Pierre Grelot, on the other hand, has pointed out that the figure of the second brother is quite crucial, and he is therefore of the opinion-rightly, in my judgment-that the most accurate designation would be the parable of the two brothers. This relates directly to the situation which prompted the parable, which Luke 15:1f. presents as follows: "Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him. And the Pharisees and the scribes murmured, saying, 'This man receives sinners and eats with them.'" Here we meet two groups, two "brothers": tax collectors and sinners on one hand, Pharisees and scribes on the other. Jesus responds with three parables: the parable of the lost sheep and the ninety-nine who remained at home; the parable of the lost drachma; and finally he begins anew, saying: "A man had two sons" (15:11). The story is about both sons.

In recounting this parable, the Lord is invoking a tradition that reaches way back into the past, for the motif of the two brothers runs through the entire Old Testament. Beginning with Cain and Abel, it continues down through Ishmael and Isaac to Esau and Jacob, only to be reflected once more in a modified form in the behavior of the eleven sons of Jacob toward Joseph. The history of those chosen by G.o.d is governed by a remarkable dialectic between pairs of brothers, and it remains as an unresolved question in the Old Testament. In a new hour of G.o.d's dealings in history, Jesus took up this motif again and gave it a new twist. In Matthew there is a text about two brothers that is related to our parable: one brother says he wants to do the father's will, but does not actually carry it out; the second says no to the father's will, but afterward he repents and carries out the task he had been given to do (cf. Mt 21:2832). Here too it is the relationship between sinners and Pharisees that is at issue; here too the text is ultimately an appeal to say Yes once more to the G.o.d who calls us.

Let us now attempt to follow the parable step by step. The first figure we meet is that of the prodigal son, but right at the beginning we also see the magnanimity of the father. He complies with the younger son's wish for his share of the property and divides up the inheritance. He gives freedom. He can imagine what the younger son is going to do, but he lets him go his way.

The son journeys "into a far country." The Church Fathers read this above all as interior estrangement from the world of the father-the world of G.o.d-as interior rupture of relation, as the great abandonment of all that is authentically one's own. The son squanders his inheritance. He just wants to enjoy himself. He wants to scoop life out till there is nothing left. He wants to have "life in abundance" as he understands it. He no longer wants to be subject to any commandment, any authority. He seeks radical freedom. He wants to live only for himself, free of any other claim. He enjoys life; he feels that he is completely autonomous.

Is it difficult for us to see clearly reflected here the spirit of the modern rebellion against G.o.d and G.o.d's law? The leaving behind of everything we once depended on and the will to a freedom without limits? The Greek word used in the parable for the property that the son dissipates means "essence" in the vocabulary of Greek philosophy. The prodigal dissipates "his essence," himself.

At the end it is all gone. He who was once completely free is now truly a slave-a swineherd, who would be happy to be given pig feed to eat. Those who understand freedom as the radically arbitrary license to do just what they want and to have their own way are living in a lie, for by his very nature man is part of a shared existence and his freedom is shared freedom. His very nature contains direction and norm, and becoming inwardly one with this direction and norm is what freedom is all about. A false autonomy thus leads to slavery: In the meantime history has taught us this all too clearly. For Jews the pig is an unclean animal, which means that the swineherd is the expression of man's most extreme alienation and dest.i.tution. The totally free man has become a wretched slave.

At this point the "conversion" takes place. The prodigal son realizes that he is lost-that at home he was free and that his father's servants are freer than he now is, who had once considered himself completely free. "He went into himself," the Gospel says (Lk 15:17). As with the pa.s.sage about the "far country," these words set the Church Fathers thinking philosophically: Living far away from home, from his origin, this man had also strayed far away from himself. He lived away from the truth of his existence.

His change of heart, his "conversion," consists in his recognition of this, his realization that he has become alienated and wandered into truly "alien lands," and his return to himself. What he finds in himself, though, is the compa.s.s pointing toward the father, toward the true freedom of a "son." The speech he prepares for his homecoming reveals to us the full extent of the inner pilgrimage he is now making. His words show that his whole life is now a steady progress leading "home"-through so many deserts-to himself and to the father. He is on a pilgrimage toward the truth of his existence, and that means "homeward." When the Church Fathers offer us this "existential" exposition of the son's journey home, they are also explaining to us what "conversion" is, what sort of sufferings and inner purifications it involves, and we may safely say that they have understood the essence of the parable correctly and help us to realize its relevance for today.

The father "sees the son from far off" and goes out to meet him. He listens to the son's confession and perceives in it the interior journey that he has made; he perceives that the son has found the way to true freedom. So he does not even let him finish, but embraces and kisses him and orders a great feast of joy to be prepared. The cause of this joy is that the son, who was already "dead" when he departed with his share of the property, is now alive again, has risen from the dead; "he was lost, and is found" (Lk 15:32).

The Church Fathers put all their love into their exposition of this scene. The lost son they take as an image of man as such, of "Adam," who all of us are-of Adam whom G.o.d has gone out to meet and whom he has received anew into his house. In the parable, the father orders the servants to bring quickly "the first robe." For the Fathers, this "first robe" is a reference to the lost robe of grace with which man had been originally clothed, but which he forfeited by sin. But now this "first robe" is given back to him-the robe of the son. The feast that is now made ready they read as an image of the feast of faith, the festive Eucharist, in which the eternal festal banquet is antic.i.p.ated. To cite the Greek text literally, what the first brother hears when he comes home is "symphony and choirs"-again for the Fathers an image for the symphony of the faith, which makes being a Christian a joy and a feast.

But the kernel of the text surely does not lie in these details; the kernel is now unmistakably the figure of the father. Can we understand him? Can a father, may a father act like this? Pierre Grelot has drawn attention to the fact that Jesus is speaking here on a solidly Old Testament basis: The archetype of this vision of G.o.d the Father is found in Hosea 11:19. First the text speaks of Israel's election and subsequent infidelity: "My people abides in infidelity; they call upon Baal, but he does not help them" (Hos 11:2). But G.o.d also sees that this people is broken and that the sword rages in its cities (cf. Hos 11:6). And now the very thing that is described in our parable happens to the people: "How can I give you up, O Ephraim! How can I hand you over, O Israel!...My heart turns itself against me, my compa.s.sion grows warm and tender. I will not execute my fierce anger, I will not again destroy Ephraim; for I am G.o.d and not man, the Holy One in your midst" (Hos 11:8f.). Because G.o.d is G.o.d, the Holy One, he acts as no man could act. G.o.d has a heart, and this heart turns, so to speak, against G.o.d himself: Here in Hosea, as in the Gospel, we encounter once again the word compa.s.sion, compa.s.sion, which is expressed by means of the image of the maternal womb. G.o.d's heart transforms wrath and turns punishment into forgiveness. which is expressed by means of the image of the maternal womb. G.o.d's heart transforms wrath and turns punishment into forgiveness.

