Category Archives: Gospels Studies

08/31/2026

On the Preaching of John the Baptist and Jesus

By Phillip Powers

Have you ever wondered why all four Gospels begin the story of Jesus’s public ministry with the ministry of John the Baptist? Could it possibly be because John came preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2), and Jesus began his own ministry by preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 4.17)? They begin their preaching with virtually the same message. What, then, is the relationship between the preaching and ministry of John the Baptist and that of Jesus? Sometimes John is treated as little more than a necessary but largely preparatory prelude to the more important ministry of Jesus, almost as though his primary purpose were simply to baptize Jesus and then disappear from the story. But the Gospels reveal remarkable continuity between the preaching of these two figures. Jesus’s preaching stands in fundamental continuity with John the Baptist’s proclamation of the approaching kingdom, repentance, salvation, and judgment; yet it also develops John’s message by announcing that the kingdom has become present in Jesus’s own ministry while its final judgment remains future. The transition from John to Jesus, therefore, is not a transition from one eschatological message to another, but from the announcement of what God is about to do to the inauguration of that promise in Jesus himself. To understand this development, however, we must first consider what John was actually announcing.

Of course, John the Baptist’s preaching is fundamentally eschatological. He appears in the wilderness announcing, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2). The nearness of God’s kingdom means that Israel has reached a decisive moment in the history of salvation, and repentance is the necessary response to what God is about to do. Indeed, John warns his hearers not to presume upon their covenantal identity: “Don’t presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father’” (Matt. 3.9). Instead, they must “produce fruit consistent with repentance” because “the ax is already at the root of the trees” (3.8, 10). John’s proclamation therefore contains both salvation and judgment. On the one hand, he announces the coming of one more powerful than himself who “will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (3.11). On the other hand, this Coming One already has “his winnowing shovel” in his hand and will separate the wheat from the chaff, burning the latter “with fire that never goes out” (3.12). John therefore stands at the threshold of Israel’s eschatological expectation, announcing that God’s promised intervention is no longer located in some distant future—it has drawn near. His call to repentance, promise of the Spirit, and warning of judgment all derive their urgency from this conviction. Most importantly, however, John does not present himself as the one who will accomplish these things. His entire proclamation points beyond himself toward the Coming One through whom God’s promised salvation and judgment will arrive.

The preaching of Jesus stands in basic continuity with the contours of John’s message. As noted above, Jesus also comes proclaiming the nearness of the kingdom and the need for repentance. In Matthew 4.17, Jesus declares, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” repeating verbatim the proclamation of John (Matt. 3.2). Similarly, Mark summarizes Jesus’s preaching: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!” (Mark 1.15). The point is that Jesus retains John’s basic eschatological framework: kingdom, repentance, salvation, judgment, restoration, and accountability before God. He does not correct John by suggesting that his expectation of judgment was mistaken or that Israel’s eschatological hopes were misguided. On the contrary, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment, whether in his teaching concerning Gehenna (Matt. 10.28), the separation of the righteous and wicked (Matt. 13.40–43), or the future judgment of the Son of Man (Matt. 25.31–46). We must therefore resist the simplistic dichotomy that John preached judgment while Jesus preached grace. Both proclaim salvation and judgment as dimensions of God’s coming kingdom. The fundamental difference between their preaching must be located somewhere else. The question is not whether Jesus abandoned John’s eschatological message, but what happened to that message once the One whom John announced actually arrived.

