the result may be a wisdom treatise in the guise of a testament. In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, the testament is the overarching genre and the structuring principle of the collection.

3. Ethelbert Stauffer, “Abschiedsreden,” RAC I (1950), 29–35. 4. Ethelbert Stauffer, New Testament Theology (trans. John Marsh; London: SCM, 1955), 344–47. 5. Martin Winter, Das Vermächtnis Jesu und die Abschiedsworte der Väter: Gattungsgeschichtliche Untersuchung der Vermächtnisrede im Blick auf Joh 13-17 (FRLANT 161; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994). Winter suggested that the Johannine form is that of Vermächtnisrede, which would be a subform of Abschiedsrede (p. 38). I do not follow this distinction. Testament (legacy, Vermächtnis) and farewell are clearly distinct things, but as literary forms (literary testament, farewell speech) they are closely related, as my discussion below shows. I will not suggest a genealogy (parent/offspring) or categorization (genre/subgenre) of these forms as Winter does. In the biblical tradition, the testamentary speech was crystallized first, which would make its status as a subgenre problematic. In many respects, testamentary and other farewell speeches are like “twins” with corresponding, yet contrasting elements (final departure/temporal absence, status shift/permanent friendship, encouragement/consolation). However, death and departure resonate with each other and invite metaphorical associations that fuse categories. There are also additional genres and forms that play in.

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On the whole, however, the testament genre is not as well-attested in second temple Jewish literature as is sometimes suggested.6 It is found as a minor form in many more writings, the best example in the New Testament being Paul’s farewell speech in Acts 20:17-38, which displays most of the typical motifs of the testamentary form. Paul “calls” to him the elders of the Ephesian church (vv. 17-18), and after the speech (vv. 19-35) and a common prayer (v. 36), the elders embrace Paul and kiss him goodbye (v. 37), sorrowed because they would never see his face again (v. 38). The speech contains a summary of the speaker’s life and his statement of innocence, ethical admonitions, and prophetic warnings. However, this “testament” lacks the report of the speaker’s death; not only is it never told in Acts, but Luke ends his narrative with an image of Paul the prisoner, alive and well, preaching the gospel unhindered (Acts 28:31)—an impressive metaphor for the viva vox of the Pauline gospel as it was still proclaimed in Luke’s day. In Acts 20:17-38, the speech is intentionally shaped as the last will of someone who was to die; it is a last will in the guise of a farewell. However, not all farewells are testaments of a dying man. Farewell in itself only implies departure, and a time of separation. The separation may be known to be permanent, it may be expected to be temporary, or the seeing again may be experienced as possible but uncertain. The various scenarios involve slightly different kinds of farewell speech. If the separation is only temporary and short-term, the anticipated reunion may be enough to remove any grief: “We will see soon.” If the time interval is longer and the reunion is uncertain, it is expected that the speech includes various way of consoling the audience. If the separation is known to be final, consolation may be needed even more, but if the death is neither unexpected nor premature, the consolation element may be lacking altogether. The latter is the case with a typical deathbed setting, where the departing patriarch is “an old man and full of years” (Gen. 25:8 etc.). Instead, the departing patriarch or hero can prepare his descendants or followers by appointing a successor, predicting the future, giving general ethical guidance, and authorizing the successor or the group of descendants or followers to continue the mission. Also, there will be status changes. The testament giver will join another group, the deceased, as when Jacob was to be “gathered to his people” and buried in the same cave with his ancestors (Gen. 49:29-33). The followers, especially the successor, will also assume a new status. When the one who is departing is an angelic messenger or a divine helper, the presupposition is that such a figure will certainly not die, but is only leaving the world of mortal humans. Then no consolation may be needed. Archangel Raphael, having revealed his true identity and given Tobit and Tobias some moral advice, simply stated that he was ascending back to the one who had sent him,

6. J. J. Collins, “Testaments,” in Michael E. Stone (ed.), Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period: Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha, Qumran Sectarian Writings, Philo, Josephus (CRINT 2.2; Assen: Van Gorcum; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 325–55. Collins finds only Test. 12 Patr., Test. Mos., and Test. Job as clear examples of the testament genre.

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then disappearing and leaving Tobit and his son to praise the works of God (Tob. 12:6-22). The final commissioning in Mt. 28:16-20 is a more subtle example of the divine messenger’s departure. There is a sort of authorization of the eleven disciples, though actually the authorization concerns Jesus in his new status as the resurrected Lord; he just passes the mission on to his disciples who will continue the work in his name. The departure itself is sublime, too: instead of leaving the disciples physically Jesus promises to be “with” them to the end of the age. The departure of an angelic or divine figure is intriguing, because he can be present in some metaphorical or metaphysical way even in his absence, in the way the transcendent God can be present with his people. This can also, as we see in Matthew, complicate the question of his successor. If the divine figure is still “in charge,” then obviously the successor’s role is subordinate or derivative—not like a new patriarch in the place of the deceased one. In recent years, the Greco-Roman literature has gained more prominence in interpreting Jn 13–17. Jo-Ann Brant has examined the Greek tragedy as a pertinent background to John’s Gospel and the farewell section. George Parsenios in his Yale dissertation interprets the Johannine farewell in light of Greco-Roman drama, consolation literature, and literary symposium. In line with this widening scope, but looking more toward the oriental Hellenistic world, Andreas Dettwiler had already compared Jn 13–17 with Gnostic revelation discourses.7 These new interpretative frameworks—all of which are not so new, though—are useful in complementing the “old biblical tradition” approach. The possibility that Jn 13–17 is a combination or mixture of literary forms is already given with several observations advanced above: literary testament and farewell speech are closely related yet distinct, the commissioning scene in Mt.28:16-20 shares many features of a farewell address, and so on. It is not surprising that, for instance, John Ashton suggested that two constitutive forms in Jn 13–17 are the testament and the commission.8 Besides the notion of mixture, there is another concept to explain the Johannine use of genres and literary forms. Harold W. Attridge has coined the attractive term genre bending to gather a variety of twisted imagery, fluid symbolism, and generic anomaly in John.9 Attridge’s explanation for John’s “playing with generic conventions, extending them, undercutting them, twisting traditional elements into new and curious shapes, making literary forms to do things that did not come naturally to them” was the Gospel’s incarnational theology: something spectacular happens to the flesh when the Word hits in.10 Such a theological explanation is rather elusive,

7. Dettwiler, Die Gegenwart des Erhöhten, 21–27. See also Bas van Os, “John’s Last Supper and the Resurrection Dialogues,” in Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just and Tom Thatcher (eds.), John, Jesus, and History 2 (Atlanta: SBL, 2009,) 271–80. 8. Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel, 466–76. 9. Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 121 (2002), 3–21, esp. pp. 17–18. 10. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” 20.

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however. If there is anything to John’s bending and blending of literary forms, as I think there is, scholars are still justified to “flesh out” the reasons for the phenomenon by means of mundane tools.11 To me, the phenomenon suggests a redaction-critical explanation. The three Greco-Roman genres discussed by Parsenios are interesting for different reasons. Two of the genres, Greek tragedy and the literary symposium, mainly pertain to the narrative framing and the scene of the farewell section. The symposium is a promising case, because the last meal motif is rarely found in Jewish testaments. It is not a constitutive element of the Johannine farewell speeches, but the question is whether these speeches could have been transmitted without any narrative setting, no matter how rudimentary. By way of comparison, the narrative frames in Q discourses are sometimes elaborate, but oftentimes scanty, while the Gospel of Thomas has Jesus speak to his disciples in what seems a narrative vacuum. In the Johannine farewell discourses Jesus is together with his disciples, but, apart from 14:30-31, there is no hint of the setting in which the speeches were delivered. In the classic Greek symposium, the meal provides the very occasion and motivation for the speeches. The symposium proper begins after the meal, and the transition is often clearly marked. As Parsenios remarks, the idea of the symposium as “a banquet of words” was relatively well known and originates with Plato. It may be too daring to suggest such symbolism at work in Jn 13–17, but in all cases the farewell section complies with the cultural and literary scheme of meal and ensuing discourses. The question remains, however, whether the meal setting was original to the (first) farewell speech or the result of a secondary development. The tragedy, or drama, is another useful literary category, although evidently the farewell of Jesus is not a tragedy. Parsenios makes a number of perceptive observations, not least concerning the shifting temporal perspectives in Greek tragedies, where the departing person is often portrayed in a liminal state between life and death—as dead though still living, as speaking though already gone. In this light, a statement such 16:33 (ἐγὼ νενίκηκα τὸν κόσμον) seem less perplexing, but the question is whether all peculiarities in the farewell section can be explained in the same way. The remarkable statement in the final prayer οὐκέτι εἰμὶ ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ (17:11) is not so easily neutralized.12 If we consider the whole Gospel as a drama of sorts, then the continuing presence of the speaker as the protagonist in the remaining story is quite a marvel. Another problem is the hiatus between 14:31 and 15:1, which Parsenios interprets as the device of delayed exit. Here, as always,

11. For further theorizing about literary genres in Jn 13–17, see Ruth Sheridan, “John’s Gospel and Modern Genre Theory: The Farewell Discourse (John 13-17) as a Test Case,” ITQ 75 (2010), 287–99. Sheridan’s Bakhtinian perspective is preferable to a rigid taxonomic conception of genre, but it is impossible to describe the Johannine mixture without referring to typical and conventional use of literary genres and forms. 12. Pace Parsenios, “‘No Longer in the World’ (John 17:11): The Transformation of the Tragic in the Fourth Gospel,” HTR 98 (2005), 1–21.

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we must distinguish between synchronic and diachronic interpretations. What the final redactor, adding the second farewell speech bluntly right after the first, may have accepted as a delayed exit, need not have been a finely crafted literary device from the outset. Perhaps the most interesting point of comparison Parsenios takes up is Greco-Roman consolatory literature. Parsenios is not the first to observe consolatory aspects in the Johannine farewell, but his discussion substantiates one specific consolatory motif, which however is not restricted to a specific genre of literature: the “token,” which is a vicarious object of love in the absence of the departed primary object of attachment. The examples Parsenios gives of such “tokens” show the ambivalence of the displacement of the primary object, as when the Wisdom of Solomon (14:15-16) explains the rise of idolatry as a father’s attempt to cope with his son’s untimely death by making an image of him and honoring it as a god. In the pagan example of Lucian’s Nigrinus (6–7), the ambivalence is not so palpable—the philosopher finds comfort for his master’s absence in memorizing and repeating his words, even seeing his face and hearing his voice—but here, too, the token is just a faint echo of the primary attachment. The concept of token can mediate insights into the psychology of attachment and loss, which will bear on the interpretation of the Johannine farewell. At the same time, when Parsenios regards the Paraclete in the farewell speeches as a token of the absent Jesus, critical issues emerge. Is the Paraclete just a substitute for Jesus, and not a gift that enables the disciples to do “greater works” than Jesus had done (14:12)? Another issue concerns the functions of the Paraclete and the Beloved Disciple, who is also one who “remains” with the believers (21:23). The fact that the Paraclete only appears in the farewell speeches while the Beloved Disciple is part of the passion narrative must be recalled in this connection; clearly the two characters are distinct, even though they have some similar functions.13 The third issue is the development of Johannine pneumatology. I have argued that the pre-passion John did not imagine a temporal sequence, where Jesus would be the only bearer of the Spirit while the believers receive it after Jesus’ departure. In the final form of the farewell speeches, however, this temporal scheme is presupposed. In sum, the above discussion does not suggest a clear-cut form-critical assessment of the farewell section or the speeches. Instead, several formative elements need closer scrutiny: the relationship between the speeches and the narrative frames, the nature of the departure, the presence or absence of consolatory, commissioning and other motifs identified in the Hebrew Bible and early Jewish testamentary tradition. It should not surprise us to find some peculiar “bending” of genres and forms. To understand this complexity, a redaction-critical approach is needed.

13. See Kügler, Der Jünger, den Jesus liebte, 435–38. Kügler concludes (p. 437): “Paraklet und Lieblingsjünger sind also zwei selbständige Grössen [emphasis in original].”

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The Narrative Frames: Last Meal and Passion The passion redaction of the farewell section is not easily detected in all its minor changes, and there is no certainty to what extent the pre-passion form of what is now included in chs 13–17 was a coherent written text. However, some unmistakable fingerprints of the final redactor enable us to see the contours of the underlying tradition. To begin with, it is widely held that chs 15–17 are, technically, a later insertion. John 14:30-31 clearly echo Mk 14:42/Mt. 26:46 and suggest an immediate move forward in the passion story in 18:1. This impression is all the more cogent as Jesus says: “I will no longer talk much with you, for the ruler of this world is coming.” The addition of three chapters after this conclusion is certainly unexpected. Judas the traitor was sent away before the first speech (13:27-30) and is now coming, so Jesus knows he must hurry to the garden— the name Gethsemane is erased—to meet the forces of darkness. Ingenious interpretations have been advanced to uphold the literary unity of the Gospel, and Parsenios’ view of a delayed exit, with a suggestion of a somehow altered locale (on the way to Gethsemane) or mental landscape, is plausible from the final redactor’s viewpoint. However, thematically there is no clear difference between the first farewell address and the ensuing chapters. The relationship between chs 14 and 15–16 seems rather one of relecture: themes from the first farewell are repeated and reinterpreted. Ch. 17 is different formally and also presents some new theological emphases. It would be premature, however, to conclude that these chapters in toto are representative of the final redaction. The reinterpretation in the second farewell and the final prayer do show traces of the passion redactor’s involvement, but some of the relecture is more at home in the pre-passion tradition. The situation is much the same as in ch. 6: there seems to be an older tradition that the passion redactor has reshaped and inserted into the present Gospel. The introduction of the Beloved Disciple and his encounter with Peter, the Judas story and the reference to the “hour” in 13:2, 21-32 are features that clearly come from the passion redactor’s pen. I have also indicated that the first interpretation of the footwashing in 13:6-11 comes from the passion redactor.14 Also, the overloaded introduction to the farewell scene in 13:2 betrays the hand of the passion redactor. This leaves us with a meal setting and the first farewell address. If my reconstruction is on the right track, there was a pre-passion tradition according to which Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. It is not certain that this tradition was originally embedded in a meal setting, but obviously such a

14. Chapter 2. See also Herold Weiss, “Foot Washing in the Johannine Community,” NovT 21 (1979), 298–325; pp. 320–21: “I would agree with those who consider that the brief description of the act itself together with the injunction that disciples should wash each other’s feet belonged together first, and that the typically Johannine interpretation couched in the dialogue between Jesus and Peter was added later.”

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context would have been quite natural.15 Since this would be the only occasion where the extant Gospel and, presumably, the pre-passion John narrate a meal with Jesus and his disciples, there is reason to assume that the meal was of special importance. The words of Jesus in 13:12-17 also highlight the crucial moment, and notably include what would seem testamentary themes: Jesus gives an ethical (and practical) example and his blessing (v. 17) to those who put it in practice. The testamentary and the farewell aspects are indistinguishable, however, because a divine messenger’s farewell could also include ethical admonition and a blessing. In either case, it is plausible that the pre-passion footwashing tradition presupposed a last meal situation, after which the disciples were left to live in accordance to Jesus’ example. Jesus is presented as a model to imitate.16 The saying about the master and the messenger (ἀπόστολος, v. 16) recalls the idea of commissioning. While there is no real commission or authorization of the disciples, the saying envisages a kind of succession: as the master did, so must his disciples do after him. While it is plausible that the footwashing episode was transmitted as a farewell story in the context of a last meal, it is still not evident that the last meal scene and the first farewell speech were together in the pre-passion tradition. The ethical tenor of 13:12-17 does not fully cohere with the main thrust of the first farewell address, where the consolatory motif is much stronger and ethical issues are largely absent. However, while the pre-passion farewell speech may not have been part of a last meal setting from the first, at some stage it seems to have been contextualized in this way; my suggestion is that this development went together with a successive ritualization of community meals.

The Paraclete and the Making of the First Farewell Speech Where the first farewell speech begins is not quite obvious, because the passion redactor has intervened at crucial places. In the final Gospel, 13:30-31 marks a decisive turning point: the traitor has gone, and Jesus begins to address his faithful disciples. These verses come from the passion redactor, as do also Peter’s question and Jesus’ reply in 13:34-36.17 It is also very likely that the new commandment

15. It would be more plausible still if the footwashing took place before the meal, as was customary. 16. Cf. Paul’s farewell in Acts 20:35: “In all this I have given you an example.” 17. Peter’s question in 13:36 seems taken from 14:5, where Thomas is the speaker. Peter’s second question in v. 37 and Jesus’ reply, where Peter’s threefold denial is prophesied, are adopted from the Markan/Matthean passion story. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:614, 623, refers v. 36a-c to the second editor, so that Peter’s question would be the first in the original farewell discourse. However, Jesus initially does not respond to Peter’s question, and because the question seems a reformulation of 14:5 it is more probable that the passion redactor has crafted the whole dialogue with Peter in order to tie the discourse to the overarching passion storyline.