For the Christian, the question now arises: Where does Jesus Christ fit into all this? Only the Father figures in the parable. Is there no Christology in it? Augustine tried to work Christology in where the text says that the father embraced the son (cf. Lk 15:20). "The arm of the Father is the Son," he writes. He could have appealed here to Irenaeus, who referred to the Son and the Spirit as the two hands of the Father. "The arm of the Father is the Son." When he lays this arm on our shoulders as "his light yoke," then that is precisely not a burden he is loading onto us, but rather the gesture of receiving us in love. The "yoke" of this arm is not a burden that we must carry, but a gift of love that carries us and makes us sons. This is a very evocative exposition, but it is still an "allegory" that clearly goes beyond the text.

Pierre Grelot has discovered an interpretation that accords with the text and goes even deeper. He draws attention to the fact that Jesus uses this parable, along with the two preceding ones, to justify his own goodness toward sinners; he uses the behavior of the father in the parable to justify the fact that he too welcomes sinners. By the way he acts, then, Jesus himself becomes "the revelation of the one he called his Father." Attention to the historical context of the parable thus yields by itself an "implicit Christology." "His Pa.s.sion and his Resurrection reinforce this point still further: How did G.o.d show his merciful love for sinners? In that 'while we were yet sinners Christ died for us' (Rom 5:8)." "Jesus cannot enter into the narrative framework of the parable because he lives in identification with the heavenly Father and bases his conduct on the Father's. The risen Christ remains today, in this point, in the same situation as Jesus of Nazareth during the time of his earthly ministry" (pp. 228f.). Indeed: In this parable, Jesus justifies his own conduct by relating it to, and identifying it with, the Father's. It is in the figure of the father, then, that Christ-the concrete realization of the father's action-is placed right at the heart of the parable.

The older brother now makes his appearance. He comes home from working in the fields, hears feasting at home, finds out why, and becomes angry. He finds it simply unfair that this good-for-nothing, who has squandered his entire fortune-the father's property-with prost.i.tutes, should now be given a splendid feast straightaway without any period of probation, without any time of penance. That contradicts his sense of justice: The life he has spent working is made to look of no account in comparison to the dissolute past of the other. Bitterness arises in him: "Lo, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed one of your commands," he says to his father, "yet you never gave me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends" (Lk 15:29). The father goes out to meet the older brother, too, and now he speaks kindly to his son. The older brother knows nothing of the inner transformations and wanderings experienced by the younger brother, of his journey into distant parts, of his fall and his new self-discovery. He sees only injustice. And this betrays the fact that he too had secretly dreamed of a freedom without limits, that his obedience has made him inwardly bitter, and that he has no awareness of the grace of being at home, of the true freedom that he enjoys as a son. "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours" (Lk 15:31). The father explains to him the great value of sonship with these words-the same words that Jesus uses in his high-priestly prayer to describe his relationship to the Father: "All that is mine is thine, and all that is thine is mine" (Jn 17:10).

The parable breaks off here; it tells us nothing about the older brother's reaction. Nor can it, because at this point the parable immediately pa.s.ses over into reality. Jesus is using these words of the father to speak to the heart of the murmuring Pharisees and scribes who have grown indignant at his goodness to sinners (cf. Lk 15:2). It now becomes fully clear that Jesus identifies his goodness to sinners with the goodness of the father in the parable and that all the words attributed to the father are the words that he himself addresses to the righteous. The parable does not tell the story of some distant affair, but is about what is happening here and now through him. He is wooing the heart of his adversaries. He begs them to come in and to share his joy at this hour of homecoming and reconciliation. These words remain in the Gospel as a pleading invitation. Paul takes up this pleading invitation when he writes: "We beseech you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to G.o.d" (2 Cor 5:20).

On one hand, then, the parable is located quite realistically at the moment in history when Christ recounted it. At the same time, however, it points beyond the historical moment, for G.o.d's wooing and pleading continues. But to whom is the parable now addressed? The Church Fathers generally applied the two-brothers motif to the relation between Jews and Gentiles. It was not hard for them to recognize in the dissolute son who had strayed far from G.o.d and from himself an image of the pagan world, to which Jesus had now opened the door for communion with G.o.d in grace and for which he now celebrates the feast of his love. By the same token, neither was it hard for them to recognize in the brother who remained at home an image of the people of Israel, who could legitimately say: "Lo, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed one of your commands." Israel's fidelity and image of G.o.d are clearly revealed in such fidelity to the Torah.

This application to the Jews is not illegitimate so long as we respect the form in which we have found it in the text: as G.o.d's delicate attempt to talk Israel around, which remains entirely G.o.d's initiative. We should note that the father in the parable not only does not dispute the older brother's fidelity, but explicitly confirms his sonship: "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours." It would be a false interpretation to read this as a condemnation of the Jews, for which there is no support in the text.

While we may regard this application of the parable of the two brothers to Israel and the Gentiles as one dimension of the text, there are other dimensions as well. After all, what Jesus says about the older brother is aimed not simply at Israel (the sinners who came to him were Jews, too), but at the specific temptation of the righteous, of those who are "en regle," at rights with G.o.d, as Grelot puts it (p. 229). In this connection, Grelot places emphasis on the sentence "I never disobeyed one of your commandments." For them, more than anything else G.o.d is Law; they see themselves in a juridical relationship with G.o.d and in that relationship they are at rights with him. But G.o.d is greater: They need to convert from the Law-G.o.d to the greater G.o.d, the G.o.d of love. This will not mean giving up their obedience, but rather that this obedience will flow from deeper wellsprings and will therefore be bigger, more open, and purer, but above all more humble.

Let us add a further aspect that has already been touched upon: Their bitterness toward G.o.d's goodness reveals an inward bitterness regarding their own obedience, a bitterness that indicates the limitations of this obedience. In their heart of hearts, they would have gladly journeyed out into that great "freedom" as well. There is an unspoken envy of what others have been able to get away with. They have not gone through the pilgrimage that purified the younger brother and made him realize what it means to be free and what it means to be a son. They actually carry their freedom as if it were slavery and they have not matured to real sonship. They, too, are still in need of a path; they can find it if they simply admit that G.o.d is right and accept his feast as their own. In this parable, then, the Father through Christ is addressing us, the ones who never left home, encouraging us too to convert truly and to find joy in our faith.

The Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16:1931) This story once again presents us with two contrasting figures: the rich man, who carouses in his life of luxury, and the poor man, who cannot even catch the crumbs that the rich bon vivants drop from the table-according to the custom of the time, pieces of bread they used to wash their hands and then threw away. Some of the Church Fathers also cla.s.sed this parable as an example of the two-brother pattern and applied it to the relationship between Israel (the rich man) and the Church (the poor man, Lazarus), but in so doing they mistook the very different typology that is involved here. This is evident already in the very different ending. Whereas the two-brother texts remain open, ending as a question and an invitation, this story already describes the definitive end of both protagonists.

For some background that will enable us to understand this narrative, we need to look at the series of Psalms in which the cry of the poor rises before G.o.d-the poor who live out their faith in G.o.d in obedience to his commandments, but experience only unhappiness, whereas the cynics who despise G.o.d go from success to success and enjoy every worldly happiness. Lazarus belongs to the poor whose voice we hear, for example, in Psalm 44: "Thou hast made us the taunt of our neighbors, the derision and scorn of those about us.... Nay, for thy sake we are slain all the day long, and accounted as sheep for the slaughter" (Ps 44:1523; cf. Rom 8:36). The early wisdom of Israel had operated on the premise that G.o.d rewards the righteous and punishes the sinner, so that misfortune matches sin and happiness matches righteousness. This wisdom had been thrown into crisis at least since the time of the Exile. It was not just that the people of Israel as a whole suffered more than the surrounding peoples who led them into exile and oppression-in private life, too, it was becoming increasingly apparent that cynicism pays and that the righteous man is doomed to suffer in this world. In the Psalms and the later Wisdom Literature we witness the struggle to come to grips with this contradiction; we see a new effort to become "wise"-to understand life rightly, to find and understand anew the G.o.d who seems unjust or altogether absent.

One of the most penetrating texts concerning this struggle is Psalm 73, which we may regard as in some sense the intellectual backdrop of our parable. There we see the figure of the rich glutton before our very eyes and we hear the complaint of the praying Psalmist-Lazarus: "For I was envious of the arrogant, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they have no pangs; their bodies are sound and sleek. They are not in trouble as other men are; they are not stricken like other men. Therefore pride is their necklace.... Their eyes swell out with fatness.... They set their mouths against the heavens.... Therefore the people turn and praise them; and find no fault in them. And they say, 'How can G.o.d know? Is there knowledge in the Most High?'" (Ps 73:311).

The suffering just man who sees all this is in danger of doubting his faith. Does G.o.d really not see? Does he not hear? Does he not care about men's fate? "All in vain have I kept my heart clean and washed my hands in innocence. For all the day long I have been stricken, and chastened every morning. My heart was embittered" (Ps 73:13ff.). The turning point comes when the suffering just man in the Sanctuary looks toward G.o.d and, as he does so, his perspective becomes broader. Now he sees that the seeming cleverness of the successful cynics is stupidity when viewed against the light. To be wise in that way is to be "stupid and ignorant...like a beast" (Ps 73:22). They remain within the perspective of animals and have lost the human perspective that transcends the material realm-toward G.o.d and toward eternal life.

We may be reminded here of another Psalm in which a persecuted man says at the end: "May their belly be filled with good things; may their children have more than enough.... As for me, I shall behold thy face in righteousness; when I awake, I shall be satisfied with beholding thy form" (Ps 77:14f.). Two sorts of satisfaction are contrasted here: being satiated with material goods, and satisfaction with beholding "thy form"-the heart becoming sated by the encounter with infinite love. The words "when I awake" are at the deepest level a reference to the awakening into new and eternal life, but they also speak of a deeper "awakening" here in this world: Man wakes up to the truth in a way that gives him a new satisfaction here and now.

It is of this awakening in prayer that Psalm 73 speaks. For now the psalmist sees that the happiness of the cynics that he had envied so much is only "like a dream that fades when one awakes, on awaking one forgets their phantoms" (Ps 73:20). And now he recognizes real happiness: "Nevertheless I am continually with thee; thou dost hold my right hand.... Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is nothing upon earth that I desire besides thee.... But for me it is good to be near G.o.d" (Ps 73:23, 25, 28). This is not an encouragement to place our hope in the afterlife, but rather an awakening to the true stature of man's being-which does, of course, include the call to eternal life.

This has been only an apparent digression from our parable. In reality, the Lord is using this story in order to initiate us into the very process of "awakening" that is reflected in the Psalms. This has nothing to do with a cheap condemnation of riches and of the rich begotten of envy. In the Psalms that we have briefly considered all envy is left behind. The psalmist has come to see just how foolish it is to envy this sort of wealth because he has recognized what is truly good. After Jesus' Crucifixion two wealthy men make their appearance, Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, who had discovered the Lord and were in the process of "awakening." The Lord wants to lead us from foolish cleverness toward true wisdom; he wants to teach us to discern the real good. And so we have good grounds, even though it is not there in the text, to say that, from the perspective of the Psalms, the rich glutton was already an empty-hearted man in this world, and that his carousing was only an attempt to smother this interior emptiness of his. The next life only brings to light the truth already present in this life. Of course, this parable, by awakening us, at the same time summons us to the love and responsibility that we owe now to our poor brothers and sisters-both on the large scale of world society and on the small scale of our everyday life.

In the description of the next life that now follows in the parable, Jesus uses ideas that were current in the Judaism of his time. Hence we must not force our interpretation of this part of the text. Jesus adopts existing images, without formally incorporating them into his teaching about the next life. Nevertheless, he does unequivocally affirm the substance of the images. In this sense, it is important to note that Jesus invokes here the idea of the intermediate state between death and the resurrection, which by then had become part of the universal patrimony of Jewish faith. The rich man is in Hades, conceived here as a temporary place, and not in "Gehenna" (h.e.l.l), which is the name of the final state (Jeremias, p. 185). Jesus says nothing about a "resurrection in death" here. But as we saw earlier, this is not the princ.i.p.al message that the Lord wants to convey in this parable. Rather, as Jeremias has convincingly shown, the main point-which comes in the second part of the parable-is the rich man's request for a sign.