In Matthew 11.2–3, John sends messengers to Jesus to ask him, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” We are not told exactly what prompted John’s question, but the apparent disconnect between his preaching and Jesus’s actual ministry was likely part of the equation. John had proclaimed the nearness of the kingdom alongside warnings of impending judgment, yet the ministry of Jesus did not seem to indicate that such judgment had arrived. This is why Jesus’s answer to John’s question is so significant. Rather than simply answering yes, Jesus points to the fruit of his ministry: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor are told the good news” (Matt. 11.5). These signs reflect the expectations of eschatological restoration found throughout the Book of Isaiah (especially Isa. 35:5–6; 61:1–2). The healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, restoration, and proclamation of good news therefore demonstrate that Israel’s promised salvation has begun. John announced what God was about to do; Jesus points to what God is now doing through him. Here we encounter the essential development from John’s preaching to that of Jesus: John announces the Coming One; Jesus announces and embodies the arrival of the kingdom because he is the Coming One. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment. The promised blessings of the kingdom have begun to enter the present through the ministry of Jesus. But if the blessings have arrived, what has happened to the judgment John so urgently announced?

John had proclaimed that the ax was at the root, that the winnowing fork was in the Coming One’s hand, and that the chaff would be burned with unquenchable fire. Yet Jesus heals, forgives, restores, eats with sinners, and proclaims good news. What is important to remember, however, is that John was not wrong: judgment is coming. Rather, the ministry of Jesus brings greater clarity to the temporal structure of John’s eschatology. The kingdom has arrived in the earthly ministry of Jesus, but final judgment has not. This distinction is illustrated particularly well in Jesus’s sermon at Nazareth in Luke 4. There Jesus reads from Isaiah 61:1–2 and then proclaims, “Today as you listen, this Scripture has been fulfilled” (Luke 4:21). Interestingly, however, Jesus’s reading stops with “the year of the LORD’s favor” and does not include the following phrase, “the day of our God’s vengeance.” We should probably not build too much upon this omission alone, but it fits the larger pattern of Jesus’s ministry remarkably well. The promised blessings of Israel’s restoration are being inaugurated in the present, while final judgment remains future. This does not mean that Jesus abandons John’s expectation of judgment. As noted above, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment and associates its consummation with the future coming of the Son of Man in glory. Judgment has not disappeared from God’s eschatological program; Jesus has revealed that the kingdom’s saving blessings enter history before its final judgment arrives.

The point is that John’s basic expectations were correct. The Coming One would bring salvation, the Spirit, restoration, and judgment. But the earthly ministry of Jesus reveals that these realities do not all arrive simultaneously in their consummated form. The preaching and ministry of Jesus operate according to what is often described as the “already and not yet,” or inaugurated eschatology. This simply means that in the earthly ministry of Jesus, the kingdom of God was already present even though its final consummation remained future. For example, Jesus declares, “If I drive out demons by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (Matt. 12:28). His ministry of healing, exorcism, forgiveness, and restoration therefore demonstrates that God’s saving reign had already broken into history. Yet Jesus continues to speak of realities that remain future: the resurrection of the dead, the return of the Son of Man, final judgment, and the consummation of God’s kingdom. The kingdom is therefore genuinely present without yet being present in its fullness. Salvation has been inaugurated, while final judgment and consummation remain future. This is not a rejection of John’s preaching but its clarification and fulfillment. The Coming One has arrived, just as John announced, but Jesus reveals something John did not fully articulate: his first advent inaugurates the promised salvation of the kingdom before his return brings that kingdom to its consummation in final judgment.

In the final analysis, the preaching of Jesus neither abandons nor merely repeats the preaching of John the Baptist. Both proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom, call Israel to repentance, announce the arrival of eschatological salvation, and warn of coming judgment. This is why Matthew can summarize their preaching with precisely the same words: “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3:2; 4:17). Yet those words take on a new significance when spoken by Jesus. John stands at the threshold of fulfillment, announcing that the kingdom is near and pointing forward to the Coming One who will bring it. Jesus is that Coming One, and through his preaching, healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, and restoration, the saving power of the kingdom begins to enter the present. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment—not yet fulfillment in all its fullness, but fulfillment genuinely inaugurated in history. John announces that God’s kingdom has drawn near; Jesus announces and demonstrates that in him its saving power has begun to arrive. Salvation has entered the present, while final judgment remains ahead, awaiting the return of the King who first came proclaiming good news.