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in 13:34 comes from the final redaction, as it promotes the theme of 13:1. Thus, the beginning of the traditional farewell address must be sought in 13:33: “Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’” Even here the explicit literary reference (“as I said”) back to Jesus’ previous words in the Gospel (7:33-34) is likely from the final redactor. The pre-passion farewell speech may, however, already have reflected on the predecessor gospel’s enigmatic words about Jesus’ going away, which makes the resumption of the words “Where I am going, you cannot come” (or some equivalent) understandable. Von Wahlde considers the vocative τεκνία in v. 33 a later addition (by the third editor).18 However, there is no reason to remove this initial address from the pre-passion speech. Not only does it suit a testamentary setting, either as a patriarch’s farewell to his descendants or a sage’s—or indeed the Wisdom’s—admonition to his “children,” it also perfectly coheres with Jesus’ promise in 14:18a: “I will not leave you orphaned.” The reference to Jesus being with his disciples “only a little longer” (ἔτι μικρόν) in 13:33 is another feature connecting the farewell speech to the pre-passion gospel. After 7:33, where Jesus’ departure was at issue, it appears again in 12:35 as the gospel is closing. Why does the farewell speech hark back to these statements? An obvious effect of the repetition of ἔτι μικρόν is to expand the time interval before Jesus’ departure so as to create a new space for Jesus to be with his disciples. The same phrase recurs in 14:19, where it is accentuated differently: Jesus will be in the world just a little while, but the disciples will see him even after that. The temporal μικρόν recurs in the second speech, but there Jesus speaks of two short intervals: a short time before Jesus’ departure, and another short time before his return. The new turn is so confusing that the disciples ask for an explanation. The lengthy repetitive passage in 16:16-19—with Jesus citing his own words from the first farewell speech, the disciples quoting Jesus’ words, and Jesus again repeating his words—shows unmistakable signs of the passion redactor’s relecture. The original μικρόν in the first farewell was the time before Jesus’ final departure; the added μικρόν makes clear that Jesus’ departure was temporary so that he will return. This is a remarkable shift in the eschatological expectations of the Johannine community. Von Wahlde concludes that in the second edition, which included the main bulk of the first farewell, Jesus is speaking of his near return after the resurrection but at the same time preparing his followers for his permanent absence. While the second edition thus envisages both a temporary and a permanent departure, the third and final redaction “speaks only of the ways Jesus will provide for the disciples in the period following his permanent departure.”19 This is a rather perplexing statement, because von Wahlde really means that the final redactor, too, envisages Jesus’ return, only not immediately at the resurrection but at Jesus’ parousia. 14:2-3 would then be the third author’s gloss, which reveals his apocalyptic perspective: “Jesus will return in his parousia

18. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:622. 19. Ibid., 2:630. Original emphases.

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and will take up the disciples into heaven. This is a radically new view from that presupposed in the second edition, where eternal life begins in the present and continues in an unbroken state beyond death.”20 While it can be questioned whether the final redactor’s eschatology is really apocalyptic—certainly it is less overtly apocalyptic than 1 John—there are indeed reasons for taking 14:3, but perhaps not 14:2, as his comment on the traditional farewell speech. The tenor of the pre-passion farewell speech is that Jesus is going to his Father where he came from, while the disciples need encouragement while living in the world (14:1, 27, a thematic inclusio) and learn the way to the Father, which is Jesus himself (14:4-12). In what follows, the disciples are promised that they will not be left alone (14:18a). After a little while, that is, after his farewell from the disciples, Jesus will depart and be invisible to the world, but the disciples will continue to see him, because he is the Living One (14:18a.19). The idea that Jesus must return and take the believers with him (14:3) is totally alien to this train of thought. The pre-passion speech does not suggest that the followers should be rescued from the world. Rather, they should know the way to the Father by themselves, because they have seen and continue to see Jesus and through him the Father. The disciples also have a mission in the world, which is to continue the work of the Father who had sent his Son. In short, I maintain that the pre-passion farewell envisaged Jesus’ permanent physical absence but promised his immediate metaphysical presence, the essence of which is the seeing of Jesus. The first half of the original farewell (13:33 + 14:1, 4-12) is actually a résumé of Jesus’ teaching about himself and the Father as it appears in the early Johannine Gospel. The summary functions here as a test of the disciples’ understanding. Since they will continue to live in the world, it is vital that they know the way to the Father, so that in due time (at their physical death) they will follow Jesus to where he will soon depart. Knowing the way is to know the truth that brings about eternal life. All this is found in Jesus (14:6).21 Equipped with the true knowledge, they can continue to do God’s work in the world. In a remarkable hyperbole, Jesus promises they will do even greater works (14:12) than those he did according to the early gospel.22 The second half of the pre-passion farewell (14:18-19, 22, 27-28) takes up the consolatory theme that was initially suggested by the vocative τεκνία. Since the “children” are left in the world, the departing sage assures that he will always be

20. Ibid., 2:636-637. 21. Lindars, The Gospel of John, 472, rightly notes that the truth and the life are explanatory of the first predicate. Lindars usefully refers to 11:25, an earlier “I am” saying. It is noteworthy that in both cases the first predicate—“resurrection” and “way”—is suggested by the context, whereas the subsequent explanatory terms are more typical of Johannine thought. The “way” appears to be a further abstraction on the basis of the gate (keeper) imagery of John 10. 22. In the analysis of the second farewell (below), I suggest that 15:15 might well be part of this original first farewell. It would most naturally belong after 14:12.

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with them. The promise “I will come to you” (v. 18b) should not be overinterpreted (as the passion redactor did) to refer to a physical return, because its meaning is explained in what follows: “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live” (v. 19). The living Jesus will not be seen by the world, but those who know the way will never lose sight of him. An alien element in the second half of the speech is the emphasis on Jesus’ commandments and words (14:15, 23-25). This was not a theme in the predecessor gospel, nor does it cohere with the tenor of the speech that the disciples have, or should have, direct knowledge of Jesus and the Father. These elements also interrupt the thematic flow of the speech. In 13:34-35, the passion redactor had added the commandment of mutual love and made it a test of true discipleship, as in 1 John. The predecessor had no such concerns, and any such litmus test is foreign to the first farewell speech, where right knowledge is the key concept. In the final Gospel, the most conspicuous feature of the farewell speech is the Paraclete. The pre-passion farewell did not need any mediator between Jesus and his followers. The Paraclete/Advocate figures in 1 John, but only as a designation of the heavenly Jesus (1 Jn 2:1). 23 I have indicated earlier (in Chapter 2) that 1 John provides one plausible point of origin for the concept of the Paraclete in the redacted farewell speeches. This is not only because the figure of “another Advocate” in 14:16 is a derivate of Jesus as the primary Advocate. It is also evident that the identity and function of the Advocate and Defender is unequivocal in 1 John: he is Jesus himself who in his heavenly role as the Savior whose sacrifice for the sins of humankind is able to speak for a sinning believer before God.24 In the context of the letter, the term παράκλητος is so self-explanatory that it might conceivably be an ad hoc expression. By contrast, in the farewell speeches the Paraclete has become a hypostasized and compound being, a combination of Jesus and the Spirit, with multiple functions and introduced with special theological emphasis.

23. The parenthetical remark in Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:1140, is problematic: “If the Paraclete is ‘another Paraclete,’ it implies that Jesus was the first Paraclete (but in his earthly ministry, not in heaven as in 1 John ii 1).” The passion redactor may have meant that Jesus at the moment of his departure, when comforting the disciples in the farewell speech, acted as a Paraclete/Consoler—his whole mission need not have been interpreted in these terms. It is also indicative of the passion redactor’s ideation that the Paraclete/Spirit in Jn 14–16 is sent from heaven—where Jesus the Paraclete is according to 1 John. 24. For the meaning and background of the term παράκλητος, see Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:1135-1144. Brown remarks (p. 1136) that in 1 Jn 2:1 the meaning is clearly “an intercessor, a mediator, a spokesman” (p. 1136). Since the letter is the original context of the παράκλητος, this meaning has, to some extent, guided the use in the farewell speeches, too. However, Christian Dietzfelbinger, Der Abschied des Kommenden (WUNT 95; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1997), 209, rightly points out that the expanded functions of the Paraclete go beyond that which the term in itself suggested, so “the Paraclete” became a title.

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I have also indicated that the final author of the Gospel employed the concept of Paraclete in order to limit the freedom of the Spirit in the believers and to tie it closely to the words and commandments of Jesus. This strategy was a hard-learned lesson from the schism reflected in the Johannine letters. The Paraclete’s role as Jesus’ mouthpiece is clear in 16:7-15, where it is emphasized that Jesus himself— rather than the Father—sends the Paraclete to “glorify” Jesus (v. 14). At the same time, 16:7-15 includes the most wide-ranging description of the Paraclete’s work, which seems to signal a growing theological reflection and a willingness to invest in this mediating figure. However, the passion redactor had already invented the Paraclete in reshaping the first farewell, so his work was a process rather than a single creative act, and the Paraclete, too, has grown into its final shape gradually. Thus, the Paraclete’s function is somewhat less developed in the first farewell than in the second speech, although it is equally crucial in both speeches in their final form. 1 John 2:1 alone could not have triggered the development; we must also consider how elements in the farewell discourse contributed to the creation of the new character. It is not incidental that the Paraclete sayings in the Gospel are restricted to the farewell speeches, for this is where the idea really took shape. The first farewell included Jesus’ promise not to let the disciples be orphaned. The promise entails that Jesus would manifest himself to them after his departure, so that they will “see” him. For the passion redactor this “seeing” suggested resurrection appearances and the outpouring of the Spirit— hence the duality of the Paraclete as Jesus and the Spirit. The redactor was also determined not to let the disciples have the Spirit during Jesus’ lifetime. As long as Jesus was on earth, the Spirit was his property. The redactor may have been hesitant about the precise moment when Jesus handed down the Spirit, either at his death (19:30) or after his resurrection (20:22), but the latter occasion is more explicit.25 The background of the Johannine figure of the Spirit/Paraclete has sometimes been sought in early Jewish wisdom literature.26 This hypothesis is in principle unnecessary since we hardly need to go beyond 1 John and the promise of “seeing” Jesus in the original farewell to understand the concept. It is nevertheless instructive to observe how, for example, Wis. 9:17 connects wisdom and spirit, and how several functions of Wisdom in that collection parallel those of the Paraclete. Considering the impact of wisdom literature on the Johannine λόγος, the parallelism may not be purely coincidental. On a general level, it helps appreciate

25. John 19:30 is very ambiguous (the meaning may well be simply that Jesus died), but the presence of the Beloved Disciple (the new “son” of Jesus’ mother) and the symbolism of water and blood (which recall the Spirit, 1 Jn 5:6-8) may indicate an effort to interpret Jesus’ death as the release of the Spirit. See p. 89 above. 26. See Keener, The Gospel of John, 2:963-964. Keener finds the wisdom influence “an entirely reasonable hypothesis” but concludes that the parallelism is more likely a consequence of John’s picture of Jesus as Wisdom personified.

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the basic continuity—amid so much apparent discontinuity—between the prepassion and final John. The early Johannine idea of the disciples and believers was that they were children of Wisdom (cf. Q/Lk. 7:35) who partake of the same spirit as Jesus had. While the pre-passion tradition held that this participation would last even after Jesus’ departure, the final redaction made it dependent on Jesus’ glorification. The Paraclete, then, is both “the presence of Jesus when Jesus is absent”27 and the promised Spirit. Although it was first the passion redactor who coined this mixed concept, it was there in nuce in the pre-passion farewell tradition, inasmuch as Jesus’ “coming” or manifestation and the disciples’ “seeing” him forced the idea of a new, post-departure act. To be sure, when the passion redactor articulated the “seeing” in terms of receiving the Spirit, there was a decisive breach with the pre-passion pneumatology, according to which the Spirit was a self-evident baptismal gift which united Jesus and those who believed in him; they were all pneumatics. Consequently, there is no mention of the Spirit in the pre-passion farewell.28 It is not a question of Jesus having to depart before the Spirit could come. This constrained idea comes from the passion redactor in 16:7: “It is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.” The basic trust of the pre-passion farewell was Jesus’ promise in 14:5: “I will not leave you orphans.” The final comforting promise, which rounds off the discourse by turning back to the initial encouragement (14:1), is this: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid” (v. 27). The original farewell speech is comforting and encouraging, with Jesus seeking to remove the disciples’ anxiety. The promised “seeing,” which is tantamount to Jesus’ revealing himself before the disciples, and not before the world (v. 22), brings nothing in principle new.29 It renews the promise of life given by the earthly Jesus: “Because I live, you also will live” (v. 19).

27. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:1141. 28. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:742, similarly notes that there are “no references to the Spirit in the material of the second edition now extant in the Farewell Discourses.” This is significant since, according to von Wahlde, the second edition advanced the notion that the Spirit can only come after Jesus is glorified through death. If that were the case, one should expect some mention of the Spirit in the pre-passion farewell. 29. It is possible that Mary Magdalene’s announcement “I have seen the Lord” (20:17) and the first appearance to the disciples in 20:19, 21-22 are reminiscent of early attempts to visualize the fulfillment of the promise. However, it is understandable that the pre-passion tradition did not have much else to say about the encounters between Jesus and the disciples after the departure. More elaborate stories would soon look like a new farewell; instead, the tradition invested in reinterpreting and retelling the original farewell.

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The Composition of the Second Farewell Speech The main units of the second farewell address are formally and thematically clear: the allegorical parable on the vine and the branches (15:1-17), Jesus’ prophetical teaching on the coming persecution (15:18–15:4a), and the final dialogue between Jesus and the disciples (16:4b-33). I concur with Brown that all the units are best treated as one speech, because “while these units had independent origins, there has been a real editorial effort to bind them together.”30 The editor is, according to my hypothesis, the passion redactor. The composite speech, as well as the prayer in chapter 17, seem to have been inserted between 14:30-31 and 18:1 at a late stage after the first farewell already had its final shape. This procedure is not unlike the addition of John 21—a secondary attachment which is formally not quite tidy but is thematically an integral part of the final Gospel. That such a lengthy insertion was considered necessary and included material and themes present in the first speech is interesting in itself and can give clues about the Sitz im Leben of the tradition and the nature of the passion redaction. The parabolic speech in 15:1-6 opens with the last “I am” saying in the present Gospel. It is formally distinct from most of the former sayings in that it begins as a simple metaphor “I am the true vine” but continues to develop the metaphor into a parable with several allegorical traits. Since the previous “I am” sayings come from the predecessor gospel, it is plausible that at least the metaphor of the vine reflects the non-passion tradition. In 10:1-6, 7-10, there is a somewhat similar structure, where an “I am saying” is part of a larger parabolic exposition.31 The difference is that there the parable comes first and the “I am” saying in 10:7 follows as an explanation. This difference notwithstanding, the combination of a revelatory “I am” saying and a parabolic extension may as such be a pre-passion scheme in chapter 15, too. Still, von Wahlde seems right to suggest that the notion of bearing fruit (vv. 2b, 4-8) reflects the final redactor’s situation and concerns in

30. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:587. It is a matter of literary taste as to how successful the editing is, but the absence of any marked shift in place, time, and audience indicates that the redactor conceived of this material as one continuous speech. 31. I take 10:1-9 as a whole as probably coming from the pre-passion gospel. Von Wahlde (The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:451, 463-464) argues that the final editor is responsible for interpreting the parable as meaning that Jesus is not only the shepherd, but also the gate of the sheep. However, the two interpretations derive from vv. 1-2, where both the shepherd and the gate are mentioned. It is therefore quite plausible that the pre-passion gospel, or at the latest the pre-passion relecture of that gospel, developed the imagery in both directions. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:668-669, discerns here and in 10:118 a mashal pattern with a basic parable and two allegorical developments, of which one is more original than the other. While I think that in John 10 the double allegory may have been developed at a pre-passion stage, in 15:1-17 the expansion “my Father is the gardener” may come from the passion redactor; at least v. 2b does.