The rich man, looking up to Abraham from Hades, says what so many people, both then and now, say or would like to say to G.o.d: "If you really want us to believe in you and organize our lives in accord with the revealed word of the Bible, you'll have to make yourself clearer. Send us someone from the next world who can tell us that it is really so." The demand for signs, the demand for more evidence of Revelation, is an issue that runs through the entire Gospel. Abraham's answer-like Jesus' answer to his contemporaries' demand for signs in other contexts-is clear: If people do not believe the word of Scripture, then they will not believe someone coming from the next world either. The highest truths cannot be forced into the type of empirical evidence that only applies to material reality.

Abraham cannot send Lazarus to the rich man's father's house. But at this point something strikes us. We are reminded of the resurrection of Lazarus of Bethany, recounted to us in John's Gospel. What happens there? The Evangelist tells us, "Many of the Jews...believed in him" (Jn 11:45). They go to the Pharisees and report on what has happened, whereupon the Sanhedrin gathers to take counsel. They see the affair in a political light: If this leads to a popular movement, it might force the Romans to intervene, leading to a dangerous situation. So they decide to kill Jesus. The miracle leads not to faith, but to hardening of hearts (Jn 11:4553).

But our thoughts go even further. Do we not recognize in the figure of Lazarus-lying at the rich man's door covered in sores-the mystery of Jesus, who "suffered outside the city walls" (Heb 13:12) and, stretched naked on the Cross, was delivered over to the mockery and contempt of the mob, his body "full of blood and wounds"? "But I am a worm, and no man; scorned by men, and despised by the people" (Ps 22:7).

He, the true Lazarus, has has risen from the dead-and he has come to tell us so. If we see in the story of Lazarus Jesus' answer to his generation's demand for a sign, we find ourselves in harmony with the princ.i.p.al answer that Jesus gave to that demand. In Matthew, it reads thus: "An evil and adulterous generation seeks for a sign; but no sign shall be given to it except the sign of the Prophet Jonah. For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the whale, so will the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth" (Mt 12:39f.). In Luke we read: "This generation is an evil generation; it seeks a sign, but no sign shall be given to it except the sign of Jonah. For as Jonah became a sign to the men of Nineveh, so will the Son of man be to this generation" (Lk 11:29f.). risen from the dead-and he has come to tell us so. If we see in the story of Lazarus Jesus' answer to his generation's demand for a sign, we find ourselves in harmony with the princ.i.p.al answer that Jesus gave to that demand. In Matthew, it reads thus: "An evil and adulterous generation seeks for a sign; but no sign shall be given to it except the sign of the Prophet Jonah. For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the whale, so will the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth" (Mt 12:39f.). In Luke we read: "This generation is an evil generation; it seeks a sign, but no sign shall be given to it except the sign of Jonah. For as Jonah became a sign to the men of Nineveh, so will the Son of man be to this generation" (Lk 11:29f.).

We do not need to a.n.a.lyze here the differences between these two versions. One thing is clear: G.o.d's sign for men is the Son of Man; it is Jesus himself. And at the deepest level, he is this sign in his Paschal Mystery, in the mystery of his death and Resurrection. He himself is "the sign of Jonah." He, crucified and risen, is the true Lazarus. The parable is inviting us to believe and follow him, G.o.d's great sign. But it is more than a parable. It speaks of reality, of the most decisive reality in all history.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Princ.i.p.al Images of John's Gospel INTRODUCTION: T THE J JOHANNINE Q QUESTION.

Thus far, in our attempt to listen to Jesus and thereby to get to know him, we have limited ourselves for the most part to the witness of the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), while only occasionally glancing at John. It is therefore time to turn our attention to the image of Jesus presented by the Fourth Evangelist, an image that in many respects seems quite different from that of the other Gospels.

Listening to the Synoptics, we have realized that the mystery of Jesus' oneness with the Father is ever present and determines everything, even though it remains hidden beneath his humanity. On one hand, it was perceived by his sharp-eyed opponents. On the other hand, the disciples, who experienced Jesus at prayer and were privileged to know him intimately from the inside, were beginning-step by step, at key moments with great immediacy, and despite all their misunderstandings-to recognize this absolutely new reality. In John, Jesus' divinity appears unveiled. His disputes with the Jewish Temple authorities, taken together, could be said to antic.i.p.ate his trial before the Sanhedrin, which John, unlike the Synoptics, does not mention specifically.

John's Gospel is different: Instead of parables, we hear extended discourses built around images, and the main theater of Jesus' activity shifts from Galilee to Jerusalem. These differences caused modern critical scholarship to deny the historicity of the text-with the exception of the Pa.s.sion narrative and a few details-and to regard it as a later theological reconstruction. It was said to express a highly developed Christology, but not to const.i.tute a reliable source for knowledge of the historical Jesus. The radically late datings of John's Gospel to which this view gave rise have had to be abandoned because papyri from Egypt dating back to the beginning of the second century have been discovered; this made it clear that the Gospel must have been written in the first century, if only during the closing years. Denial of the Gospel's historical character, however, continued unabated.

Interpretation of John's Gospel in the second half of the twentieth century was largely shaped by Rudolf Bultmann's commentary on John, the first edition of which appeared in 1941. Bultmann is convinced that the main influences on the Gospel of John are to be sought not in the Old Testament and the Judaism of the time, but in Gnosticism. This sentence typifies Bultmann's approach: "That is not to say that the idea of the incarnation of the redeemer has in some way penetrated Gnosticism from Christianity; it is itself originally Gnostic, and was taken over at a very early stage by Christianity, and made fruitful for Christology" (The Gospel of John, p. 26). Here is another in the same vein: "Gnosticism is the only possible source of the idea of absolute Logos" ( p. 26). Here is another in the same vein: "Gnosticism is the only possible source of the idea of absolute Logos" (RGG, 3rd ed., III, p. 846).