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08/24/2026

On the Pericope Adulterae (John 7.53-8.11)

By Phillip Powers

It is a familiar scene. The Jewish religious leaders bring a woman who has been caught in adultery before Jesus, seeking to trap him with the requirements of the Mosaic Law. Yet rather than immediately condemning her, Jesus responds, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8.7). With their scheme exposed, the accusers depart one by one until only Jesus and the woman remain. He then tells her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin anymore” (8.11). It is a beautiful picture of the compassion and grace of Jesus toward a guilty sinner. There is only one problem: a footnote in virtually every modern English translation informs us that “the earliest manuscripts do not include John 7.53–8.11.” Whether through brackets, footnotes, or some other notation, all modern translations alert readers that there is considerable doubt about whether this beloved story originally belonged to the Gospel of John. What, then, should Christians who believe in the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture do with this passage? How should we think about a story about Jesus that may be historically ancient but was probably not written by John? In what follows, I would like to consider these questions by arguing that although the manuscript, internal, and patristic evidence strongly suggests that the Pericope Adulterae was not originally part of the Gospel of John, its textual status need not threaten Christian confidence in Scripture. Rather, the passage provides an important opportunity to distinguish between the possible historical authenticity of an ancient tradition about Jesus and the canonical authority of the inspired text.

Of course, our English Bibles are based upon a manuscript tradition that stretches back nearly two thousand years. Although we no longer possess the autographs—the original documents actually written by the New Testament authors—we have thousands of Greek manuscripts and manuscript fragments dating from the second century through the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century. Through the process known as textual criticism, scholars compare these manuscripts with one another, alongside evidence from ancient translations, lectionaries, and quotations preserved in the church fathers in an effort to determine the earliest recoverable form of the text and, ultimately, reconstruct the original words of the inspired authors. (On the process of textual criticism, see my post here.) Importantly, however, textual criticism is not simply a matter of counting manuscripts. The evidence must be weighed according to such factors as age, provenance, textual relationships, and the character of the individual readings. A thousand late manuscripts containing a particular reading do not necessarily outweigh a handful of significantly earlier witnesses. This brings us to the problem of the Pericope Adulterae: the earliest and strongest manuscript evidence does not include the story at John 7.53–8.11. For this reason, most modern translations bracket the passage, place it in a footnote, or otherwise alert readers that its originality to the Gospel of John is seriously disputed.

The earliest extant Greek manuscript to include the story is Codex Bezae (D), a fifth-century diglot containing the text in both Greek and Latin. This is significant because the early textual reception of the passage appears to have been particularly strong in the Western church, where Latin increasingly became the primary ecclesiastical language. Moreover, although the story eventually appears in the majority of manuscripts from the medieval period, there is considerable discrepancy over where it should be located. It can be found in its familiar location after John 7.52, but in other manuscripts it appears after John 7.36, 7.44, or 21.25, while another textual tradition places it after Luke 21.38. In other words, this looks like a story looking for a home, so to speak. The early patristic evidence is similarly complicated. The Greek Fathers generally do not comment upon the passage, while in the West it appears in writers such as Ambrose of Milan, Augustine, and Jerome, all from the fourth century. Significantly, these Western witnesses themselves reflect awareness that the passage was absent from some manuscripts. Jerome nevertheless included it in the Latin Vulgate, after which the story became increasingly established within the Western textual and ecclesiastical tradition. However, the late appearance of the passage in extant Greek manuscripts, its unstable location within the manuscript tradition, and its uneven early reception provide substantial external evidence for concluding that it was probably not part of the original text of John’s Gospel.