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the aftermath of the great schism.32 The purging and burning of the branches that bear no fruit is an all too clear reference to the exclusion of the dissidents. The pre-passion gospel did not anticipate such a fatal division among the pneumatics, and the earlier stratum of the first farewell is also optimistic and makes no division among the disciples. However, the parable does not originally seem to belong in the same farewell setting as the early form of the first speech, where the addressees are clearly depicted as the disciples of the earthly Jesus. In the parable, the addressees are Christ-believers in general. The rest of the first unit in 15:8, 9-17 is obviously from the passion redactor, as the topics of love and keeping the commandments show. The next unit (15:18-16:4a) focuses on enemies outside the Johannine group: the Jews who are described as excommunicating the group and the hostile “world” as a whole. Von Wahlde refers Jn 15:22-25 and 16:1-4a to the second edition, while the rest would derive from the third edition.33 John 15:22-25 takes up themes familiar from the predecessor gospel and barely shows signs of reinterpretation or development. By contrast, the theme of persecution in 16:1-4a strikes a new, pessimistic tone not found in the predecessor gospel or in the pre-passion form of the first farewell. Another new accent is Jesus’ prediction about specific future events. Prophetical utterances and warnings are common in testamentary speeches. In comparison with the tradition behind John 14, the pointed way in which Jesus speaks of the coming perils is more pessimistic. Instead of great expectations (14:12), the future will look more like a struggle for survival. Expulsion from the synagogue (16:2) is as such a theme in the pre-passion gospel (9:22), but there is one substantial difference: in 9:22 the expulsion is projected into the Jesus story, but now it is presented as a matter of the future. The dreadful “hour” (ὥρα, 16:2, 4) of the disciples seems to reflect the hour of Jesus’ passion. The fear of being “scandalized” (ἵνα μὴ σκανδαλισθῆτε, 16:1) is also a passion theme and differs markedly from the tone of the first farewell. The last unit (16:4b-33) may first seem to continue the persecution theme rather seamlessly, because the opening pronoun ταῦτα in v. 4b most naturally refers back to vv. 1-4a. Von Wahlde argues that ταῦτα is anaphoric, introducing the following

32. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:679-683. Von Wahlde refers vv. 2cd.47.9-17 to the third edition, leaving only vv. 1.2ab.3.8 to the second edition. I find it more probable that the pre-passion material includes some form of verses 1-3, 8, and 15. V. 15 announces a status change: the disciples are no longer servants but “friends” of Jesus. While the new status is higher than that implied in the earlier interpretation of footwashing in 13:16, it coheres with the expectations of the first farewell (14:12). The passion redaction, by contrast, explicitly harks back to 13:16, because the master/servant subordination suits the martyrological agenda and the stress on keeping Jesus’ words: “Remember the word that I said to you, ‘Servants are not greater than their master.’ If they persecuted me, they will persecute you; if they kept my word, they will keep yours also” (15:20). 33. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:684-685.

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theme of Jesus’ departure (v. 5a).34 However, the reference is best taken as more generally backward-looking, so as to include the prediction about persecutions as well as the announcement of the departure. Jesus’ departure was the explicit theme in the very beginning of the first farewell speech and was then the cantus firmus throughout the farewell speeches. This understanding commends itself, because there are indications that the last unit was designed to gather the major themes of the farewell discourses. While there is no precise symmetry in the arrangement of chapters 14–16, it seems that the first speech and the last unit in the second form a thematic inclusio. Thus, the departure of Jesus and the coming of the Paraclete are main themes in the beginning and end, and in both parts there is a dialogue between Jesus and the disciples, whereas the middle parts are monologue.35 Verses 16:4b-15 connect Jesus’ departure intimately to the Paraclete; only after Jesus is gone can the Paraclete come. In the first farewell, the Paraclete was mainly a comforter, but now additional functions come to the fore: a reminder of Jesus’ words, a witness on his behalf, and against the sinful world. As Brown sums up, the Paraclete has ultimately a twofold mission, one inward-looking and the other directed to the world outside: “he comes to the disciples and dwells within them, guiding and teaching them about Jesus; but he is hostile to the world and puts the world on trial.”36 The more nuanced description of the Paraclete indicates that the second farewell is the result of deepening theological reflection. There are other signs of this in said discourse, too. Verse 15 clarifies the relationship between Jesus and his Father and comments on the preceding saying. In vv. 16-22 the “little while” (μικρόν) from the first farewell is reinterpreted so verbosely that the interpretation of Jesus’ words must have been a real issue in the community. Not that the issue seems quite settled, though. The new eschatological orientation after the predecessor gospel and the first farewell resulted in the doubling of the μικρόν into μικρὸν and πάλιν μικρὸν (16:16), but the gain of this terminological move is not immediately obvious. The original “little while” already implied a second period of time, that of “seeing” Jesus, which was equivalent to Jesus’ “coming” to his disciples. The passion redactor then interpreted this “coming” as the sending of the Spirit/Paraclete, but this relecture only proved to be a source for further questions, because Jesus—not the Paraclete—would now “come” a second time, at his parousia. The promise in 16:22 (“I will see you again”) is therefore ambivalent: it may refer to the coming of the Paraclete or to the return of Jesus. The parabolic saying about a woman in labor (16:20-22) appears to explain the “little while,” but in fact it only adds to the confusion: “Very truly, I tell you, you will weep and mourn, but the world will rejoice; you will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy. When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because

34. Ibid., 2:702. 35. Similarly Lincoln, The Gospel according to Saint John, 417. 36. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:1136.

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of the joy of having brought a human being into the world. So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” Although this passage is clearly about the sorrow and pain (λύπη)37 of the disciples, there seems to be some peculiar mutuality between Jesus and the disciples. Not only did Jesus feel pity for his disciples who had to undergo such a transition from sorrow to joy, but there are also subtle hints that Jesus himself would suffer the pain when he, through his death and blood, gave birth to the children of God. Such an interpretation may seem far-fetched, yet there are several indications that the passion redactor really tried to convey a christological message. First, the hour is the redactor’s key term for Jesus’ death, although in 16:4, 32 its meaning is expanded to exclude the disciples’ distress—a further sign of mutuality and shared fate. Second, the birthing imagery (present already in the pre-passion layer) typically highlights the effect of God’s or Jesus’ salvific activity, while the believers are the children. Third, the shift to first person in v. 22 (“I will see you again”) is unexpected. Fourth, there is a comparable ambivalence in the use of the (pre-passion) daylight scheme, for example, 11:9-10: the aphorism is not formally about Jesus but is applied christologically in its context.38 If this interpretation of the covert—not explicit but somehow suggested— meaning of 16:20-22 is accepted, there would seem to be a striking contrast to the passionless calm of the crucifixion story, which not surprisingly has made some commentators—not just Käsemann—wonder if there really is a passion story in John at all. This is a pertinent question, because the Johannine account of Jesus’ arrest and death does not stress the physical pain.39 Part of the answer, I suspect, is that the farewell speeches focus on the intimate relationship between Jesus and the believers and therefore invite a more emotional tone. It may also be significant that the inserted chapters 15–17 are later (though probably not much later) than the final Jn 1–20(21) and may therefore reflect a more developed theological stance. The emotional force felt in 16:20-22 equals that of 16:32, but there the tone is quite different: “The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, each one to his home, and you will leave me alone. Yet I am not alone because the Father is with me.” The passion redactor has obviously meditated on the Markan/ Matthean passion story, where the failure of the disciples to follow Jesus to the end was a major theme and a fulfillment of a prophecy (Mk 14:27/Mt. 26:31).40

37. The word λύπη receives a double meaning here, because it combines the woman’s physical pain and the disciples’ mental sorrow. 38. Senior, The Passion of Jesus in the Gospel of John, 111–14, draws Jn 15:1 in as a possible element in the symbolism of Jesus’ mother. I cannot see a connection. 39. It should be noted, however, that the Johannine account does not stress the absence of pain, either, as does Gos.Pet. 4:10, according to which the crucified Jesus “was silent as having no pain.” 40. If Jn 11:52 (τὰ τέκνα τοῦ θεοῦ τὰ διεσκορπισμένα) reflects the same concern, the passion redactor might have had some hopes of winning back those hesitating believers who had “fled” because of the proclamation about the crucified Jesus.

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The reproach and the assertion that Jesus would still have the Father with him resonate with the psychology of a dying person, ancient or modern. In death, you are basically alone: it is your death. To be alone in death is not desirable, however; you want somebody to be on your side. Jesus’ comfort was that the Father will be there. But the accusation remains that the “little children” (13:33) have failed to be there for the dying parent. The deathbed scene of the patriarchal farewells in the Hebrew Bible’s is thus actualized in the passion redaction. However, the relationship between parent and children is not the only relationship between Jesus and the disciples in the second farewell. In the pre-passion farewell section, a master/slave relationship was depicted (13:16). This subordination is recalled by the passion redactor in 15:20, in order to remind the disciples that they will experience the same as their master suffered. In 15:15, they had already been given a higher status: “I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.” At the end of the second farewell, the disciples are children again. The psychological development does not seem straightforward, but in one respect there is continuity: the fate of the disciples and followers is dependent on the fate of Jesus. There is another sudden shift in the relationship between Jesus and the disciples in 16:25-33. In v. 27, Jesus appears to be quite content with the disciples’ faith: “You have loved me and have believed that I came from God.” The disciples’ response in v. 30 confirms that Jesus was right: “Now we know that you know all things, and do not need to have anyone question you; by this we believe that you came from God.” Then, all of a sudden, Jesus questions the disciples’ faith (“Do you now believe?”) and predicts that they will abandon him and be scattered. Here is a seam that indicates that the passion redactor has modified an earlier tradition. Commentators usually fail to see the tension, because the redactor has stressed beforehand that the time for a full understanding and faith lies in the future (vv. 25-26). This invalidates the disciples’ response from the outset. But the conclusion of the second farewell again strikes a different chord: “I have said this to you, so that in me you may have peace. In the world you face persecution. But take courage; I have conquered the world!” There is no irony, no rebuke here. This consolatory tone belongs to the pre-passion farewell tradition and coheres with the confidence expressed in the final prayer: “Now they know that everything you have given me is from you . . . and they have believed that you sent me” (17:7-9). Without the shadow of the cross, the pre-passion farewell tradition was able to maintain this positive outlook. The above examination suggests that the second farewell conveys some prepassion traditions, but the amount is fairly modest apart from the passion redactor’s relecture and reuse of material from the first farewell. There is no certainty that the remaining early material originated in a farewell setting. The parable of the vine urges to “remain” in Jesus, which suits a farewell but need not presuppose it, as similar admonitions in 1 John show. The parable of the woman in labor may have a traditional core, but its apocalyptic resonances do not cohere with the tone

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of the first farewell.41 In fact, the only possible pre-passion farewell saying in Jn 15–16 concerns the disciples’ new status as Jesus’ friends (15:15). Although the adult status is in some tension with the τεκνία in 13:33, it is not strange that the early tradition reckoned with a process of maturation. After all, in the first farewell the disciples are expected to do greater works than Jesus (14:12). The second farewell, then, is essentially the creation of the passion redactor. What new ideas or concerns does it contain to motivate the doubling of the first, already augmented farewell? Obviously, the inserted speech gave an opportunity to develop the farewell themes further: to explain more fully the Paraclete’s crucial functions in relation to Jesus, the eschatological hope, and the need to adhere to Jesus and his words. However, the added speech is not just a sign of deepened hermeneutical awareness, it reveals something like a fixation to the situation of Jesus’ departure. Not only a departure through death, it was also a reminder of the absence of Jesus—an absence that called for means of overcoming the alienation it affected through a mediated presence of Jesus as the Paraclete. This tension produces a veritable paradox in the farewell addresses. For as much as the departure is stressed, Jesus does not seem willing to depart, or psychologically, the Johannine author does not let go of Jesus but has him continue to speak as if still present. It was so in the predecessor gospel, where the hidden Jesus (12:36) keeps talking to his disciples and readers, and so it is still in the end of the present Gospel, where Jesus is left at the seaside with his closest friends. Does he ever ascend to his Father? At 20:17 the voyage is still incomplete, and one suspects that the Gospel writers wished it remain so; for as long as he is not away, he can go on speaking. The continuing relecture of the original farewell had the effect of promoting the farewell setting as a repeatable scheme. Second- and third-century Christians took full advantage of this innovation. The narrative was less important, so there would emerge dialogues with the earthly or resurrected Jesus as well as discourses with minimal, lacking, or even surreal narrative frames; but, invariably, the speaker is Jesus as hidden from the world and manifesting himself to his disciples (cf. Jn 14:22). In these dialogical treatises, Jesus typically reveals secrets that had been concealed or not properly understood before. The irony is that the passion redactor’s aim when promoting the farewell setting was not to let Jesus teach new secrets.

The Final Prayer It is logical that Käsemann chose the prayer in John 17 as the crown witness for his interpretation of the Gospel’s docetic christology; if anywhere, it is here that

41. The idea of end-time tribulations and messianic birth pangs derives from the Hebrew Bible/LXX (Isa. 26:17-18; 66:14; Hos. 13:13 etc.) and was well known in different strands of early Christianity (Mk 13; Rev. 12:2-5). The pre-gospel author has reinterpreted apocalyptic traditions in the direction of realized eschatology, as in Jn 11:25, but the passion redactor has again moved toward future eschatology.

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Jesus might appear as “God walking on the face of the earth.”42 This impression is supported by the elevated posture of Jesus and particularly the strange utterance in 17:11: “And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you.” Yet, in the present Gospel, the prayer looks forward to Jesus’ death. The tension is so overwhelming that nothing short of a redaction-critical explanation will do. At the same time, the structure of the prayer is so balanced that some redactional seems are not immediately evident. As for the outline of the final prayer in its present shape, Brown wisely notes: “A careful structure might be anticipated, but different divisions have been defended.”43 The many suggestions show that the prayer has several intersecting formal and thematic structures. Brown himself opts for a threefold division: Jesus prays for his own glorification (vv. 1-8), then for the disciples given to him by the Father (vv. 9-19), and for those who will believe through the disciples’ preaching (vv. 20-27). Much speaks for this simple division, such as the structural antecedent in the Hebrew Bible (Aaron’s prayer, Lev. 16:11-17: the high priest prays for himself, his family, and the whole people).44 Von Wahlde accepts this rough outline and concludes that the three-part structure was created by the second editor.45 In the first subunit, v. 3 seems a secondary “dogmatic” clarification, but whether it is from the passion redactor or was added before him is difficult to say. Only the expression ἐλήλυθεν ἡ ὥρα in v. 2 is certainly from the passion redactor’s pen. Since the final redactor was influenced by the Markan/Matthean Gethsemane prayer in his overall composition (see below and cf. 12:27-28), it is possible that the expression is meant to allude to this prayer, but it is equally plausible that the redactor is just adding the same notion about the “hour” that has been anticipated several times before. Otherwise, vv. 1-5 are likely to be pre-passion tradition. Notably, the glorification language in these verses differs from the passion redactor’s usage. There is no hint that the glorification is through death. Quite the contrary, glorification means here the return to the original heavenly glory (δόξα) of the Logos/Son, a glory manifested in his work that is now complete (τὸ ἔργον τελειώσας, v. 4). On the basis of the ideational affinity to the prologue, Brown suggests that John 17 comes from the same Johannine circles.46 This is quite plausible, but there are indications that the pre-passion prayer reflects a more advanced theological stance, one that focuses on the “post-history” of the Logos and the beginning story

42. Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus, 73. 43. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:748. 44. Ibid., 2:750. However, this overall structure does not necessarily imply that the subunits are vv. 1-8, 9-19, 20-26; vv. 6-8 already shift the focus to the disciples. The third unit looks partly back to the first, forming a loose inclusio: the unity of Jesus and the Father now encompasses the disciples and the believers. 45. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:718. Von Wahlde takes vv. 1-6a, 6b-19, 20, 25 as the three subunits. 46. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:745.

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of the believers. This interest, of course, the pre-passion John 17 shares with the farewell section as a whole. I have already shown (in Chapter 3) that the prologue did not depict a two-way movement of the Logos/Son from heaven and back, but focused on his coming into the world. In the predecessor gospel, his limited time (the working day) and departure (the time of the world’s seeking and not finding) were thematized. Now, the final prayer tried to image the Son’s return to the Father. In this new phase of christological reflection, the concept of δόξα was slightly revised. If Jesus’ return would mean his receiving the glory he had in the beginning, it would seem that his earthly career was somehow marked by a lacking or diminished glory. In other words, the christological pattern would resemble that of the Christ hymn of Phil. 2:6-11 or the concept of Heb. 2:9 (“Jesus, who for a little while was made lower than the angels, now crowned with glory and honor”).47 However, the predecessor gospel’s christology may have been modified rather inadvertently, because the main purpose was just to describe Jesus’ return to the heavenly sphere. Although the earthly Jesus showed his glory, his primordial and post-ascension splendor is presented as something more. This need not be a major difference; infinity multiplied is also infinity. In vv. 6-19, von Wahlde traces the final redactor’s contribution approximately in vv. 6, 9, 11-16.48 I find his criteria dubious. The revealing of the name of the Father (v. 6) hardly refers to Jesus’ “I am” sayings; besides, I take these sayings (apart from 18:6) as deriving from the predecessor. The dualistic distinction between the world and the faithful disciples is already present in the predecessor and in the first farewell. The reference to the traitor (“except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfilled”) in v. 12 is certainly from the passion redactor, and probably also the mention of “the evil one” in v. 15 (cf. Mt. 6:13b). The most intriguing statement is this second main part of the prayer in v. 19: “And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.” The question is whether the language of sanctification here involves Jesus’ death. In 10:36, which I take to be a pre-passion text, the Father sanctifies or consecrates the Son and sends him into the world (ὃν ὁ πατὴρ ἡγίασεν καὶ ἀπέστειλεν εἰς τὸν κόσμον). Obviously, the consecration in this case precedes the sending, and is an act of preparing the Son for his mission. There is no hint of death, the consecration rather implies that the sender has authorized the commissioner and given him his blessing. In the Johannine prayer immediately before v. 19, Jesus asks the Father on behalf of his disciples: “Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As

47. The pre-passion John 17 differs from both these texts in that Phil. 2:6-11 may imply a higher position for the “exalted” Jesus than he had in the beginning, while Heb. 2:9 continues: “because of the suffering of death.” As I have indicated in Chapter 6, the passion redactor’s concept was still another: now the two-way story was articulated as the Son of Man’s descent and ascent. Daniel Smith, “The Disappearance of Jesus in Q,” 303–04, notes that the pre-Pauline hymn in Phil 2 has no reference to the burial or resurrection of Jesus, and that both Hebr and Jas avoid speaking of Jesus’ vindication in terms of resurrection. 48. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:722-735.