The reader asks: How does Bultmann know that? Bultmann's answer is breathtaking: "Even if the reconstruction of this kind of thinking has to be carried out in the main from sources which are later than John, nevertheless its greater age greater age remains firmly established" ( remains firmly established" (The Gospel of John, p. 27). On this decisive point Bultmann is wrong. In his inaugural lecture as professor at Tubingen, published in expanded form as p. 27). On this decisive point Bultmann is wrong. In his inaugural lecture as professor at Tubingen, published in expanded form as The Son of G.o.d The Son of G.o.d in 1975 (English translation 1976), Martin Hengel characterized "the hypothetical Gnostic myth of the sending of the Son of G.o.d into the world" as a "pseudo-scientific development of a myth." He then went on to remark: "In reality there is no Gnostic redeemer myth in the sources which can be demonstrated chronologically to be pre-Christian" (p. 33). "Gnosticism itself is first visible as a spiritual movement at the end of the first century in 1975 (English translation 1976), Martin Hengel characterized "the hypothetical Gnostic myth of the sending of the Son of G.o.d into the world" as a "pseudo-scientific development of a myth." He then went on to remark: "In reality there is no Gnostic redeemer myth in the sources which can be demonstrated chronologically to be pre-Christian" (p. 33). "Gnosticism itself is first visible as a spiritual movement at the end of the first century A.D A.D. at the earliest, and only develops fully in the second century" (p. 34).

Johannine scholarship in the generation after Bultmann took a radically different direction; the results have been thoroughly explored and discussed in Martin Hengel's book The Johannine Question The Johannine Question (1989). If we look back from the vantage point of current scholarship to Bultmann's interpretation of John, we see how little protection the highly scientific approach can offer against fundamental mistakes. But what does today's scholarship tell us? (1989). If we look back from the vantage point of current scholarship to Bultmann's interpretation of John, we see how little protection the highly scientific approach can offer against fundamental mistakes. But what does today's scholarship tell us?

It has definitively confirmed and elaborated something that even Bultmann basically already knew: The Fourth Gospel rests on extraordinarily precise knowledge of times and places, and so can only have been produced by someone who had an excellent firsthand knowledge of Palestine at the time of Jesus. A further point that has become clear is that the Gospel thinks and argues entirely in terms of the Old Testament-of the Torah (Rudolf Pesch)-and that its whole way of arguing is deeply rooted in the Judaism of Jesus' time. The language of the Gospel, which Bultmann regarded as "Gnostic," actually bears unmistakable signs of the book's intimate a.s.sociation with this milieu. "The work was written in simple unliterary koine koine Greek, steeped in the language of Jewish piety. This Greek was also spoken by the upper cla.s.ses in Jerusalem...[where] Scripture was read in Hebrew and Greek, and prayer and discussion went on in both languages" (Hengel, Greek, steeped in the language of Jewish piety. This Greek was also spoken by the upper cla.s.ses in Jerusalem...[where] Scripture was read in Hebrew and Greek, and prayer and discussion went on in both languages" (Hengel, The Johannine Question, The Johannine Question, p. 113). p. 113).

Hengel also points out that "in Herodian times a special h.e.l.lenized Jewish upper cla.s.s with its own culture developed in Jerusalem" (ibid., p. 114) and he accordingly locates the origin of the Gospel in the priestly aristocracy of Jerusalem (ibid., pp. 12435). We can perhaps regard a brief reference in John 18:15f as corroboration for this thesis. There it is recounted that after his arrest Jesus is brought to the high priests for interrogation and that in the meantime Simon Peter and "another disciple" follow Jesus in order to find out what is going to happen next. Regarding this "other disciple," it is then said that "as this disciple was known to the high priest, he entered the court of the high priest along with Jesus." His connections with the household of the high priest were such that he was able to secure Peter's entry, thereby engineering the situation that led to Peter's denial. The circle of the disciples, then, extended as far as the high-priestly aristocracy, in whose language the Gospel is largely written.

This brings, us, however, to two decisive questions that are ultimately at stake in the "Johannine" question: Who is the author of this Gospel? How reliable is it historically? Let us try to approach the first question. The Gospel itself makes a clear statement about it in the context of the Pa.s.sion story. It is reported that one of the soldiers pierced Jesus' side with a lance "and at once there came out blood and water" (Jn 19:34). These weighty words immediately follow: "He who saw it has borne witness-his testimony is true, and he knows that he tells the truth-that you also may believe" (Jn 19:35). The Gospel traces its origins to an eyewitness, and it is clear that this eyewitness is none other than the disciple who, as we have just been told, was standing under the Cross and was the disciple whom Jesus loved (cf. Jn 19:26). This disciple is once again named as the author of the Gospel in John 21:24. In addition, we meet this figure in John 13:23, 20:210, and 21:7 and probably in Jn 1:35, 40 and 18:1516 as well.

These statements concerning the external origin of the Gospel take on a deeper dimension in the story of the washing of the feet, which points to its inward source. Here it is said that this disciple reclined at Jesus' side during the meal and that, when he asked who the betrayer was, he "leaned back on Jesus' breast" (Jn 13:25). These words are intended to parallel the end of the prologue of John's Gospel, where it is said apropos of Jesus: "No one has ever seen G.o.d; it is the only Son, who is nearest to the Father's heart, who has made him known" (Jn 1:18). Just as Jesus, the Son, knows about the mystery of the Father from resting in his heart, so too the Evangelist has gained his intimate knowledge from his inward repose in Jesus' heart.

But who is this disciple? The Gospel never directly identifies him by name. In connection with the calling of Peter, as well as of other disciples, it points toward John, the son of Zebedee, but it never explicitly identifies the two figures. The intention is evidently to leave the matter shrouded in mystery. The Book of Revelation does, admittedly, specify John as its author (cf. Rev 1:1, 4), but despite the close connection between this book and the Gospel and Letters of John, it remains an open question whether the author is one and the same person.

The Lutheran exegete Ulrich Wilckens, in his extensive Theologie des Neuen Testaments, Theologie des Neuen Testaments, has recently presented new arguments for the thesis that the "beloved disciple" should be thought of not as a historical figure, but as a symbol for a basic structure of the faith: " has recently presented new arguments for the thesis that the "beloved disciple" should be thought of not as a historical figure, but as a symbol for a basic structure of the faith: "Scriptura sola is impossible without the 'living voice' of the Gospel and that is impossible without the personal witness of a Christian in the function and authority of the 'beloved disciple,' in whom office and spirit unite and support each other" ( is impossible without the 'living voice' of the Gospel and that is impossible without the personal witness of a Christian in the function and authority of the 'beloved disciple,' in whom office and spirit unite and support each other" (Theologie, I, 4, p. 158). However correct this may be as a structural claim, it remains insufficient. If the favorite disciple in the Gospel expressly a.s.sumes the function of a witness to the truth of the events he recounts, he is presenting himself as a living person. He intends to vouch for historical events as a witness and he thus claims for himself the status of a historical figure. Otherwise the statements we have examined, which are decisive for the intention and the quality of the entire Gospel, would be emptied of meaning. I, 4, p. 158). However correct this may be as a structural claim, it remains insufficient. If the favorite disciple in the Gospel expressly a.s.sumes the function of a witness to the truth of the events he recounts, he is presenting himself as a living person. He intends to vouch for historical events as a witness and he thus claims for himself the status of a historical figure. Otherwise the statements we have examined, which are decisive for the intention and the quality of the entire Gospel, would be emptied of meaning.