There are still other reasons for doubting the story’s originality to the Gospel of John. For one, the passage contains some fourteen words that appear nowhere else in the Fourth Gospel—almost one distinctive word per verse. For example, John 8:3 is the only place in the Gospel where we encounter “the scribes” as a distinct group. John has several other ways of referring to Israel’s religious leaders, but he never refers to the scribes in this manner outside the Pericope Adulterae. Significantly, several of these words that are otherwise absent from John are quite common in the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), giving the story a linguistic character somewhat different from its surrounding Johannine context. This may also help explain why one manuscript tradition eventually placed the story after Luke 21:38. In addition to this linguistic evidence, the story appears to interrupt the natural flow of John’s narrative. At the end of chapter 7, Jesus is teaching in the temple precincts during the festival, culminating in his proclamation concerning “streams of living water.” Then, in John 8:12, Jesus continues his public teaching with the declaration, “I am the light of the world.” The Pericope Adulterae, however, interrupts this sequence with the statement that “each one went to his own house, but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives” (7:53–8:1). Read without the disputed passage, the narrative moves quite naturally from 7:52 to 8:12. When this internal evidence is considered alongside the external evidence discussed above, the cumulative case against the Pericope Adulterae being original to the Gospel of John appears very strong.

However, the textual question is quite separate from the historical question. It is entirely possible that this is an authentic story about Jesus that was passed down orally and only later written down and incorporated into the manuscript tradition. After all, the characterization of Jesus and the religious leaders is consistent with what we see elsewhere in the Gospel traditions, and the themes and principles of the story are consistent with what we know of Jesus’s teaching from the rest of the New Testament. In his A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, Bruce Metzger concludes that “the story has all the earmarks of historical veracity.” In other words, even though the story may be textually secondary, this does not mean that it is historically late or fictitious. It is entirely possible that the Pericope Adulterae preserves an authentic tradition about the historical Jesus that circulated independently before eventually finding its way into copies of the Gospels. Nevertheless, we must carefully distinguish between saying, “Jesus may actually have done this,” and saying, “John wrote this under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.” Historical authenticity does not by itself establish canonical authority. The early church undoubtedly preserved many true memories and traditions concerning Jesus that were never included in the canonical Gospels; indeed, John himself acknowledges that Jesus did “many other things” that were not written in his Gospel (John 21:25). The question of canonicity, therefore, is not merely whether an event actually happened, but whether the account of that event belongs to the text given through the inspired biblical authors. And that distinction has important implications for how Christians should read, teach, and preach the Pericope Adulterae.

Our doctrines of inspiration and inerrancy are specifically tied to the autographic text, that is to say, the documents that the biblical authors actually wrote are the locus of biblical authority. This is the text that we preach; this is the text that holds authority for our theology and doctrine. Therefore, if the Pericope Adulterae was not part of that original text, then we should not base any doctrinal claims upon it or preach it as though we know it possesses canonical authority. We can certainly discuss it as a potentially authentic tradition about the historical Jesus; we can also demonstrate how its principles and themes are consistent with what canonical Scripture teaches elsewhere. But we should be careful about preaching it as Holy Scripture. After all, consistency with Scripture does not make something Scripture. Many statements found in the writings of the early church fathers are thoroughly consistent with biblical teaching, but we do not therefore regard them as divinely inspired or canonically authoritative. The same distinction should guide our treatment of the Pericope Adulterae. Nothing essential to Christian doctrine is lost by recognizing its uncertain textual status: the grace and compassion of Jesus toward sinners, the universal reality of human sinfulness, the necessity of repentance, and the call to holiness are all abundantly taught in undisputed passages of the New Testament. We therefore lose nothing by allowing the textual evidence to determine the passage’s canonical status rather than our affection for the story. Indeed, a high view of Scripture requires us not merely to defend the Bible we have received, but to seek as carefully as possible the text that the inspired authors actually wrote.