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you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.” Again, the sanctification by God is a blessing and preparation for the disciples before they are sent on their mission.49 In 17:19, however, Jesus sanctifies himself on behalf of the disciples (καὶ ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν ἐγὼ ἁγιάζω ἐμαυτόν). This new turn, I think, justifies the interpretation that Jesus is now speaking of his own death as the preparation for the disciples’ mission.50 Thus, 17:19 is to be referred to the passion redactor, who has applied the pre-passion sanctification vocabulary to suit his purpose.51 In vv. 20-26 the passion redactor’s presence is more pervasive. Von Wahlde refers most of this subunit to the final editor, leaving only the following text to the second edition: “I do not pray for these alone but for those believing in me through their word . . . so the world may believe that you sent me. And I have given them the glory that you have given me . . . Father . . . the world did not know you, but I knew you and these knew that you sent me.” What is striking in this reconstruction is that the initial clause pertains to later generations, that is, those who believe in the disciples’ words, while the rest would rather seem to speak of the disciples. Another observation is that the reconstructed text mostly repeats ideas from the preceding prayer. It is therefore a real possibility that the last subunit in vv. 20-26 as a whole comes from the passion redactor, who focuses on later generations using language borrowed from the pre-passion tradition. The concern in this part of the prayer coheres with 11:52, which I have referred to the passion redactor. However, the idea that Jesus has given the disciples the glory he received from the Father must be a pre-passion farewell theme,52 and the conclusion in vv. 25-26 is close to the pre-passion tradition, as it rephrases parts of the preceding petitions.

49. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:475, refers to the commissioning of Jeremiah in Jer. 1:5: “Before I formed you in the womb . . . I consecrated you and sent you as a prophet to the nations.” This is a noteworthy parallel, as the notion of election also plays a role in John 17. 50. According to the passion redactor, the disciples did not receive the Spirit before Jesus’ death, and without the Spirit, they could not be legitimate missionaries. 51. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 2:729, argues that vv. 17-19 come from the second edition because “the notion of departure is the same as that in 10:36.” He also reasons that “additions by the third author always introduce some distinctive theological element.” My interpretation is based on the observation that the sanctification language in 17:19 differs from that of 10:36 and 17:17. The difference is certainly significant: it is the difference between life and death. Ignatius, in his letter to the Ephesians (12:2), speaks of Paul’s “sanctification” meaning his martyrdom. 52. It would be odd if the disciples had received the glory of Jesus but not the Spirit. Here is a further indication that the pre-passion tradition did not make the reception of the Spirit dependent on Jesus’ death. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:771, asks, “When did Jesus give them this glory?” His answer is that it “will be given after the exaltation of Jesus,” so the perfect tenses in 17:22 would be from the standpoint of the present community. However, in view of 14:12 and 17:7-8, 9-10 the disciples already “now,” as Jesus is uttering the prayer, seem to be endowed with the glory.

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Although it has often been repudiated, it may after all not be so far from the point to refer to John 17 as Jesus’ “high priestly prayer.” But then we should not think primarily of the epistle to the Hebrews, but rather of the image of Jesus as the “Paraclete” in heaven according to 1 Jn 2:1. There, of course, Jesus’ heavenly service is to speak for a sinning community member, which was hardly what the pre-passion Johannine Christians were imagining, but the idea of the ascended Jesus praying for the community may well have been familiar in the community apart from the presbyter’s special agenda.

The Pre-Passion Farewell and its Transformation in the Final Gospel The reason why I do not see a direct literary continuum from the predecessor gospel to the farewell section in Jn 13–1753 is, in part, that John 12 seems a logical end of the pre-passion text. The predecessor was intent on showing the coming into the world and the mission of Jesus as the Logos/Son. The departure of Jesus became an ever more important theme as the story unfolded. However, the theme only served to highlight the urgency of believing in Jesus while he was on earth; the actual departure was not narrated beyond the simple notion that Jesus hid himself from the world. It is no surprise that such a narrative was found unsatisfactory, but insofar as the departure involved the death of the protagonist, there was considerable reluctance to continue the story. Before the passion redactor undertook the task, the farewell tradition took a step further by depicting Jesus’ last meal with the disciples, his farewell address, and the final prayer. The farewell tradition was a logical extension of the predecessor gospel in addressing the situation of the disciples after Jesus’ departure. This ecclesiological concern indicates a changed Sitz im Leben, which is another factor that makes a direct literary continuum unlikely. The centerpiece of the last meal narrative was the washing of the disciples’ feet, interpreted as an ethical example for the disciples to follow. It is all too common to regard the narrated act as just metaphorical, as if the explicit words that “you also should do as I have done to you” (v. 13:14) had no practical implications. Rather, we must conclude that “footwashing was certainly part of the praxis of the Johannine community.”54 J. C. Thomas’s monograph on the footwashing in John 13 gives enough evidence for this conclusion.55 Since the farewell speech was likely 53. Here my model differs from Crossan’s hypothesis, see Chapter 1. 54. Weiss, “Foot Washing in the Johannine Community,” 323. 55. John Christopher Thomas, Footwashing in John 13 and the Johannine Community (2nd edn; Cleveland: Centre for Pentecostal Theology Press, 2014). See esp. pp. 125–91, where Thomas begins his historical reconstruction by questioning the skeptical notion that John’s audience might have taken the story as a metaphor or acted prophecy. Scholars who assume John’s knowledge of Luke’s Gospel, naturally tend to explain the footwashing as a saying (Lk. 22:27) turned into a story. Keith L. Yoder, “Mimesis: Foot Washing from Luke to John,” ETL 92 (2016), 655–70, argues for the even more unlikely thesis that John’s source of inspiration was Lk. 7:36-50.

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transmitted in the last meal context, it too has a cultic life-setting, albeit in a wider sense than the ritual of footwashing. In the early tradition, the commemoration of Jesus’ last meal included the reenactment of the footwashing in reference to Jesus’ own example. At the same time, the community’s gathering was an occasion to recall Jesus’ last teaching and his promise to “come” to his own, a presence that could be felt in the ritual act as well.56 A similar practice was obviously known in some other early Christian communities, too, but not with a similar rationale as in Jn 13:12-17. According to 1 Tim. 5:10 it was the duty of appointed “widows”57 to wash the feet of the “saints,” that is, wandering preachers and other welcomed guests of the same faith. Thus, the practice was a sign of hospitality; not customary hospitality, but a showing of Christian in-group solidarity.58 Not washing the visitor’s feet would then signal that the visitor was not welcome but an outsider to the common faith (cf. 2 Jn 10–11; 3 Jn 10). In the Johannine community, the washing of feet seems to have been more ritualized, as it was practiced among the community in the context of common meals and in reference to Jesus’ own example and words. If there was any theological symbolism concerning the ritual act, it might have been simply to restate the purity of members, a kind of reminder of the baptismal gifts of purity and the Spirit. The passion redactor, in 13:6-11, embraces and promotes a substantial change of meaning of the ritualized act. Georg Richter has rightly emphasized the christological and soteriological aspect of the new interpretation: Jesus urges the washing of Peter’s feet, because this is something Jesus himself must do in order to clean the believers—namely, he must die for them. Richter is also right in seeing here a controversy over Jesus’ messiahship: how could the Messiah die?59 However, Peter’s role in the story should not be downplayed. If there was a real controversy

56. It is tempting to refer to the Μαράνα θά cry (1 Cor. 16:22; cf. Rev. 22:20), which in Did. 10:6 and possibly in 1 Cor. 11:26 (ἄχρι οὗ ἔλθῃ) has a cultic (eucharistic) context. 57. For a discussion of the “widows” in 1 Tim., see Jürgen Roloff, Der erste Brief an Timotheus (EKK; Zürich: Benziger Verlag; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1988), 293–304. 58. The aspect of hospitality is emphasized by Arland J. Hultgren, “The Johannine Footwashing (13:1-11) as Symbol of Eschatological Hospitality,” NTS 28 (1982), 539–46; and Mary L. Coloe, “Welcome into the Household of God: The Foot Washing in John 13,” CBQ 66 (204), 400–15. According to Hultgren (p. 542), Jesus “does an act of hospitality, receiving the disciples into the place to which he is going.” Coloe (p. 411) interprets the footwashing as “Welcome into God’s Household.” Both interpretations are literary-theological musings, but Coloe comes closer to the social function of the footwashing. 59. Georg Richter, Die Fusswaschung im Johannesevangelium (Biblische Untersuchungen; Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1967), 287–300, esp. p. 290: “Im Mittelpunkt der Szene steht Jesus und sein Tun, es geht nur darum, ob Jesus dem Sklavendienst der Fusswaschung, der mit der Würde des Messias unvereinber zu sein scheint, unterziehen muss oder nicht, ohne Bild gesprochen: ob Jesus den Kreuzestod, der gegen seine Messianität zu sprechen scheint, auf sich nehmen muss oder ob er ihn umgehen kann.”

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over Jesus’ death–and its existence is the main thesis of the present study—then Peter initially displays the opposite view and then misconceives the right view. He first denies the necessity of Jesus’ deed—foothwashing as a cleansing death—and then, accepting it, misinterprets its function: it does not replace the first washing (baptism), but completes it. Connected to the death of Jesus, the practice absorbed new meanings and functions. If the washing of feet was to complement the baptismal bath and was necessary for salvation, it must have been interpreted as the cleansing from sins committed after baptism. 1 John 1:9-10 stresses the importance of confessing sins, and specifically condemns those who deny having sinned. It is therefore understandable that those pneumatics in the community who felt being sinless found the practice annoying. They could, of course, hold to the earlier tradition’s interpretation that the practice was just a showing of internal solidarity, but if it went together with a confession of sins, or if the act was done under the premise that it was a means of removing sins (e.g., with the exhortation “Let us be cleansed”), then the ritualized practice may not have been palatable for these Christians. Thus, the footwashing functioned as a crucial test of common faith.60

The Literary and Cultic Setting of the Final Prayer and the Farewell Speeches Since the last speech in the farewell section is a prayer, it is customary to compare it with other prayers in early Christian literature in order to determine its possible life-setting. A comparison with the Lord’s prayer especially in its Matthean rendering shows interesting similarities: the address to God as Father and the reference to heaven in the beginning, the notion of hallowing God’s name, and the petition to keep the believers from the evil one. Such overlapping features indicate that the Johannine community was not totally isolated from other early Christian groups. However, the Johannine prayer is solely Jesus’ prayer and cannot be imagined as being prayed by the Johannine community as their petitions to God. Neither can the prayer be divorced from the farewell setting; both the prepassion and the final form presuppose some kind of departure. Another point of comparison is the eucharistic prayer of Didache 10, where the motif of Christian “oneness” or “gathering” is conspicuous.61 It seems quite

60. Cf. the opponents described by Ignatius (Smyrn. 7:1, my translation): “They abstain from the eucharist, because they do not confess the eucharist to be the flesh of our Savior Jesus Christ, which (flesh) suffered for our sins, and which the Father in (his) goodness raised.” 61. In Did. 9–10 wine and bread are the consecrated elements, but there is no reference to Jesus’ death. The function of various early Christian Eucharistic practices as identity construction is emphasized by Ismo Dunderberg, “The Eucharist in the Gospels of John, Philip, and Judas,” Early Christianity 7 (2016), 484–507.

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possible that this motif—already known to Paul (1 Cor. 10:17)—was familiar to the passion redactor from a eucharistic tradition and contributed to the formation of the final prayer, particularly in vv. 20-26. But again, the Johannine prayer is presented as Jesus’ unique prayer. Barrett aptly notes that “no celebrant could so identify himself with the Lord . . . as actually to say, in the first person singular, ‘Glorify me. . . . I have manifested thy name. . . . I came forth from thee. . . . I am coming to thee’, and so on.”62 A further point of comparison is the Gethsemane prayer. It is conceivable that the passion redactor intended to provide an antitype of that prayer (cf. 12:37). There are several thematic connections to the omitted Gethsemane prayer, and of course the context—just before the arrest—is similar.63 The passion redactor was also very much influenced—and troubled—by the Gethsemane scene. However, granted that there was a traditional farewell prayer of Jesus, the redactor’s amplifications must have been made largely in view of that prayer.64 It is indicative of the redactor’s overall planning that the theme of love, which opened the farewell section in 13:1-2 and was reaccentuated in 13:34-35 before the first speech, wraps up the whole farewell section in 17:26. As a whole, Jesus’ amplified prayer serves the passion redactor as a convenient summary of Jesus’ farewell. An elevated, hymnic conclusion is form-critically a plausible way of concluding a farewell discourse in the Hebrew Bible, as in Moses’ song at the end of Deuteronomy. The future of the people after the patriarch’s departure is also a typical topos, so the passion redactor’s amplification in 17:2026 is well in line with Hebrew Bible and intertestamental predecessors. The Rechenschaftrede in 17:6-8, 12, where Jesus expounds the outcome of his mission, is also as such quite comfortable in a farewell setting, as Paul’s farewell in Acts 20:17-35 shows.65 The problem is only that, for the passion redactor, Jesus’ mission was not complete at this narrative juncture. Since the redactor knew that the story will go on, such an anticipation need not have disturbed him.66 Another alien

62. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John, 501. The argument had been even more impressive, if Barrett had cited some petitions, where the speaker is asking on behalf the believers, such as v. 9. 63. See Karl Olav Sandnes, Early Christian Discourses on Jesus’ Prayer at Gethsemane (NovTSup 166; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2016), 173–96. 64. There is a connection between 17:12 (from the pre-passion prayer, without the redactor’s addition “except the one destined to be lost”) and 18:8-9, but the influence is probably from the traditional prayer to the arrest story. The early tradition had a much more positive picture of the disciples than did the passion redactor, who in 16:32 takes note of the motif of the disciples’ scattering (Mk 14:27/Mt. 26:31). 65. Jesus, of course, does not to have to prove his innocence or blamelessness, as Paul does in Acts 20:26, 34, but like Paul, he does emphasize that he has faithfully completed his mission. 66. The passion redactor regarded Jesus’ glorification as worked out already at 13:31— although it was in fact only anticipated (13:32).

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feature from the earlier tradition was the notion that Jesus was on the verge of ascending to his Father, not really in the world (17:11). The redactor, however, had prepared a solution to this difficulty long before the insertion of chs 15–17, as he had conceptualized the whole crucifixion-resurrection-ascension sequence as the “lifting up” of Jesus, Son of Man. In the final Gospel, there could be no confusion about the mode of Jesus’ departure. It may be that the passion redactor thought it was now safe to render the traditional prayer of Jesus, with extensions, given that the passion storyline was already firmly established in the new Gospel. As with his witty “lifting up” imagery, so with his emplacement of the final prayer he was able to incorporate earlier traditions while neutralizing the unfitting elements—which is the very essence of the redactor’s relecture. But how did the pre-passion tradition of Jesus’ final prayer conceptualize Jesus’ departure? The answer must remain speculative, but Ernst Bammel’s suggestion, cited in the introductory chapter of this study, is the closest alternative: the prayer was imagined as Jesus’ words before his ascension.67 To imagine, however, is not the same as to narrate. There need not have been any explicit narrative embedding of the prayer, only a general understanding that this was Jesus’ last prayer before his departure. The relationship between John 17 and other parts of the Gospel—especially the prologue and the farewell speeches—has been evaluated variously. While Brown sees considerable affinity with the prologue,68 Dietzfelbinger argues extensively for a late and separate origin of the prayer.69 Several of Dietzfelbinger’s observations are significant enough to suggest that John 17 has an independent origin from the speeches in chs 14 and 15–16. The absence of any reference to the Paraclete or the Spirit is noticeable. As I have made a distinction between the pre-passion and the final forms of the prayer, as well as a distinction between the pre-passion gospel contained in Jn 1–12 and the further pre-passion tradition where the ecclesiastical consequences of this gospel were addressed, it is possible to see some traditional affinity between the Logos hymn of Jn 1:1-18 and the farewell tradition, including the prayer in John 17. The prologue focused on the prehistory and incarnation of Jesus, and this was enough for the early gospel, but the farewell tradition and the final prayer had to answer the next question: how about the community of believers the Logos/Christ left behind?