Since the time of Irenaeus of Lyon (d. ca. 202), Church tradition has unanimously regarded John, the son of Zebedee, as the beloved disciple and the author of the Gospel. This fits with the identification markers provided by the Gospel, which in any case point toward the hand of an Apostle and companion of Jesus from the time of the Baptism in the Jordan to the Last Supper, Cross, and Resurrection.

In modern times, it is true, increasingly strong doubts have been voiced concerning this identification. Can the fisherman from the Lake of Genesareth have written this sublime Gospel full of visions that peer into the deepest depths of G.o.d's mystery? Can he, the Galilean fisherman, have been as closely connected with the priestly aristocracy of Jerusalem, its language, and its mentality as the Evangelist evidently is? Can he have been related to the family of the high priest, as the text hints (cf. Jn 18:15)?

Now, the French exegete Henri Cazelles, drawing on studies by J. Colson, J. Winandy, and M.-E. Boismard, has shown in a sociological study of the Temple priesthood before its destruction ("Johannes") that such an identification is actually quite possible. The priests discharged their ministry on a rotating basis twice a year. The ministry itself lasted a week each time. After the completion of the ministry, the priest returned to his home, and it was not at all unusual for him also to exercise a profession to earn his livelihood. Furthermore, the Gospel makes clear that Zebedee was no simple fisherman, but employed several day laborers, which also explains why it was possible for his sons to leave him. "It is thus quite possible that Zebedee is a priest, but that at the same time he has his property in Galilee, while the fishing business on the lake helps him makes ends meet. He probably has a kind of pied-a-terre in or near the Jerusalem neighborhood where the Essenes lived" ("Johannes," p. 481). "The very meal during which this disciple rested on Jesus' breast took place in a room that in all probability was located in the Essene neighborhood of the city"-in the "pied-a-terre" of the priest Zebedee, who "lent the upper room to Jesus and the Twelve" (ibid., pp. 480, 481). Another observation Cazelles makes in his article is interesting in this connection: According to the Jewish custom, the host or, in his absence, as would have been the case here, "his firstborn son sat to the right of the guest, his head leaning on the latter's chest" (ibid., p. 480).

If in light of current scholarship, then, it is quite possible to see Zebedee's son John as the bystander who solemnly a.s.serts his claim to be an eyewitness (cf. Jn 19:35) and thereby identifies himself as the true author of the Gospel, nevertheless, the complexity of the Gospel's redaction raises further questions.

The Church historian Eusebius of Caesarea (d. ca. 338) gives us a piece of information that is important in this context. Eusebius tells us about a five-volume work of the bishop of Hierapolis, Papias, who died around 220. Papias mentions there that he had not known or seen the holy Apostles himself, but that he had received the teaching of the faith from people who had been close to the Apostles. He also speaks of others who were likewise disciples of the Lord, and he mentions the names Aristion and "Presbyter John." Now, the important point is that he distinguishes between the Apostle and Evangelist John, on one hand, and "Presbyter John," on the other. Although he had not personally known the former, he had met the latter (Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, Historia Ecclesiastica, III, 39). III, 39).

This information is very remarkable indeed: When combined with related pieces of evidence, it suggests that in Ephesus there was something like a Johannine school, which traced its origins to Jesus' favorite disciple himself, but in which a certain "Presbyter John" presided as the ultimate authority. This "presbyter" John appears as the sender and author of the Second and Third Letters of John (in each case in the first verse of the first chapter) simply under the t.i.tle "the presbyter" (without reference to the name John). He is evidently not the same as the Apostle, which means that here in the canonical text we encounter expressly the mysterious figure of the presbyter. He must have been closely connected with the Apostle; perhaps he had even been acquainted with Jesus himself. After the death of the Apostle, he was identified wholly as the bearer of the latter's heritage, and in the collective memory, the two figures were increasingly fused. At any rate, there seem to be grounds for ascribing to "Presbyter John" an essential role in the definitive shaping of the Gospel, though he must always have regarded himself as the trustee of the tradition he had received from the son of Zebedee.

I entirely concur with the conclusion that Peter Stuhlmacher has drawn from the above data. He holds "that the contents of the Gospel go back to the disciple whom Jesus (especially) loved. The presbyter understood himself as his transmitter and mouthpiece" (Biblische Theologie, II, p. 206). In a similar vein Stuhlmacher cites E. Ruckstuhl and P. Dschullnigg to the effect that "the author of the Gospel of John is, as it were, the literary executor of the favorite disciple" (ibid., p. 207). II, p. 206). In a similar vein Stuhlmacher cites E. Ruckstuhl and P. Dschullnigg to the effect that "the author of the Gospel of John is, as it were, the literary executor of the favorite disciple" (ibid., p. 207).

With these observations, we have already taken a decisive step toward answering the question of the historical credibility of the Fourth Gospel. This Gospel ultimately goes back to an eyewitness, and even the actual redaction of the text was substantially the work of one of his closest followers within the living circle of his disciples.

Thinking along similar lines, Peter Stuhlmacher writes that there are grounds for the conjecture "that the Johannine school carried on the style of thinking and teaching that before Easter set the tone of Jesus' internal didactic discourses with Peter, James, and John (as well as with the whole group of the Twelve)...While the Synoptic tradition reflects the way in which the apostles and their disciples spoke about Jesus as they were teaching on Church missions or in Church communities, the Johannine circle took this instruction as the basis and premise for further thinking about, and discussion of, the mystery of revelation, of G.o.d's self-disclosure in 'the Son'" (Biblische Theologie, II, p. 207). Against this, though, it could be argued that according to the text of the Gospel itself, what we find are not so much internal didactic discourses but rather Jesus' dispute with the Temple aristocracy, in which we are given a kind of preview of his trial. In this context, the question "Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?" (Mk 14:61), in its different forms, increasingly adopts center stage in the whole dispute, so that Jesus' claim to Sonship inevitably takes on more and more dramatic forms. II, p. 207). Against this, though, it could be argued that according to the text of the Gospel itself, what we find are not so much internal didactic discourses but rather Jesus' dispute with the Temple aristocracy, in which we are given a kind of preview of his trial. In this context, the question "Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?" (Mk 14:61), in its different forms, increasingly adopts center stage in the whole dispute, so that Jesus' claim to Sonship inevitably takes on more and more dramatic forms.

