Why is St John’s Jesus so frequently provocative and, apparently intentionally, at a cross purpose with those he is talking to?
Do you, for example, as I do, sympathise with Nicodemus who asks a sensible question and receives a crazy answer. Do you share “the Jews’” incredulous outrage at Jesus’ claim to knock down and rebuild the Temple in three days? Admittedly, getting across the idea that Jesus’ body, shortly to be crucified and then resurrected , would not be altogether simple. But why not start the process of revelation in a less provocative way and without identifying the perfectly reasonable disbelievers as “the Jews”, instantly placing them and us in hostile opposition and creating fertile ground for misunderstanding and disbelief.
St John’s gospel is the most contrived of the four. No ancient writer would think of presenting a biography as straight fact (even if such a thing existed) but John’s reworking of the material and his invention go further than the others, including, for example, much discourse and conversation (as with Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman) of which no one but those two people could have first hand knowledge.
This contrivance does not invalidate John’s story but it invites us to ask why he uses the techniques which he does. It suggests we- his readers or hearers- those within the Christian fold, have an understanding, which others outside-whom he usually but I suggest unhelpfully, calls “the Jews” – cannot or will not attain. We need to ask why? What is all this irony and misunderstanding for?
Over the past few weeks we have heard the whole of chapter six of John’s Gospel as it moves from the apparently straightforward albeit miraculous satisfaction of human hunger in five thousand people; on to parallels with the manna that fed the Israelites in the desert and proposition that both the manna and the five barley loaves were divine provisions, but that the latter was imperishable bread, and even bread that would give those who ate it eternal life. From this we move to the more obscure declaration that Jesus is himself the bread of life and finally to the statement that Jesus’ own flesh is that bread, to eat which will bring everlasting life.
The movement in the chapter is from the physical to the spiritual and increasingly mystical; from the surprising to the outrageously arcane. Arcane because alongside the increasing intellectual challenge, there is a movement of growing selection; five thousand are fed physical bread; some follow him to Capernaum; fewer challenge him; but only a select number, not even all the disciples, accept the idea of eating his body. I fear I would have fallen out early in this progression; I certainly struggle with the final provocatively cannibalistic and ghoulish proposition.
There are several levels of irony in all this; John’s Christian readership knew the story and would presumably have quickly picked up the allusions to the Last Supper. They, like us, would see themselves as “in the know” (or, at least, aware that there is something to know, and something which it is highly desirable to understand, however difficult it may be) So while our reason may struggle, we want to understand. And we believe we have been, not selected, but accepted and welcomed into a community of
believers. So we know, despite superficial appearance that “the Jews” are wrong and the few disciples, led by Peter are the ones who have grasped what is really going on.
St John is, of course, aware of this, and I think irritation that I feel is intentional; as the meaning becomes more obscure and mystical, so the challenge of believing it gets harder but is finally rewarded, St John hopes, with revelation and clarity. And I know that for many for whom St John’s is the favourite gospel, that device works.
There is a further, less arcane, irony present in any book that we read or hear read frequently. Children quickly learn what is in store for Peter Rabbit or Tom Kitten and sharing that knowledge with mummy (or grandpa, if he is so lucky) is a large part of the pleasure in hearing the story again and again. The pew is not quite as comfortable as one’s parent’s lap, but there is same feeling of familiarity with Gospel stories; a feeling that we belong to the same family, the Church, and these stories are part of our identity. We know what will happen as the characters in the story do not.
This sense of familial or communal, even cosy, exclusivity is inherent in any irony; just as it is only worth knowing a secret because others do not. St John’s Jesus says the Father wishes to welcome all and will never turn a believer away, but that belief is made harder and harder. St John is writing for audience that experienced persecution and it’s understandable that he can compare the church community to a sheep fold; safe for the sheep but surrounded by marauding wolves, the unbelieving World outside. The first readers or hearers of Chapter six could look back with relief to their predecessors (and maybe even their previous selves). Unlike the obdurately unbelieving “Jews” they had been selected for safety and everlasting life. Belief was a test which they have passed.
While this is understandable in the dangerous circumstances in which St John’s gospel was written, I find this difficult to reconcile with what, I hope, are the open doors of this church and the possibility of differing shades and colours of belief. I do not find sheep fold imagery at all helpful and I confess to struggling with much the forthright and provocative tone of St John’s gospel and especially its sixth chapter. of what chapter six seems to demand. I hope, however, that trying to understand St John’s intention and method in its context, may help us to see ourselves as we are and that way to come closer to meaningful belief. That way the struggle will certainly make the goal all the more worthwhile. Amen.