67. Bammel, “The Farewell Discourse of the Evangelist John and Its Jewish Inheritance,” 111. Van Os, “John’s Last Supper and the Resurrection Dialogues,” opines that the discourse material in Jn 13–17 “may originally have had a postresurrection setting” (p. 278). My analysis does not point to such a conclusion. The suggestion that “the Johannine traditions continued to influence second-century Christian writing, including the early resurrection dialogues” (p. 279) is certainly plausible. 68. Brown, The Gospel according to John, 2:745. 69. Dietzfelbinger, Der Abschied des Kommenden, 341–58, esp. pp. 341–44.

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Dietzfelbinger suggests—in fact he finds it self-evident—that the Sitz im Leben of the prayer was the community’s divine service.70 While the prayer is not a hymn, its solemnity does suggest a cultic setting. But how could the prayer of Jesus be a prayer of the community? Dietzfelbinger’s reference to Rev. 2–3, where the prophet’s words and the resurrected Lord’s words merge, is not really to the point, because John 17 is not prophetic speech. Nevertheless, his remark that the fusion of Jesus’ and the community’s speech risks “an excessive self-confidence”71 is noteworthy. I have already suggested that the pre-passion tradition, as well as the early gospel in Jn 1–12, were marked by a heightened pneumatic awareness, which tended to equal Jesus and the individual believer. The prayer in John 17 does not fully lend itself to such merging, but some form of identification with the Christ figure could take place. Since a cultic Sitz im Leben for the final prayer seems plausible, I suggest that the prayer was employed as a kind of anamnesis: not, at least not originally, as part of the eucharistic, but as a commemoration of Jesus’ last meal and farewell before his departure. John 17 might have been, at some stage, a closing prayer at the community’s gathering, with an elder of the group invoking Jesus’ last words. At the same time, the prayer was not just a reminiscence from the Jesus story but words of the heavenly Christ, who also in this manner “came” to his gathered people and acted as their Advocate before the Father. There could be a merging of identities, but within the limits of different functions. Jesus was the departing, departed, and heavenly Advocate, the community of believers were recipients of his reassuring words and his urge for unity—but both were in the possession of the same Spirit and had a share in his δόξα. The sacrificial language of the passion redactor makes an eucharistic setting more likely at a later stage, and the addition in Jn 6:51-59 adds to the probability, although we do not really know how the divine service looked like in the Johannine community. If this cultic life-setting for the final prayer is accepted, the question arises whether the same Sitz im Leben can be assumed for the footwashing story and the farewell speeches. I have argued for the footwashing as being a practice in the Johannine community, not only as a gesture of hospitality for accepted visitors, but as a ritual in the community gatherings. The first farewell speech, which in its early form did not refer to the Paraclete, would also fit in such a gathering as a commemoration of Jesus’ last meal and departure. The final prayer would be the conclusion of the gathering. The passion redactor’s reshaping of this tradition, and his agenda for the community meetings, would then mean that the gatherings

70. Ibid., 355: “Also lebte die Führbitte von c. 17 im Gottesdienst der Gemeinde. Wo sonst sollte sie sonst gelebt haben?” 71. Dietzfelbinger, Der Abschied des Kommenden, 356: “Die Gefährlichkeit solchen Ineinanderfliessen von Wort Jesu und Wort der Gemeinde und die von daher mögliche Übersteigerung des Selbstbewusstseins soll nicht abgestritten werden.”

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would also recall Jesus’ death.72 The gatherings—but perhaps not all of them— would initially include a commemoration of Jesus’ promise to “see” the believers after his departure and his assurance that they will rest in his “peace.” The passion redactor would reinterpret the footwashing as a test of confessing sins, add the figure of the Paraclete to ascertain that the living voice of Jesus could not contradict the words of the Gospel, and rephrase the final prayer to include Jesus’ sacrificial death and his plea for the unity of new generations of believers.

72. According to Dunderberg, “The Eucharist,” 491, “In John 13, the Johannine author substitutes the Eucharist for another ritual.” I would not speak of substitution. Rather, the passion redactor has interpreted the traditional last meal and footwashing as an eucharistic event (especially in v. 8). Common to both the Pauline and the pre-passion Johannine last meal tradition is the notion of anamnesis, explicit in Paul but implied in John.

Chapter 9 THE WOUNDS OF THE CRUCIFIED: UNDERSTANDING THE JOHANNINE TRAUMA

The hypothesis about a Johannine predecessor gospel and an extensive passion redaction has consequences for a reconstruction of the community’s history. However, in this concluding chapter I will not try to write a comprehensive history of the Johannine movement. What follows is rather a psychohistorical interpretation1 that focuses on the Johannine schism and its aftermath. Psychology and sociology should not be seen as hostile to theological appropriation. There is a complex interchange between psychic and social forces, and the evolving Johannine theology both reflects and nurtures these forces. I will first discuss some psychological concepts that are commonly used in describing the Johannine history. My argument is that coping and particularly trauma—literally the wound—are more promising concepts than crisis for understanding the schism. An object-relation view of trauma then leads to a sustained comparison between the Johannine gospels and other early Christian texts. The comparative analysis will highlight various responses to Jesus’ death, which reflect different relations between the Christ figure and the individual Christian. It will appear that the Johannine predecessor reflects a narcissistic relation. The final part of the chapter takes a developmental approach to narcissistic grandiosity and suggests the possibility of a gradual loss of grandiosity. This is what I see happening in the development from the predecessor to the present John.

Crisis, Coping, Trauma: Ways of Conceptualizing Johannine History A persistent scholarly tradition speaks of several “crises” within the Johannine community, a tradition that owes much to J. L. Martyn’s and Raymond E. Brown’s constructions of several “periods” or “phases” in the history of Johannine

1. In my view, Wayne A. Meeks’s “Man from Heaven” (1972) already came very close to a psychohistorical approach. However, Meeks did not interpret John diachronically (redaction-critically), so the aspects of change and development in Johannine thought did not receive enough attention.

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Christianity and literature.2 The periodizing in itself does not imply such concepts as crisis or trauma, apart from the commonplace that any historical turn will impose challenges as well as create opportunities for a group of people. Such turns may be effected by changes in external circumstances. One important turn of times in nascent Christianity at large was the Jewish war. Other changes may be due to the group’s internal development, for instance the Johannine community’s developing christological reflections. Even a geographical change can have decisive effects, as when scholars assume that the Johannine group or parts of it migrated from Palestine to Ephesus or its surroundings. The various causes of change interact. The developing high christology was bound to increase conflicts with the synagogue, which in turn could fuel further antagonistic theological convictions among Johannine Christ-believers. The assumed migration to Asia Minor could be caused by circumstances after the Jewish war, and in the new milieu new influences could further the community’s theologizing. All such impulses from outside and from within are in principle possible, the practical problem being just how much information can reasonably be gleaned from the texts: the Gospel and Letters of John, as well as the Book of Revelation. But none of them can as such be labeled “crisis” or “trauma.” By crisis I mean an event or a chain of events that affects a community in profound ways and forces the community to (re)consider its goals and means. Coping includes the different strategies that a community avails of in facing a crisis. Kenneth I. Pargament divides the available coping strategies in four squares. If the preconceived goals and significant values are maintained, the most basic response is preservation, where also the means of achieving the goal remain the same: one tries harder (“more of the same”). Alternatively, if this strategy does not work, the means are reconstructed: new methods to achieve the same goal are tried out. When it becomes too difficult to pursue the preconceived goal, the goals must be transformed, where the options are revaluation of the important things in life and recreation, where the new goal demands new methods as well.3 I will use this model to describe some general aspects of the development of Johannine history and thought. A closer application of the model is not possible because of its antagonism toward the psychoanalytic approach, which I make use of.4 The concept I find most suitable for the present purpose is trauma, which refers to a loss of meaning that leaves an indelible mark—a “wound”—in the community’s

2. See the chart in de Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 71; also P. J. Hartin, “A Community in Crisis: The Christology of the Johannine Community as the Point at Issue,” Neot 19 (1985), 37–49. Burge, Interpreting the Gospel of John, 75, deems that “today Brown’s theories are not widely held. Nonetheless, variations of his basic theory are still in play throughout Johannine scholarship.” 3. Kenneth I. Pargament, The Psychology of Religion and Coping: Theory, Research, Practice (New York and London: The Guilford Press, 1997), 110–13. 4. Pargament, The Psychology of Religion and Coping, 75, critiques s Freudian type of approach for having a “pretty grim portrayal of the human condition.”

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identity even after the coping process is complete. Psychoanalytic trauma theories have evolved on the basis of two complementary models, one psycho-economic, the other being based on object relations theory.5 It is mainly the second, more hermeneutically oriented model that lies behind the following discussion. The object relations perspective is useful for our purpose because it focuses on christology—the Christ figure—in conjunction with the community’s understanding of its own Christian identity. In this identity-shaping Christ/ Christian relation, one phenomenon will appear particularly critical: the believer’s narcissistic psychological constitution. There are relatively normal, even healthy kinds of narcissism, but the seeds of more problematic kinds are sown in any totalizing belief system, and early Christianity is no exception. Almost by definition, the believer has a narcissistic proclivity to the extent that one believes to be called and elected, someone “special” whose destiny is to be or become something greater than the mightiest kings in the unbelieving humanity. There are various means to balance this narcissistic proclivity, depending on other factors—personal, social, and theological—in the object relation,6 but in some social formations and theological constructs the balance is harder to maintain and the risk of a damaging form of narcissism grows.7 If such narcissism is punctuated, the consequences may be very traumatic if no adequate coping mechanisms are available. Returning to the supposed Johannine crises, Martinus de Boer has distinguished three such turning points: “A major crisis or trauma” overtook the community when expelled from the synagogue (“ca. 85 CE?”). “Subsequent developments led to another major crisis (ca. 90?)” marked by the trial and execution of Christians who now claimed Jesus was one with God. Then “another crisis occurred (ca. 100?), a traumatic schism at or near the turn of the century, that caused the community (or the portion of it witnessed to by the 1 and 2 John) once again to reinterpret its received tradition about Jesus Christ.”8 In this scheme, all the crises have to do with christology.9

5. Werner Bohleber, Destructiveness, Intersubjectivity, and Trauma: The Identity Crisis of Modern Psychoanalysis (London: Karnac Books, 2010), xxi. 6. In general, at least the following three factors reduce the risk of narcissistic faith relations becoming unhealthy. First, the social and moral obligations of faith may balance the assumed superiority, according to the principle “nobility obliges.” Second, there must be a sufficient match between ideology and reality, so that undeniable real-life circumstances are allowed to modify the ideology. Third, the more structured and complex the in- and out-groups are the better. 7. The type of narcissism I discuss is profoundly ideological and group-centered and not directly descriptive of individual psychological characteristics. Pauline, Johannine, Thomasine, and other Christians all had grandiose conceptions of their “special” place in the world and in the history of humankind, but of course they need not have suffered from a narcissistic personal disorder. 8. De Boer, Johannine Perspectives on the Death of Jesus, 66–67. 9. Much the same scheme is depicted in Hartin, “A Community in Crisis,” 37–49.

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The hypothetical nature of the period scheme and the concomitant crises is obvious, however, because the different phases are for the most part not verifiable from sources other than the Gospel itself. The only crisis that can be read from 1–3 John and is arguably reflected—though in slightly later and perhaps changed form—in the Gospel is the internal schism. The antagonism with synagogue officials is certainly reflected in Jn 9:22 and 16:2, but to the extent that the (experienced) enmity was caused by the Johannine group’s christological tenets, it was an outcome that the Johannine Christians could reckon with. If the enmity was nurtured by the community’s growing christological and exclusivist claims, as Jn 1–12 narrates, and if the synagogue’s response was a reaction to these claims, it was a mutually reinforcing process. In this process, the community’s social identity was being shaped in the direction of sectarianism or perhaps better toward a cultic community, eventually leading to a more comprehensive ecumenical identity as a distinct member of the emerging Christian commonwealth. What is crucial in this development is that the coping mechanisms at work did not involve a serious transformation of preconceived goals. The antagonism with the synagogue was, if the model of mutually reinforcing responses applies, a strategy of “more of the same.” The synagogue’s critique of the messianic claims was met with an even more resolute insistence on the uniqueness of Jesus as the only Son of God. When the community’s horizon was shifting toward the emergent church of all Christbelievers, the community could still hold on to its identity as a minority group with a perceived superior ideology. If the shifting relations of the Johannine group with the synagogue and the other Christ-believers did not call for radically transformative coping strategies, even less so did the missionary experiences of this group. The Samaritan mission was a success story in John 4. If it was so in reality, and even if it was not a triumph, it probably strengthened the community’s identity as a mediator of superior knowledge of God. The internal schism, however, as evidenced in the letters and in Jn 6:60-71, must have shaken the community’s preconceived values in a profound way. External challenges could be coped with through more effort and explained as inimical offensives that demanded the strengthening of inherited values. Internal challenges, by contrast, threaten the very identity of the group, because members of the in-group—“our own people”—oppose the way things are in the group. The Johannine schism was not just about the means of reaching the goal—the eternal life. There was also the question of the goal of Christian life. Was the goal already achieved with the spiritual baptism and the perfection of life it was assumed to assure? Or was the final destination of the Christ-believers still ahead, calling for new means to achieve it: the eucharist as the devouring of Christ’s flesh and blood (6:56), the footwashing as partaking of Jesus’ death (13:10), the commandment of mutual love (13:34-35), and the confession of sins (1 Jn 1:9-10)? Therefore, with due respect to the notion of previous “crises” in the Johannine community, I will concentrate on the schism within the Johannine community as the most serious challenge to the identity of the community. It was a challenge that left permanent marks in several ways. Socially, it meant a division and altered group loyalties. Ideologically, it meant a clash in christology and in the conception

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of the Christian life. In literary aspect, the schism involved the acceptance or not of the new passion gospel, which purported to be a reinterpretation and “update” of the first gospel and in line with the letters, but was actually radically new. The icon of the lasting trauma was the image of the glorified Jesus as still bearing the wounds of crucifixion (Jn 20:27). Not all Johannine believers could accept such marks of death.

Jesus’ Death and Early Christian Identities While the death of Jesus was a bone of contention in the Johannine community, the trauma I am trying to describe concerns the community’s Christian identity in relation to its conception of Jesus. On the larger map of early Christianities, we see a spectrum with two extremes: either Jesus’ death is excluded as irrelevant to Christian identity, even denied, or it is made a central element in one’s Christian identity. The Johannine predecessor is close to the former end of the spectrum, while the final Gospel moves clearly in the latter direction. But the matter is more complicated, as a glance at other early responses will show. That the death of Jesus was an identity-shaping event for Christ-believers from the beginning is seen in the earliest survived documents—Paul’s letters. It is interesting, however, that 1 Thessalonians, presumably the oldest of Paul’s authentic letters, has little concern for the crucified Christ. In what has been regarded as the earliest Christian summary of missionary preaching,10 Paul reminds the Thessalonian community how they “turned to God from idols, to serve a living and true God, and to wait for his Son from heaven, whom he raised from the dead—Jesus, who rescues us from the wrath that is coming” (1 Thess. 1:9-10). The two foci of this salvation-historical scheme are Jesus’ resurrection and parousia. Jesus’ resurrection, of course, presupposes his death, but this is not a central issue in 1 Thess. Instead, the death of some Christ-believers is addressed, and Paul’s encouragement is that the community should just persevere and await the coming of the Lord (4:13-18). Linda Joelsson, in her doctoral thesis, has rightly described this coping strategy as deferring and preservative, noting that Paul’s advice made the survivors’ grief work impossible.11 In his later letters, however, Paul developed theological ideas that put more emphasis on the death of Jesus and also connect the Christian life, and his own life, more solidly to the fate of Jesus. In Gal. 2:19-20, Paul interweaves his “death” and new life as a Christ-believer and the fate of the crucified and risen Christ: “Through

10. See Michael Zugmann, Missionspredigt in nuce: Studien zu 1Thess 1,9b-10 (Linz: Wagner Verlag, 2012). Zugmann argues that the formulation is Paul’s own but rests on a Hellenistic Jewish missionary scheme. 11. Linda Joelsson, Paul and Death: A Study in Psychological Coping (Diss. Åbo Akademi University, 2015), 58–63. This coping strategy tries “to keep fear, sadness, and anxiety from the surface and simply increase the effort” (p. 61).