It is surprising that Martin Hengel, from whom we have learned so much about the historical rooting of the Gospel in the priestly aristocracy of Jerusalem-and so in the real context of Jesus' life-nonetheless offers an astonishingly negative, or (to put it more gently) extremely cautious, judgment of the historical character of the text. He says: "The Fourth Gospel is not a completely free 'Jesus poem'...Here we must distinguish between those traits which are historically plausible and others which remain chiefly suppositions. An inability to prove the historicity of something does not mean that it is pure unhistorical fiction. Certainly the evangelist is not narrating historical, ba.n.a.l recollections of the past but the rigorously interpretative spirit-paraclete leading into truth, which has the last word throughout the work" (p. 132). This raises an objection: What does this contrast mean? What makes historical recollection ba.n.a.l? Is the truth of what is recollected important or not? And what sort of truth can the Paraclete guide into if he leaves behind the historical because it is too ba.n.a.l?

The diagnosis of the exegete Ingo Broer reveals even more sharply the problem with these sorts of contrasts: "The Gospel of John thus stands before us as a literary literary work that bears witness to faith and is intended to strengthen faith, and not as a historical account" ( work that bears witness to faith and is intended to strengthen faith, and not as a historical account" (Einleitung, p. 197). What faith does it "testify" to if, so to speak, it has left history behind? How does it strengthen faith if it presents itself as a historical testimony-and does so quite emphatically-but then does not report history? I think that we are dealing here with a false concept of the historical, as well as with a false concept of faith and of the Paraclete. A faith that discards history in this manner really turns into "Gnosticism." It leaves flesh, incarnation-just what true history is-behind.

If "historical" is understood to mean that the discourses of Jesus transmitted to us have to be something like a recorded transcript in order to be acknowledged as "historically" authentic, then the discourses of John's Gospel are not "historical." But the fact that they make no claim to literal accuracy of this sort by no means implies that they are merely "Jesus poems" that the members of the Johannine school gradually put together, claiming to be acting under the guidance of the Paraclete. What the Gospel is really claiming is that it has correctly rendered the substance of the discourses, of Jesus' self-attestation in the great Jerusalem disputes, so that the readers really do encounter the decisive content of this message and, therein, the authentic figure of Jesus.

We can take a further step toward defining more precisely the particular sort of historicity that is present in the Fourth Gospel if we attend to the mutual ordering of the various elements that Hengel regards as decisive for the composition of the text. Hengel begins by naming four of the essential elements of this Gospel: "the theological concern of the author...his personal recollections...church tradition and with them historical reality." Astonishingly, Hengel says that the Evangelist "altered, indeed we might even say violated" this history. Finally, as we have just seen, it is not "the recollections of the past but the rigorously interpretative spirit-paraclete leading into truth which has the last word" (The Johannine Question, p. 132). p. 132).

Given the way that Hengel juxtaposes, and in a certain respect contraposes, these five elements, they cannot be brought into any meaningful synthesis. For how is the Paraclete supposed to have the last word if the Evangelist has already violated the actual history? What sort of relation is there between the redactional concern of the Evangelist, his personal message, and Church tradition? Is redactional concern more decisive than recollection, so that in its name reality may be violated? What, then, establishes the legitimacy of this redactional concern? How does it interact with the Paraclete?

I think that the five elements listed by Hengel are indeed the essential forces that shaped the composition of the Gospel, but they have to be seen in a different mutual relation, and the individual elements have to be differently understood.

First of all, the second and fourth elements-personal recollection and historical reality-form a pair. Together they const.i.tute what the Fathers of the Church call the factum historic.u.m factum historic.u.m that determines the literal sense of the text: the exterior side of the event, which the Evangelist knows partly from personal recollection and partly from Church tradition (no doubt he was familiar with the Synoptic Gospels in one or another version). His intention is to act as a "witness" reporting the things that happened. No one has emphasized this particular dimension of what actually happened-the "flesh" of history-to such an extent as John. "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life-the life was made manifest, and we saw it, and testify to it, and proclaim to you the eternal life which was with the Father and was made manifest to us" (1 Jn 1:1f.). that determines the literal sense of the text: the exterior side of the event, which the Evangelist knows partly from personal recollection and partly from Church tradition (no doubt he was familiar with the Synoptic Gospels in one or another version). His intention is to act as a "witness" reporting the things that happened. No one has emphasized this particular dimension of what actually happened-the "flesh" of history-to such an extent as John. "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life-the life was made manifest, and we saw it, and testify to it, and proclaim to you the eternal life which was with the Father and was made manifest to us" (1 Jn 1:1f.).

These two factors-historical reality and recollection-lead by their inner dynamic, however, to the third and fifth elements that Hengel lists: Church tradition and the guidance of the Holy Spirit. For, on one hand, the author of the Fourth Gospel gives a very personal accent to his own remembrance, as we see from his observation at the end of the Crucifixion scene (cf. Jn 19:35); on the other hand, it is never a merely private remembering, but a remembering in and with the "we" of the Church: "that which...we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands." With John, the subject who remembers is always the "we"-he remembers in and with the community of the disciples, in and with the Church. However much the author stands out as an individual witness, the remembering subject that speaks here is always the "we" of the community of disciples, the "we" of the Church. Because the personal recollection that provides the foundation of the Gospel is purified and deepened by being inserted into the memory of the Church, it does indeed transcend the ba.n.a.l recollection of facts. have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands." With John, the subject who remembers is always the "we"-he remembers in and with the community of the disciples, in and with the Church. However much the author stands out as an individual witness, the remembering subject that speaks here is always the "we" of the community of disciples, the "we" of the Church. Because the personal recollection that provides the foundation of the Gospel is purified and deepened by being inserted into the memory of the Church, it does indeed transcend the ba.n.a.l recollection of facts.