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the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” In Rom. 6:5-7, the model is extended to all Christ-believers: “For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” This “Christ-mysticism” has its ideological birthplace in the baptism, where the former life and the new existence in Christ have a most concrete presentation: the new being emerges from the baptismal water. While baptism was an unrepeatable ritual, the eucharistic meal, as a maintenance ritual, was a repeated reminder of Jesus’ death, as Paul stresses in 1 Cor. 11:26. In Paul, and much post-Pauline paraenesis, the ethical instruction is based on a sharp division between “then” and “now,” which recalls the decisive baptismal experience. This paraenetic tradition continues, for example, in 1 Pet. 1:18-19: “You know that you were ransomed from the futile ways inherited from your ancestors, not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ.” However, already here the Pauline assimilation of the fates of Christ and the believer is fading off and becoming a moral, rather than existential, bond.12 Since Jesus’ death was not a focal point in Paul’s earliest letter, the intriguing question is what occasioned the change. It may not be incidental that Paul’s “mystical” identification with the crucified Jesus, his carrying “the marks of Jesus” in his body (Gal. 6:17), came to the fore in his most polemical letter, where Paul’s identity as an apostle—his authority and self-esteem—was at stake. The same kind of identification—with Paul, and through him with Christ—is strongly felt in Ignatius’ letters, written in a situation of impending death which forced the bishop to reconsider his priorities. The death of Jesus, with the promise of life with him, has there as in Paul become a crucial element in a transformative coping strategy. Hardships are endured by identification with a Christ-image that puts equal weight on death and vindication: the baptismal “already now” of the new being is balanced by an agonistic and more realistic “not yet.” This flexibility provides an ideological resource and can also be a vehicle of personal growth, where the final test of maturity is how one is able to face one’s own death. According to Joelsson, Paul’s late letters show signs of a maturation process: “Starting with denial, or avoidance of the issues relating to death, Paul reacts, processes, and finally accepts his own death.”13 In a thought-provoking study, Itzhak Benyamini has interpreted Pauline Christianity as thoroughly narcissistic.14 Although much of the psychological dynamics he exposes in Paul’s letters is illuminating, the problem is that his

12. Consider especially 2 Clement—nowhere in early Christianity is Christ’s death as a moral challenge more rigorously articulated than in this homily. 13. Joelsson, Paul and Death, 186. 14. Itzhak Benyamini, Narcissist Universalism: A Psychoanalytical Reading of Paul’s Epistles (Library of New Testament Studies 453; London and New York: T & T Clark International, 2012). See my review in RBL (2016).

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(Freudian and) Lacanian model of narcissism is one-sided and does not take into consideration the mechanisms that balance the narcissistic proclivity. Paul’s “Christ-mysticism” does not identify the object of faith with the believer’s new ego ideal (i.e., the “new creation” “in Christ”). Although there is a firm pneumatic connection between Christ and the believer, the believer is not “a christ” but, as Paul understood his call, a servant of the Lord. And while Romans 6 parallels the Christ-event and the believer’s transition from death to life, the Christ-event remains in principle distinct from the baptismal birth.15 The Q Gospel, though not narrating Jesus’ death, nonetheless was familiar with the cross as a symbol with paraenetic potential, as Q 14:27 attests. Yet, the faith connection between Jesus and his followers was not based on the death/ resurrection pattern but on the idea of typological continuity according to a basically deuteronomistic scheme: as the prophets were persecuted and killed, so was Jesus, and now his followers were under the same threat. In this scheme, there is also a continuity of the message from the prophets to John the Baptist, on to Jesus, and further to the messengers of Jesus. This continuity implies that the message is not, or at least not solely, about the fate of Jesus, but about doing the will of God at all costs, entering into the coming kingdom, and being saved at the last judgment. The Gospel of Mark is in many ways on the Pauline path in paralleling the death of Jesus and the way of discipleship. The parallelism is, as in Q, partially in terms of typological continuity of fate, in that the followers of Jesus will experience hard times (Mark 13), but also assimilatory in a Pauline sense because the narrative plot makes the disciples as well as readers of the Gospel “follow” Jesus up to the fatal events and eventually hear the message from the empty tomb: “He has been raised again, he is not here.” Even the final union might be sensed in the promise of “seeing” the risen Jesus (16:7)—perhaps signaling for the readers (if not the narrative disciples) Jesus’ parousia, and thus matching the Pauline vision of a never-ending future “with” Jesus (1 Thess. 4:18). Jesus’ death, understood as the goal of his faithful service, is an impressive paraenetic model (Mk 9:3438; 10:41-45). Although Mark should not be read uncritically through Paul, it is worth noting that Mk 10:41 connects baptism and death—both of Jesus and his martyred followers—as does Romans 6 in a more existential manner. There would also appear to be some baptismal death-resurrection symbolism in Mark’s young

15. Cf. Walter Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth: An Investigation of the Letters to the Corinthians (Nashville and New York: Abingdon Press, 1971). For the sake of convenience, I refer to this English translation of the third German edition by John E. Steely; the original title is Die Gnosis im Corinth: Eine Untersuchung zu den Korintherbriefen (FRLANT NF 48; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1956). Schmithals regarded Paul’s opponents in the Corinthian letters as Gnostics but stressed that Paul was basically alien to Gnostic mythology despite his borrowing from its language. Concerning Paul’s “in Christ” language, Schmithals (p. 65) opined: “How little Paul thinks in Gnostic fashion becomes just as clear in these passages as does the mythological background of the whole style of speech.”

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man who flees naked at Jesus’ arrest (14:51-52) and—as I suggest—appears at the empty tomb wearing a white robe (16:5). Mark’s Gospel seems to reflect a situation of persecution. Whether the persecution took place in Rome16 or in Galilee17 is secondary for the present discussion, but obviously persecution—even if it is perceived rather than actual18— is a factor that elicits the memory of Jesus’ fate and evokes the connection between Jesus’ and the believer’s sufferings. Thus, it is understandable that even a document like the Apocryphon of James (NHC I, 2) draws the connection, even though the parallel fates are not used in a Pauline type of paraenesis.19 The Apocryphon of James is partially modeled on the Johannine farewell speeches, where—especially in Jn 16:1-4—the persecution of the believers is a vital theme. Matthew’s Gospel, being a combination of Mark’s story and the teachings of Q as used in the community, bears characteristics from both these texts but also lacks the edge of both. In particular, the Pauline-type assimilatory identification of Christ with the believer is absent. In its stead, there is a moral code (“all that I have taught you,” 28:19) and an example to imitate (“learn from me,” 11:29). By contrast, the letter of James—another Jewish Christian document from the late first century—has a terse prophetic-sapiental edge similar to Q. The letter refers to the killing of Jesus (“the righteous one,” 5:6) but does not base its paraenesis and Christ-experience on the death-resurrection scheme. Rather, the moral exhortation in James in based in the awareness of the coming judgment (5:8) on the one hand, and the initial “birth” by God through “the word of truth” (1:18) on

16. This traditional place of origin has been defended by for example Brian J. Incigneri, The Gospel to the Romans: The Setting and Rhetoric of Mark’s Gospel (Biblical Interpretation Series 65; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), esp. pp. 96–115. 17. H. N. Roskam, The Purpose of the Gospel of Mark in Its Historical and Social Context (NovTSup 114; Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2004), esp. pp. 94–114. Both Incigneri and Roskam stress the importance of persecution as a background for Mark. 18. Persecution is a prominent theme in the Q Gospel, too. We should remember, however, that texts are rhetorical representations and ideological interpretations of actual circumstances: “Whether or not we can assess the historicity of the claims, we can agree that Q contains evidence for the perception and use of persecution – no doubt very real to the authors, who use it to construct their identity, agency, and authority.” Sarah E. Rollens, “Persecution in the Social Setting of Q,” in Markus Tiwald (ed.), Q in Context II:Social Setting and Archeological Background of the Sayings Source (BBB 173; Göttingen: Bonn University Press at V&R Uniprint, 2015), 149–64; p. 164. 19. Cf. Ap. Jas. 5, 31-35: “Scorn death, therefore, and take thought for life! Remember my cross and my death, and you will live!” While Jesus’ death is paradigmatic, it is so in the sense of a typical example—an example that the followers are urged to exceed: “Become better than I; make yourselves like the son of the Holy Spirit!” (6, 19-20) Thus the Apocryphon of James, while not developing a complex Gnostic protology any more than does the Gospel of Thomas, exhibits the kind of spiritual grandiosity that is common in more developed systems.

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the other. I have argued in Chapter 7 that the birthing “word of truth” in James assimilates God’s creative word (as in Gen. 1), the law, and the proclamation through which one has become a Christ-believer—in a sense, it is law and gospel in one. The connection between Christ and the believer lies in the power of the λόγος to give birth to children of God. It seems reasonable to suggest that James 1:19 and 1:21 are related to the baptismal event, where one receives the “word of truth” and the “implanted word” that can save one at the judgment day. The sharp dualism in James is not reflected in the epistle’s pneumatology in the way it is in the Johannine predecessor, where those born of God seem to have the πνεῦμα in an unlimited way (Jn 3:6.34).20 In James, God’s spirit does not make one immune to evil desires; the struggle between light and darkness is a strong reality for Christbelievers (4:5).21 After Paul, a full-blown “mythical” conception of Jesus’ death is attested in second- to fourth-century Valentinian rituals and paraenesis.22 There, the fateconnection with Christ has a firm baptismal connection (together with anointing) and probably a ritual progression, yet the union is not really of the Pauline kind. In the Valentinian Gospel of Philip (NHC II, 3),23 the final mystery is the bridal

20. Von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John, 3:87, refers Jn 3:34 to the final editor so that the “unlimited” spirit applies to Jesus alone. Although v. 34 in the context is connected to Jesus, the sentence in itself argues that “(God) does not give the Spirit by measure.” The addition “(un)to him” in some translations (such as KJV) is not based on the Greek text. 21. Jas 4:5 is notoriously difficult to interpret. See Christoph Burchard, Der Jakobusbrief (HNT 15/1; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 2000), 171–74. I accept Burchard’s interpretation, cf. also NEB: “Or do you suppose that Scripture has no meaning when it says that the spirit which God has implanted in man turns towards envious desires?” This understanding implies that, in James, the implanted πνεῦμα (4:5) is not the same thing as the implanted λόγος (1:21). 22. I have chosen to focus on the Gospel of Philip because of its outspoken sacramental interest, which highlights the Christ/Christian relationship. For Valentinian paraenesis another work might also be useful. In the Gospel of Truth (NHC I, 3 [XII, 2]) doctrinal and paraenetic sections (e.g., 32:21–33:32) alter much like in the Pauline type of exhortation. See Philip L. Tite, Valentinian Ethics and Paraenetic Discourse: Determining the Social Function of Moral Exhortation in Valentinian Christianity (NHMS 67; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 217–84. 23. The Valentinian and “Gnostic” provenance of Gos. Phil. has been questioned by Hugo Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis on the Soul (NHMS 73; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006). Lundhaug opts for a monastic trajectory. I follow the majority of Nag Hammadi scholars who do not doubt the basic Valentinian outlook of the document. Consequently, a date in late second to third century seems plausible. However, Lundhaug´s method of studying the texts on their own merits is sound, and synthetic presentations of the doctrines and rituals of “the Valentinians,” such as Einar Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church

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chamber (Gos. Phil. 67 and passim). Whatever it is, it is not a union in death, but rather a final abolition of death, as is also the baptism: “By perfecting the water of baptism, Jesus emptied it of death. Thus we do go down into the water, but we do not go down into death, in order that we may not be poured out into the spirit of the world” (Gos. Phil. 77, 9–10). This is the precise opposite of Paul’s reasoning,24 and equally remote from Ignatius’s assertion in Eph. 18:2 that Jesus “was baptized that by his passion he might cleanse water.” It is interesting that this prime document from Valentinian Christianity, which so stresses the “mythical” fate-connection between Christ and the enlightened believer—the believer becomes “a christ” in the initiation, 67, 21–27—and even refers to Jesus’ laying down his life (53, 6–14), the cross (73, 9–18), the eucharist 63, 21–24), the eating of Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood (57, 2–9), nevertheless so strongly defies a connection between death and the baptismal initiation. By contrast, baptism is connected with rebirth. The reason why Gos. Phil. was able to deal with Jesus’ death seems to be, in part, its reverse ordering of life and death.25 “Those who say that the lord died first and (then) rose up are in error, for he rose up first and (then) died” (56, 15–17). From the Christians’ perspective, this means that they, possessing the spiritual seed, already live and must beware of not becoming spiritually dead (52, 15–17)— physical death does not count. Another reason is the idea of mutual participation of Christ and the individual “christ.”26 Since the individual’s pneumatic rebirth or redemption is the main interest in all the rituals, the corresponding events in Jesus’ life are also seen as redemptive acts. The “laying down of his life” does not

of the ’Valentinians’ (NHMS 60; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006), are risky. See also the discussion in Minna Heimola, Christian Identity in the Gospel of Philip (PFES 102; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 2011), 21–28. 24. As noted by Elaine Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” in John D. Turner and Anne McGuire (eds.), The Nag Hammadi Library After Fifty Years: Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 280–91; p. 286. Although the Gospel of Philip (75, 20-24) employs the baptismal metaphors of unclothing and “putting on the living man,” it does not engage in a Pauline-type paraenesis. 25. Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 229, aptly speaks of Gos. Phil.’s “playful inversion of the concepts of life and death.” 26. For the idea of “mutual participation” or “mutual share,” see Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, 90–102 (esp. p. 102). I am not convinced, however, that the “sharing” implies Christ’s role as “both Saviour and salvandus (p. 95). Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 165–69, describes much the same phenomenon in terms of conceptual blend, where the base assimilation is “The Christian as a Christ.” The blending of images and ideas is not always logical or symmetrical, and it can produce unintended side-effects. A point of comparison is Paul’s reasoning in Rom. 6:10: “The death he (sc. Christ) died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God.” Paul hardly meant that Christ’s life before crucifixion was sinful or apart from God, but in paralleling the Christ-event and the Christian’s former and new life he was seemingly making this conclusion.

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primarily refer to Jesus’ death, but describes his work and “function” in general.27 Further, it is probable that Gos. Phil. 68:26-28 should be understood in the sense that a higher element (the Savior) left Jesus before death on the cross.28 This would of course substantially diminish the “pain” of the crucifixion—a pain the baptized individual would not feel anyway, because the Savior’s death only highlights his redemptive act for the one who believes (and loves).29 There is no mention of Jesus’ suffering in this work.30 The Johannine passion redaction parallels Gos. Phil. in its avoidance of any “pain” at Jesus’ death. Jesus, the Savior, knew from the beginning what his complete mission—in the final John: the “nightly” work—would entail. At the same time, the redactor’s remarks that Jesus was distressed when faced with signs of passion and death (11:33; 12:27; 13:21), even though these were probably meant to alert the readers, seem to indicate that Jesus was wholly involved in the passion story and not just observing what happened to his “body.” A further similarity is the use of puns and witty reversals of images—in John: the “glorifying” and “lifting up” language—which turn the factual death into something else, and less disturbing. Such devices may reveal a referring coping strategy and a way of rationalizing. The melting together of salvation-historical events—in John: Jesus’ death, resurrection and ascension—is a further uniting feature. However, the decisive difference remains that for the redactor of John, the death of Jesus is more real than it is for Gos. Phil.

27. Gos. Phil. 53, 6-9: “It was not only when he [Christ] appeared that he voluntarily laid down his life, but he voluntarily laid down his life from the very day the world came into being.” The Johannine passion redactor might have appreciated this idea in his reinterpretation of the prologue. 28. See Ismo Dunderberg, “Filippuksen evankeliumi (NHK II,3): Johdanto, käännös ja selitykset,” in Ismo Dunderberg and Antti Marjanen (eds.) Nag Hammadin kätketty viisaus (Helsinki: WSOY, 2001), 173–207: p. 176; less clearly Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, 98. Heimola, Christian Identity in the Gospel of Philip, 46–49, finds this interpretation possible but uncertain. 29. Gos. Phil. 61, 36–62, 5 connects interestingly faith and love: “Faith receives, love gives.” This rather isolated idea (but cf. 53, 15-18; 63, 32-64, 5) may have some connection to Johannine theology (1 John and the final Gospel) although similar ideas are also found in Paul. 30. However, there are Valentinian texts where Jesus’ and the believers’ suffering is affirmed. The Treatise on the Resurrection (NHC 1, 4) combines Rom. 8:17 and Eph. 2:5-6 creatively: “Then, indeed, as the Apostle said, ‘We suffered with him, and we arose with him, and we went to heaven with him.’” (Treat. Res. 45, 24-28) Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, 127, finds that the Eastern and Western branches of Valentinianism differ on the issue of Jesus’ passion; in the Western systems “there is a growing tendency to reject the notion that the Saviour suffered, and to assert that the spirituals because of their inherent nature did not require redemption.”

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Two related elements in Gos. Phil. justify a comparison with the Johannine predecessor’s concerns as presented in Chapter 7 in this book: the notions of (holy, heavenly) seed and procreation, including marital imagery. I think there exists an important overall connection, but a closer look reveals that the Johannine predecessor has not developed the metaphorical fields in the same direction as Gos. Phil. In Jn 7:42, the Christ promised in the Hebrew Bible is said to be “the descendant of David” (ἐκ τοῦ σπέρματος Δαυὶδ), and in 8:33.37 the Jews are said to be “Abraham’s seed” (σπέρμα Ἀβραάμ). While these references only articulate a commonplace, the nuptial imagery in Jn 2–4 is more conspicuous, but its main point, as we have seen, is missionary. Only in 1 Jn 3:9 does the σπέρμα have a more mythological reference. The prologue’s reference to those “born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God” (Jn 1:13) would seem to be the same as in 1 Jn 3:9, but the term σπέρμα is not used. In the early second-century Gospel of Thomas, there is no reference to Jesus’ death, nor could there be. Everything in that document is about the living Jesus (Gos. Thom., incipit) who is the Son of the Living One (saying 37), and about the elect children of the living Father (saying 50).31 The Johannine predecessor’s image of Jesus as living with his Father in all eternity (Jn 1:1-2), appearing in flesh (1:14) and after his mission (12:44-50) returning to the Father (17:6-8) is certainly compatible with Gos. Thom., where his appearance in flesh (Gos. Thom. 28) and departure (Gos. Thom. 12) but not death is envisaged. Thus, it is precarious to interpret “the living Jesus” as the resurrected Christ.32 Rather, the history of Jesus is understood here in the same way as in the Johannine predecessor. A heavenly, eternal being manifested himself on earth and then returned to where he was. Like Jesus, his disciples should be “passers-by” (saying 42), temporary visitors in the material world. According to Thomas, the union with Christ or God is found within oneself, in one’s inner and primordial light (e.g., sayings 24 and 70). What the bridal chamber (saying 75) means here is not clear. It seems to describe the “entering” into the father’s kingdom (cf. Gos. Thom. 76), which may involve a spiritual union with Christ.33 Another way of expressing the union is found in logion 108: “He who will drink from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become he, and the things that are hidden will be revealed to him.” The metaphor of drinking water comes close to Jn 4: 14 and 7:37-39. In each case Jesus is the giver of the water that grants eternal life or immortality, but in Thomas the connection between giver and receiver is much more intimate: likeness and virtually full identity.

31. The attribute “living” is also given Jesus in Gos. Thom. 52; 59; 111 and Father in 3; 37. 32. I concur with Patterson’s interpretation in terms of immortality. See Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins, 83. 33. April D. DeConick, The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation: With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 233, thinks that Gos.Thom. 75 may imply what the encratic Acts of Thomas makes implicit: Jesus is the “true husband” whose “bridal chamber” the believer will enter.

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Since the thought-world of Gos. Thom. is dualistic, there is no horizontal line, no chronological “then and now” perspective on Christian life as in the Pauline tradition. Instead, there is a vertical, timeless or primordial “light vs. darkness” opposition, where a baptismal fate-relation with Christ cannot be thematized. The only timeline is between “seeking” and “finding.” The grandiosity that marks a complete union or identification with Christ is articulated in the opening sayings of the document: the one who keeps seeking until he finds the true meaning of Jesus’ revelation, will not only not experience death but will “rule over the all” (Gos. Thom. 2-3). One of the ideational roots of such grandiosity is the common (Platonic, Stoic, or other) ascetic ideal of mastering one’s body and emotions, as in Jas 3:3-4 or more extremely as the self-made eunuchs in Mt. 19:12. There are ascetic traits in Thomas, though these should not be exaggerated.34 Whatever the practice of the Thomasine “solitary” may have been, their ideology was fueled by identification with a divine master mind that rules over the whole material universe. This rule is basically aggressive, because the goal of the mastery is to abolish the material reality. A simple denial of Jesus’ death is explicit in the Qur’an (4:157-158): “And [for] their saying, ‘Indeed, we have killed the Messiah, Jesus, the son of Mary, the messenger of Allah.’ And they did not kill him, nor did they crucify him; but [another] was made to resemble him to them. And indeed, those who differ over it are in doubt about it. They have no knowledge of it except the following of assumption. And they did not kill him, for certain. Rather, Allah raised him to Himself. And ever is Allah Exalted in Might and Wise.”35 In later Islamic tradition, the favorite substitute for Jesus was—not surprisingly—Judas, as narrated vividly in the medieval Gospel of Barnabas,36 but many would leave the question

34. See Risto Uro, “Is Thomas an encratite gospel?” in Risto Uro (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (Studies of New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 140–162. Uro suggests cautiously that the ascetic features may reflect a later layer in Thomas. According to Uro, “there are good reasons to think that the composer of the main bulk of the Thomasine sayings represented a much more ambiguous and less encratite attitude than is usually considered. This ‘Thomas’ would hardly have approved the later, radically encratite writings written in his name” (p. 162). 35. I quote the modern Sahih (Saheeh) International translation, see, for example, The Quranic Arabic Corpus project website (http://corpus.quran.com) which offers an annotated Arabic text and several translations. 36. David Sox, The Gospel of Barnabas (London and Sydney: George Allen & Unwin, 1984). The story of Jesus’ rescue and the crucifixion of Judas is narrated in chs 215–217. It was also Judas’s body that was stolen by the disciples, ch. 218. The Gospel of Barnabas has of course only reception-historical value as an example of late Gospel harmonies and early Jewish-Christian-Muslim encounters. However, the question Jesus’ mother asks (in ch. 219) may give an idea of how the early Johannine Christians might have felt about the passion story: “Tell me, my son, wherefore God, having given you power to raise the dead, suffered you to die . . .?”

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unanswered.37 It is futile to seek for deeper psychological motives for the denial of Jesus’ crucifixion; it is part of the Islamic tradition. More interesting is that the denial has roots in forms of early (Jewish) Christianity dating back to at least the second century. In the Apocalypse of Peter, a (late) second-century Nag Hammadi document (NHC VII, 3), we have a peculiar account of the crucifixion (81:15-24). Peter sees a strange vision of the crucifixion, asking Jesus, “What do I see, O Lord, that it is you yourself whom they take, and that you are grasping me? Or who is this one, glad and laughing on the tree? And is it another one whose feet and hands they are striking?” Quite right, Jesus explains, the glad and laughing one is the living Jesus; the one nailed on the tree is “the substitute being put to shame, the one who came into being in his likeness.” Church father Irenaeus, also in the second century, attributes to Basilides another version of the crucifixion, where the substitute for Jesus is picked up from the Markan (15:21) or Matthean (27:32) passion story: “He [Christ] appeared on earth as a man and performed miracles. Thus, he himself did not suffer. Rather, a certain Simon of Cyrene was compelled to carry his cross for him. It was he [Simon] who was ignorantly and erroneously crucified, being transfigured by him [Jesus], so that he [Simon] might be thought to be Jesus. Moreover, Jesus assumed the form of Simon and stood by, laughing at them.”38 A similar tradition is attested in the Second Treatise of the Great Seth (NHC VII, 2). We should not dismiss such fanciful retellings of the crucifixion scene as imagination run wild, or as a docetic aberration. When Jesus rebukes Peter and calls him Satan in Mk 8:33 after the first passion prediction, or when Matthew (26:53) entertains the idea that Jesus could have been saved from death by God’s angels, the problem is really the same as the Johannine predecessor faced: how could the Giver of life suffer death? While a straightforward denial may not be attested in first-century sources, there were more sublime ways of doing away with that difficulty in those circles where one’s Christian identity could not embrace the death of Jesus. In addition to the Johannine predecessor, Q and Thomas show the obvious strategy: not telling about the crucifixion. Paul’s opponents in his Corinthian correspondence would make a highly interesting comparison with the Johannine predecessor, but the problems in

37. A typical modern treatment is Louay Fatoohi, The Mystery of the Crucifixion: The Attempt to Kill Jesus in the Qur’an, the New Testament, and Historical Sources (Birmingham: Luna Plena Publishing, 2008). The “real story of the Crucifixion” is reconstructed as follows (p. 134): “When Jesus realized that his life was in danger he went into hiding. This could have happened before the arrest of the man who was mistaken for him. Later God took Jesus to somewhere in the heaven where he continued to live until his natural death.” 38. Iren. Haer. 1.24.4. The English translation is James Kelhoffer’s (Conceptions of the “Gospel” and Legitimation in Early Christianity, 80). Kelhoffer has corrected B. Layton’s translation. He also notes (p. 80 n. 11) that the Lukan parallel to the mention of Simon of Cyrene (Lk. 23:26) is a less likely source behind the story. The motif of Jesus’ variable appearance is typical of docetic views, but here Jesus even transfigures poor Simon.

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identifying their theological stance are well known. It is not clear whether the opponents are the same in the two extant letters.39 Also, distinguishing between Paul’s polemical statements and the opponents’ actual beliefs is difficult, and it is not always clear whether Paul’s arguments are responses to any actual dispute in the community. With due caution, however, we can discern one faction in 1 Cor. 1:12; 3:1-9, which cherished Apollos as their leading figure. Luke, writing as I assume some half a century after Paul, still seems to know the reputation of Apollos as an eloquent Jewish missionary from Alexandria (Acts 18:24-28). Part of the story of Apollos in Acts may well have been deduced from 1 Cor. (which I think Luke knew), but the question of baptism in this context is interesting because Luke continues to contrast John’s water baptism and the baptism in Jesus’ name in Acts 19:1-7.40 In 1 Corinthians, too, the question of baptism is vital, and we learn that some people had received baptism on behalf of the dead (1 Cor. 15:29). Obviously, baptism was then considered the only necessary ritual for gaining eternal life. Other Corinthian controversies where the same faction may have been involved include the nature of true “wisdom” (1 Cor. 1:18-31) and the freedom to eat food consecrated to pagan gods (8:1-4). The two issues go together in that Paul

39. I will not discuss here in detail the classic but now mostly rejected work by Walter Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth. Schmithals’s thesis of a one-front Gnostic opposition against Paul in 1-2 Cor. was rejected by Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians (Studies of New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1987); I refer to this slightly edited version of the German original Die Gegner des Paulus im 2. Korintherbrief: Studien zur religiösen Propaganda in der Spätantike (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1964). Georgi’s conclusion is that “the opponents in 1 Cor. . . . were residents of the community. Both groups believed in Jesus Christ, but the adversaries in 1 Cor. were Gnostics, and those of 2 Cor. were shaped by Hellenistic-Jewish Apologetics” (p. 317). However, Georgi concedes (ibid.) that the two groups of opponents in 1 and 2 Cor. have in common that “both Hellenistic-Jewish Apologetics and Jewish speculative mysticism, which later turned into Gnosticism, were parts of or at least indebted to the Jewish wisdom movement. Corinthian Gnosticism either originated in Jewish Gnosticism or was connected with it through some pagan links. In any case there were relationships between Apologetics and Gnosticism.” In these days, scholars are much more discriminative than Georgi and especially Schmithals in speaking of Gnosticism. In the following discussion, I focus on 1 Cor. Richard Horsley, “Gnosis in Corinth: 1 Cor 8:1-6,” NTS 27 (1981), 32–51, makes a good case for the hypothesis that Paul’s adversaries in that letter are Hellenistic Jewish Christians who advocated a Wisdom (Sophia) theology. 40. I hesitate to rely on Acts 18:24-28, where it is stated that Apollos, like the converts in 19:1-7, only knew the baptism of John. That Apollos had been “instructed in the way of the Lord” would in that case be an odd description and his being taught “the new way” by Priscilla and Aquila seems rather a conversion. However, Luke may have known that Apollos was involved in disputes concerning baptism, and his emphasis in Acts 19:1-7 on the spiritual gifts that the “right” baptism through Paul brought about could serve as a subtle critique of the “Apollos party.”

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seems to quote his opponents’ slogans about “knowledge” or “wisdom” that makes them confident about eating idol food. If this connection is allowed, the leap to liberal attitudes concerning other pagan practices dealt with in 1 Cor. may not be too long, which may then make understandable the apostle’s outburst that his audience are still “infants in Christ” (1 Cor. 3:1). Whether or not (probably not) Paul meant the infantile grandiosity of children living in a symbiotic relation to the omnipotent parent figure, his further frustrated remarks on the Corinthians’ selfsufficiency seem to describe precisely such an attitude: “All of you, no doubt, have everything you could desire. You have come into your fortune already. You have come to your kingdom; then you might share it with us!” (1 Cor. 4:8) Part of the apostle’s annoyance seems to be that he is not the omnipotent parent—but who is? If Paul’s previous teaching has left any mark on the community, the parent should be Christ—but what kind of Christ? There are indications that the opponents have understood Christ as a pneumatic entity to such an extent that the Spirit and all the spiritual gifts have taken the place that Paul would rather reserve—as he does in 1 Cor. 2:8; Gal. 2:19; 6:14; Rom. 6:4—for the crucified and risen Jesus.41 If we are justified to see this much of Paul’s polemic in 1 Cor. as directed against a single front, then perhaps the discussion about Jesus’ resurrection in the same letter should be seen as occasioned by the same opposition. As 1 Cor. 15:12 makes plain, there were those in the community who denied the resurrection of the dead. As many commentators conclude, the Corinthians’ denial of resurrection was not a denial of any notion of resurrection but of the dead body’s resurrection. What they could imagine was a spiritual resurrection. Paul does his best to provide a compromise by introducing the idea of a spiritual body, which does not concern us here. The crucial point is that the Corinthian opposition’s belief that they had already entered the kingdom—and all the spiritual gifts associated with it—would entail that they have already experienced a spiritual resurrection, or whatever they preferred to call it. Since Jesus’ resurrection entails his death, it seems that Paul’s adversaries would have doubted that, too. It is then logical that Paul argues in 1 Cor. 15:1-11 precisely for the factuality of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Although the reconstruction of the views of Paul’s opponents in 1 Cor. is not waterproof, I think there are enough elements in common with the Johannine predecessor to claim an ideological affinity: an interest in “wisdom,” the stress on baptism and the Spirit, the notions of perfection and freedom, and the denial of “resurrection” in a bodily sense. Many of these traits are also found in the Gospel of Thomas.42 Psychologically, the key observation is that this kind of early Christian

41. 1 Cor. 12-14 is clearly Paul’s corrective to what he thought an over-emphasis on certain spiritual gifts. 42. Cf. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins, 258: “Even though one should not press the point as far as saying Paul’s opponents in 1 Corinthians were Thomas Christians, the Gospel of Thomas does provide some basic insights into the potential of the sayings tradition to produce precisely the sort of views Paul was combating in Corinth.” Patterson suggests (ibid.) also that “Paul may have come to reject the tradition of Jesus’

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spirituality is marked by grandiosity: an experience of participation in the divine that grants the believer a share of its omnipotence. From Paul’s point of view, this attitude showed that the Corinthians were immature and childish. Was this also the Johannine passion redactor’s opinion about his predecessor’s theology?

Trauma and Loss of Grandiosity in Johannine Christianity In the introductory chapter, I referred to Crossan’s redactional hypothesis, which in some respects comes close to what I have argued in this study. By now, I hope to have indicated that it was much more than “pressure from groups accepting the synoptic gospels as the dominant Christian model”43 that necessitated the Johannine passion redactor’s work. Surely some pressure existed, but how pervasive it was is difficult to assess as we do not know how well the community members were informed of the synoptic gospels. That they were critically aware of the death-resurrection pattern is likely in any case, as Jesus’ bold words about being “resurrection and life” in the Lazarus story show. If the Markan and Matthean texts were known to the redactor through oral tradition, it is also likely that some community members were involved in their transmission. However, the pressure created by a comparison with “the others’ books” was not just a question of whether or not to imitate the literary model. The passion-resurrection story would inevitably change the image of the faith-object, and consequently, the community’s identity. Inherent in the identity reflected in the predecessor gospel was grandiosity. Unlike most of humanity (“the world”), the believers were born of God, immortal like the manifested Logos of the universe, and morally perfect. The farewell tradition in John 14 and 15–17 shows fractures in the inflated self-understanding, as the community is getting increasingly aware of its loneliness in a hostile world and is longing for a more “real” unity with the departed Christ. It is therefore not surprising that the present eschatology of the predecessor gospel gives way to a fervent apocalyptic expectation already in 1–3 John: in the center of the expectation is a union with the coming Christ, not a substitute but the “original” Christ. The final union is a transformative event: “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is” (1 Jn 3:2). To compensate for the growing anxiety, the narcissistic grandiosity still prevalent in the farewell tradition asserted itself in the hyperbolic conception of the community’s mission: “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will

sayings . . . because in the form in which he later encountered it among other missionaries to the West, its theological tendencies turned out to be unacceptable to him.” This seems unwarranted. I doubt that there was—as early as the mid-50s CE—a (literary) “form” of the sayings of Jesus that Paul could have “rejected.” 43. Crossan, The Birth of Christianity, 112.