There are three important pa.s.sages in his Gospel where John uses the word remember remember and so gives us the key to understanding what he means by "memory." In John's account of the cleansing of the Temple, we read: "His disciples remembered that it was written, 'Zeal for thy house will consume me' [Ps 69:10]" (Jn 2:17). The event that is taking place calls to mind a pa.s.sage of Scripture and so the event becomes intelligible at a level beyond the merely factual. Memory sheds light on the sense of the act, which then acquires a deeper meaning. It appears as an act in which Logos is present, an act that comes from the Logos and leads into it. The link connecting Jesus' acting and suffering with G.o.d's word comes into view, and so the mystery of Jesus himself becomes intelligible. and so gives us the key to understanding what he means by "memory." In John's account of the cleansing of the Temple, we read: "His disciples remembered that it was written, 'Zeal for thy house will consume me' [Ps 69:10]" (Jn 2:17). The event that is taking place calls to mind a pa.s.sage of Scripture and so the event becomes intelligible at a level beyond the merely factual. Memory sheds light on the sense of the act, which then acquires a deeper meaning. It appears as an act in which Logos is present, an act that comes from the Logos and leads into it. The link connecting Jesus' acting and suffering with G.o.d's word comes into view, and so the mystery of Jesus himself becomes intelligible.

In the account of the cleansing of the Temple there then follows Jesus' prophecy that he will raise up the destroyed Temple again in three days. The Evangelist then comments: "When therefore he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word which Jesus had spoken" (Jn 2:22). The Resurrection evokes remembrance, and remembrance in light of the Resurrection brings out the sense of this. .h.i.therto puzzling saying and reconnects it to the overall context of Scripture. The unity of Logos and act is the goal at which the Gospel is aiming.

The word remember remember occurs once again, this time in the description of the events of Palm Sunday. John recounts that Jesus found a young a.s.s and sat down on it: "As it is written, 'Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your king is coming, sitting on an a.s.s's colt!'" (Jn 12:1415; cf. Zach 9:9). The Evangelist then observes: "His disciples did not understand this at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that this had been written of him and had been done to him" (Jn 12:16). Once again an event is reported that at first seems simply factual. And once again the Evangelist tells us that after the Resurrection the disciples' eyes were opened and they were able to understand what had happened. Now they "remember." A scriptural text that had previously meant nothing to them now becomes intelligible, in the sense foreseen by G.o.d, which gives the external action its meaning. occurs once again, this time in the description of the events of Palm Sunday. John recounts that Jesus found a young a.s.s and sat down on it: "As it is written, 'Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your king is coming, sitting on an a.s.s's colt!'" (Jn 12:1415; cf. Zach 9:9). The Evangelist then observes: "His disciples did not understand this at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that this had been written of him and had been done to him" (Jn 12:16). Once again an event is reported that at first seems simply factual. And once again the Evangelist tells us that after the Resurrection the disciples' eyes were opened and they were able to understand what had happened. Now they "remember." A scriptural text that had previously meant nothing to them now becomes intelligible, in the sense foreseen by G.o.d, which gives the external action its meaning.

The Resurrection teaches us a new way of seeing; it uncovers the connection between the words of the Prophets and the destiny of Jesus. It evokes "remembrance," that is, it makes it possible to enter into the interiority of the events, into the intrinsic coherence of G.o.d's speaking and acting.

By means of these texts the Evangelist himself gives us the decisive indications as to how his Gospel is composed and what sort of vision lies behind it. It rests upon the remembering of the disciple, which, however, is a co-remembering in the "we" of the Church. This remembering is an understanding under the guidance of the Holy Spirit; by remembering, the believer enters into the depth of the event and sees what could not be seen on an immediate and merely superficial level. But in so doing he does not move away from the reality; rather, he comes to know it more deeply and thus sees the truth concealed in the outward act. The remembering of the Church is the context where what the Lord prophesied to his followers at the Last Supper actually happens: "When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come" (Jn 16:13).

What John says in his Gospel about how remembering becomes understanding and the path "into all the truth" comes very close to what Luke recounts about remembering on the part of Jesus' mother. In three pa.s.sages of the infancy narrative Luke depicts this process of "remembering" for us. The first pa.s.sage occurs in the account of the annunciation of Jesus' conception by the Archangel Gabriel. There Luke tells us that Mary took fright at the angel's greeting and entered into an interior "dialogue" about what the greeting might mean. The most important pa.s.sages figure in the account of the adoration of the shepherds. The Evangelist comments: "Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart" (Lk 2:19). At the conclusion of the narrative of the twelve-year-old Jesus we read once again: "His mother kept all these things in her heart" (Lk 2:51). Mary's memory is first of all a retention of the events in remembrance, but it is more than that: It is an interior conversation with all that has happened. Thanks to this conversation, she penetrates into the interior dimension, she sees the events in their interconnectedness, and she learns to understand them.

It is on just this sort of "recollection" that the Gospel of John is based, even as the Gospel takes the concept of memory to a new depth by conceiving it as the memory of the "we" of the disciples, of the Church. This remembering is no mere psychological or intellectual process; it is a pneumatic event[i.e., an event imbued with the Pneuma, or the Holy Spirit]. The Church's remembering is not merely a private affair; it transcends the sphere of our own human understanding and knowing. It is a being-led by the Holy Spirit, who shows us the connectedness of Scripture, the connection between word and reality, and, in doing that, leads us "into all the truth."

This also has some fundamental implications for the concept of inspiration. The Gospel emerges from human remembering and presupposes the communion of those who remember, in this case very concretely the school of John and, before that, the community of disciples. But because the author thinks and writes with the memory of the Church, the "we" to which he belongs opens beyond the personal and is guided in its depths by the Spirit of G.o.d, who is the Spirit of truth. In this sense, the Gospel itself opens up a path of understanding, which always remains bound to the scriptural word, and yet from generation to generation can lead, and is meant to lead, ever anew into the depth of all the truth.

This means that the Gospel of John, because it is a "pneumatic Gospel," does not simply transmit a stenographic transcript of Jesus' words and ways; it escorts us, in virtue of understanding-through-remembering, beyond the external into the depth of words and events that come from G.o.d and lead back to him. As such, the Gospel is "remembering," which means that it remains faithful to what really happened and is not a "Jesus poem," not a violation of the historical events. Rather, it truly shows us who Jesus was, and thereby it shows us someone who not only was, but is; who can always say "I am" in the present tense. "Before Abraham was, I am I am" (Jn 8:58). It shows us the real Jesus, and we can confidently make use of it as a source of information about him.

Before we turn to the great Johannine figurative discourses, two further general observations about the distinctive character of John's Gospel may be helpful. Whereas Bultmann thought the Fourth Gospel was rooted in Gnosticism and was therefore alien to the soil of the Old Testament and of Judaism, recent scholarship has