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also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father” (Jn 14:12). But how realistic was it to compete with one who could raise a four days old, stinking corpse? At least such marvels are not told in the letters, where a much gloomier picture of the present situation is painted. The realities of life were a serious threat to the community’s grandiose self-understanding, although the presbyter still flagged for the believers’ symbiotic omnipotence, claiming that “you have conquered the evil one” (1 Jn 2:13.14)—well knowing but barely admitting that they had not (1:8.10). At this point, a development-psychological perspective may be helpful. According to Margaret Schönberger Mahler’s separation-individuation theory of child development, the “autistic” phase (the first few weeks) is followed by a symbiotic phase (until about five months of age), after which a process of psychological separation takes on (until 3 years).44 In the symbiotic phase, the infant experiences being part of an omnipotent “dual unity” within one common boundary against the outer world. The infantile needs are satisfied by an external but not yet separate object. When the toddler, early in the separation phase, rapidly learns new skills and begins to conquer the outside world, “narcissim is at its peak.”45 However, the world will soon disclose the limits of the infant’s mastering, which normally leads to a more realistic view of one’s place in the world. Elizabeth Ellis, elaborating on Mahler’s model, dubs this development a gradual loss of grandiosity, and she then goes on to interpret the whole lifespan of human beings from the same perspective.46 The child’s loss of his or her omnipotence is just a beginning of a life-long process, where adulthood and coming to age are marked by a growing recognition of one’s finitude and mortality. Could this developmental view be applied to the lifespan of a group of people? There, of course, things are different, because a social and ideological movement is not by necessity destined to die out. Christianity has survived two millennia, and however we construe the later history of Johannine Christianity, by the time of the

44. Margaret S. Mahler, Fred Pine and Anni Bergman, The Psychological Birth of a Human Infant: Symbiosis and Individuation (New York: Basic Books, 1975). I avoid speaking of individuation, because the term is easily associated with a Jungian view. Mahler later discarded the term “autistic” phase. 45. Mahler, The Psychological Birth of a Human Infant, 71. 46. Elizabeth M. Ellis, “Developmental Stages in the Giving Up of Grandiosity,” The Psychotherapy Patient 5 (1989), 45–60; also published in E. Mark Stern (ed.), Psychotherapy and the Grandiose Patient (The Psychology Patient Series; New York and London: The Haworth Press, 1989), 45–60. The stages Ellis discerns after Mahler’s three initial stages are the recognition of omnipotence, adolescence, and the big fall, first encounters with compromise, recognition of one’s mortality, giving up one’s needs to something outside the self, acceptance of one’s death. Grandiosity does not diminish linearly but in cycles, as it were; thus, Ellis compares the adolescent to a toddler who feels being indestructible. The life-cycle model has become part of a popular psychology, where different ages have their typical “crises” that call for new coping strategies.

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final Gospel it has already persisted two or three generations. There is, however, an analogy to human development. If the predecessor gospel adhered to a grandiose image of a “dual unity” of the omnipotent Christ and the empowered believer, the presbyter’s theological stance appears to be somewhat, but not much more realistic. In any case, he recognized the limits of the pneumatic claims to moral perfection. His Christ is also virtually vulnerable, as he succumbed to the reality of death. In the final Gospel, the vulnerability of Jesus is much more palpable. The wound of the crucified and risen Jesus is its outward mark, but there is also a change in the psychological characterization of the object of faith. Jesus is portrayed as troubled and weeping, and in the second farewell address, as we have seen in the previous chapter, the psychological portrait becomes even more complex. How then is the death-resurrection pattern more realistic than the idea of immortality? Patterson may have grasped the anthropological and psychological logic when he explains why the suffering and death of Jesus were important to Ignatius, the early second-century martyr bishop: “Here was a story to match his own. Because Jesus suffered, he would suffer. Because Jesus died, he would die. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, he would be raised as well.”47 Now the point is not that only a martyr knows he will die, although many Christians were aware of the possibility of martyrdom. Rather, the realism is in the awareness that humans actually die. The death-resurrection pattern is capable of accepting this fact. The realism in the resurrection part is debatable, but as an ideological coping strategy the pattern is still more realistic than the idea of immortality, which renders death, in all its brutality, as something unreal, not really existing. It is usually suggested that Johannine Christianity vanished as a separate movement sometime after its last literary remains, but this may be a matter of definition. The Christianity represented by the final Gospel of John lived within the greater “Petrine” church and still continues to exist as a source of inspiration whenever the Gospel is read. The dissident movement’s later fates are harder to trace. There are interesting similarities between Paul’s gnosticizing adversaries, early Johannine tradition, the tradition behind the letter of James, as well as Thomasine traditions. These similarities are not compelling evidence for a tradition-historical continuum, because some of the connections are only found between two or three of the mentioned traditions—for example, the term logos in a pregnant theological or christological sense connects the Johannine prologue and the letter of James, while Paul’s terminology in 1–2 Cor. suggests that the opponents spoke of gnosis and Sophia. However, if the hypothesis that Paul’s rivals in Corinth were Hellenistic Jewish Christians is correct, the figure of James becomes interesting. It seems that at an early stage the Thomasine community referred to James as a figure of authority (Gos. Thom. 12), but later chose Thomas as its ideological patron48—not the

47. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins, 86. 48. See Antti Marjanen, “Thomas and Jewish religious practices,” in Risto Uro (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads, 163–82. Marjanen’s tentative conclusion is that “the figure of

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brother of Jesus (which is a fleshly bond) but something more intimate, his “twin.” In this light the polemical addition from the Johannine passion redactor about the unbelief of Jesus’ brothers (Jn 7:3-10) might prove significant, because in the Johannine predecessor the brothers of Jesus—though not particularly James— appear in a positive or neutral light. Such a connection between the pre-passion John, the early Thomas tradition and the letter of James, together with the course taken later by Thomas, might give a hint of the direction the Johannine dissidents took; but to follow the route long into the second century is to go beyond the evidence. When Valentinian Christians and other movements beside the more “mainstream” churches develop ideas familiar to the Johannine dissidents, their starting point may already have been the final Gospel of John—which, of course, embodied most of the early John, too. Thus, reading carefully the present Gospel one could find elements that the passion redactor did not fully share but let pass into the Gospel—just as one could find useful ideas in Paul’s letters,49 especially when Paul had adopted his adversaries’ concepts. We cannot tell to what extent, if any, the Johannine schism was traumatic to those who left the community. The community was from its beginning a sectarian and cultic movement50 that had divorced from Judaism but for a long time must have had close contacts with its mother religion. That a new movement is divided into new splinter groups is nothing unusual. The dissidents may well have experienced the “crisis” as liberating: now they were free to realize their own spiritual vision. But sooner or later, and probably quite soon, they had to react to the new gospel that was partly theirs but included the story of Jesus’ death. Resurrection was not a major problem (cf. Jn 11:25), and the image of ascension or return to the Father was still there in the new gospel—but Jesus’ corporeal death

James, the hierarchical understanding of Christian leadership, and the observance of Jewish religious practices belonged together and represented one stage within the religious development of the Thomasine community, whereas the figure of Thomas, the idea of ‘masterless’ Christian self-identity, and a critical attitude toward Jewish religious practices constituted a new option” (pp. 181–82). See also Risto Uro, “Who Will Be Our Leader?” 462–77. Uro finds several indications that Gos.Thom. 12 derives from a group that took James’ primacy seriously, while the following saying (13) redefines the idea of leadership and critiques the hierarchical formation within Christian communities. 49. Cf. Elaine Pagels, The Gnostic Paul: Gnostic Exegesis of Paul’s Letters (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975). 50. It is not clear whether the Johannine movement, or some other early Christian movement, should be defined as sect or cult. See W. W. Meissner, The cultic Origins of Christianity: The Dynamics of religious Development (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 2000), 33–37. In his discussion of the Johannine community, Meissner uses both concepts (pp. 133–45). Kåre Sigvald Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism in Perspective: A Sociological, Historical and Comparative Analysis of Temple and Social Relationships in the Gospel of John, Philo and Qumran (NovTSup 119; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005) finds that in many respects the Johannine community can be seen as a cult.

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was another matter. As we have seen, Valentinians—as in the Gospel of Philip— were capable of interpreting Jesus’ death, but this was a later invention. There were obviously several ways to counter the scandal of Jesus’ death on the market by the beginning of the second century. One path for the Johannine schismatics might well have been a possessionist view of Jesus’ baptism: the Savior took on the body of Jesus at the baptism but returned before the crucifixion. There may also have been a more radical option, as witnessed by Basilides, the Apocalypse of Peter, and later by the Gospel of Barnabas and the Qu’ran: neither the Savior nor Jesus was crucified. Or perhaps—we cannot exclude this possibility either—some of the dissidents or their offspring could find a home in the majority church, where some of the gnosticizing ideas, tamed but still effective, became part of “mainstream” Christianity.51 For the community of the presbyter and then of the final Gospel, the schism may have been more traumatic, because they too had adhered to a gospel where Jesus simply disappeared and, as the fragmentary farewell traditions implied, ascended to his Father. Now they had to deal with a new story of Jesus and face not only the Baptist’s testimony in the context of Jesus and the Spirit, but also the Beloved Disciple’s testimony concerning Jesus’ death. Since the presbyter had already stressed the atoning effect of Jesus’ blood, the whole story was probably no major obstacle to those who had remained on the presbyter’s side. The final Gospel’s orientation toward the larger church, modifying but not abandoning the community’s sense of specialness, suggests a reconstructive coping strategy. This “ecumenical” turn, the recognition and acceptance of belonging in a larger community where one’s special interests were not the only legitimate ones, also means a diminished claim to a grandiose self-sufficiency. While we do not hear of a separate Johannine group in later history, the contribution of this group of Christians to the larger church, especially through the “spiritual” Gospel they left behind, may be worth the partial loss of grandiosity they once experienced. The primary hermeneutical question, after two millennia of Christian existence in the real world, is whether we think this partial loss is enough.

51. The idea, expressed with slightly different nuances, that God became a human being in Christ so that humans could become “gods” is attested in early Christian apologists (Justin Martyr) and many church fathers from the second century (Irenaeus) and on. A cognate idea can already be gleaned from Jn 10:34-35 and 1 Jn 4:2. Would that not meet the ideological demands of some of the dissidents who were not interested in complex mythologies?

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INDEX OF SUBJECTS Acts of John 158 n.49 Acts of Thomas 206 n.33 anointing/ χ ρ ῖ σ μ α 53, 102–105, 151, 158, 159 n.53, 203 anthropology 72, 155, 157, 158, 159 n.53, 213 Apocalypse of Peter 208, 215 Apocryphon of James 202 apologists 36 n.37 assumption, ascension 12–15, 19–20, 68 n.49, 70, 112, 134–5, 186, 192, 205, 214

ε ὐ α γ γ έ λ ι ο ν 9 n.29 eucharist 52, 74, 89, 137–9, 189 n.56, 190–1, 193, 194 n.72, 198, 200, 204 “Evangelist” 25, 64, 77 n.1, 111, 115 n.31, 118

“Balkanization” of Johannine studies (Carson) 5 baptism 10, 32, 52, 60, 89–90, 109–10, 146–7, 151, 158, 189–90, 200–1, 203–4, 209, 215 becoming 2, 6 n.16, 82 Beloved Disciple 4, 29 n.6, 50–2, 55 n.103, 66, 77–100, 118 n.41, 126, 171, 215 betrothal scene 152 Birkat ha-minim 139 n.43 birthing imagery 110, 113 n.27, 147, 153, 155–6, 182, 203 bridal chamber 206

Gethsemane 5 n.15, 15, 45, 48, 117, 140–2, 151, 172, 191 glory, glorification 48, 58, 65–6, 69–70, 72, 74, 107, 114, 129–132, 134–5, 185–7 Gospel of Barnabas 207, 215 Gospel of Luke 9 n.30, 19–20, 28, 43; see also Luke and John Gospel of Matthew 8 n.25, 18–19, 28, 202 Gospel of Peter 5 n.13, 182 n.39 Gospel of Philip 159, 203–6, 215 Gospel of Signs (Fortna) 3 n.6 Gospel of Thomas 15–16, 170, 206–7, 210 grandiosity 195, 202 n.19, 207, 210, 212, 215

Caiaphas 40–1, 47–9 chain of life 63, 82–3, 87, 153 coping 195–200, 205, 212 n.46, 213–15 crisis 24, 195–8, 214 death of Jesus 4, 11, 112, 117, 139, 160, 190, 199–211 denial of death 122 n.1, 132, 142, 200, 207–8, 210 docetic christology 74, 117, 144–5, 158 n.49, 184, 208

farewell discourse 4 n.11, 166–194 farewell tradition 4–5, 29, 51 n.91, 130, 188–90, 192, 211 footwashing 45, 90, 172–3, 188–90, 193–4, 198 future eschatology 24, 54, 118, 184 n.41

high christology 43, 52, 59, 108, 112, 196 ideation 19, 22–3, 35, 46, 58, 78–9, 88, 99, 124, 144, 176 n.23 Ignatius 213 incarnation 74, 75 n.72, 93, 169, 192 Irenaeus 208 irony 37 n.41, 41, 114, 120, 134, 165 n.67, 183, 184

Index of Subjects James the brother of Jesus 15, 213 “Johannine theology” 128–9 “John and the Synoptics” 6, 20, 27–9 John the Baptist 4, 5 n.12, 10, 30, 41, 58, 78, 145–7, 201 Josephus’s Against Apion 68 n.49 Justin Martyr 155 n.37, 215 n.51 “Lamb of God” 32, 44, 50, 78, 88 n.37, 134 n.26 Letter of James 39, 60, 156–8, 202–3 Letters of John 25 n.73, 50 n.90, 50–5, 75, 89–90, 99–100, 136, 144, 154, 159–60, 176, 205 n.29 λ ό γ ο ς σ π ε ρ μ α τ ι κ ό ς 155 Lucian’s Nigrinus 171 Luke and John 35–43, 102–4, 188 n.55 Μ α ρ ά ν α θ ά 189 n.56 martyr 96–7, 132, 180 n.32, 187 n.51, 213 messianic secret 17 narcissism 195, 197, 200–1, 212 narrative criticism 21, 22 n.60 Offenbarungsreden (Bultmann) 3 1 Enoch 12 optical illusion 29 outline of John 54, 57–8, 143–51 Paraclete 14, 53, 55, 84, 89, 123, 126–7, 173–8, 181 parousia 95 n.51, 99, 174, 181, 201 participation 178, 204, 211 passion predictions 17–18, 133, 208 patriarchal ideology 153, 183 persecution 115 n.34, 179–183, 202 possessionist christology 158 prolepsis 102, 105, 128 prologue of John 56–76, 81–3, 87, 108, 110, 130, 135, 144–5, 146, 151, 154 n.35, 159, 162, 163 n.61, 186, 192, 213 prologue of Luke 43 psychological criticism 26

231

Q Gospel 6–15, 170, 202 n.18 Qur’an 207, 215 redaction criticism 20–3, 57 n.9, 64, 143, 148 n.9, 170, 195 n.1 relecture 22–4, 53, 57, 66, 82, 113, 138, 141, 161, 172, 183–4, 192 resurrection 13–14, 17–19, 54, 70–1, 89, 91–3, 98, 126, 205, 210, 213 “resurrection and life” 104, 106–13, 118 rituals, ritualization 173, 203, 204 secondary orality 28–9, 34 n.30, 35, 102 n.5, 123 sect and cult 214 n.50 seed 87, 110, 151–60, 204, 206 Semeia Source (Bultmann) 3, 68 n.52, 105 n.12, 146 n.5, 160 Sermon on the Mount 20, 37 n.42 “signs” 3, 34 n.25, 46, 57, 69, 71 n.56, 80, 114, 124, 144–6, 160 Son of Man 9–10, 17, 60–3, 69, 132–6, 138–9, 145 n.4, 192 synchrony and diachrony 21–3, 171 Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs 167 Thomas in John 50, 53 n.98, 84, 91 n.41, 92–3, 97–9, 115–16, 164, 173 n.17 three-world model 22 n.60, 97 token 171 trauma 132, 195–9, 211 Treatise on the Resurrection 205 n.30 “two-level drama” (Martyn) 139–40 two-source theory 6, 17, 37 union with Christ 206–7, 211 Valentinians

152–3, 201, 203–4,

59, 203 n.22, 23, 215

Wisdom of Solomon 171 Wisdom tale(s) and motifs 8 n.25, 11, 15, 73–4, 128 n.11, 148 n.11, 159, 163–4, 174, 177–8, 209 n.39, 210 “work” 70, 106–7, 113–14, 128, 129 n.14, 160–2