In the final analysis, the textual questions surrounding the Pericope Adulterae should not weaken our confidence in Scripture. If anything, they demonstrate why the discipline of textual criticism is so important. Modern translations do not place brackets or footnotes around John 7.53–8.11 because translators have decided to remove an inconvenient passage from the Bible; they do so because they are attempting to be transparent about the manuscript evidence and recover as faithfully as possible the text that John actually wrote. The remarkable number of surviving New Testament manuscripts allows scholars to identify places where later additions, omissions, or other textual variations entered the tradition and to evaluate them openly. The Pericope Adulterae may preserve an ancient and even authentic memory of Jesus, and its beautiful portrayal of his grace toward sinners explains why Christians have cherished it for centuries. Yet our confidence in Scripture must rest not upon our attachment to a particular story, but upon the God who inspired his Word and has providentially preserved it through the manuscript tradition. Christians committed to the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture should therefore have nothing to fear from textual criticism. Our desire should simply be to know, preserve, proclaim, and obey as faithfully as possible the words God actually inspired his servants to write.

See also:
On the Ending(s) of the Gospel of Mark

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08/10/2026

On Theology and History in the Gospel of John

By Phillip Powers

When it comes to the study of the historical Jesus, there has long been a noticeable bias against the Gospel of John. While the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) are generally regarded as the primary sources for reconstructing the life and ministry of Jesus, the Fourth Gospel has often been treated with considerably greater suspicion because of its overt theological concerns. The assumption seems to be that because John is more explicitly theological, he must therefore be less historically reliable. Indeed, this tendency has led some scholars to call for a so-called “Fourth Quest” for the historical Jesus that takes the historical value of John more seriously. Nevertheless, the assumption that a more theological Gospel must necessarily be a less historical Gospel deserves to be challenged. Such an assumption depends upon a questionable distinction between historical reporting and theological interpretation. The simple fact of the matter is that all historical writing involves selection, organization, and interpretation according to the understanding and purposes of its author, and the Gospels are no different. In the Gospels, theology frequently consists of history interpreted in light of its ultimate significance, but interpreted history is still history. In this post, therefore, I will argue that John’s theological presentation of Jesus does not undermine the historical character of his Gospel; rather, John’s theology represents his interpretation of historical events whose significance he seeks to explain. But before making that case, we must first consider why theological interpretation should be regarded as historical distortion in the first place.

Let me be clear from the outset: there simply is no such thing as completely “neutral” history. No historian simply reproduces the past in a purely objective or uninterpreted manner. Every writer of history selects events, arranges material, emphasizes particular details, interprets their significance, and writes for particular purposes, and the author of the Fourth Gospel is no different. In John 20:30–31, he writes, “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” John openly acknowledges that Jesus performed many other signs, but that he has deliberately selected certain signs in order to demonstrate that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God. (On Messianic Sonship in the Fourth Gospel, see my post here.) In other words, John tells his readers both what happened and why he has chosen to record it. His theological purpose could hardly be more explicit, but theological selection does not equal historical fabrication. Indeed, John presents the events he selects as signs actually performed by Jesus “in the presence of his disciples.” The events are historical; their selection and presentation are theological. Or, to put it somewhat differently, selectivity is not the enemy of historicity; it is an unavoidable feature of historical writing.

More importantly, John’s theology is grounded in historical claims. Throughout his narrative, Jesus attends identifiable Jewish festivals, travels between Galilee and Jerusalem, visits particular locations, and interacts with identifiable people. In other words, John presents the life and ministry of Jesus as events occurring within the concrete realities of first-century history. This historical grounding is essential because, as John declares at the beginning of his Gospel, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). The eternal Logos entered into human history, meaning that John’s theology is fundamentally incarnational. It reflects the historical reality of the Word made flesh and therefore cannot be reduced to a collection of timeless spiritual ideals. Indeed, John explicitly grounds his narrative in eyewitness testimony: “He who saw this has testified so that you also may believe. His testimony is true, and he knows he is telling the truth” (John 19:35; cf. 21:24). John thus presents his theology as arising from testimony concerning things that actually happened. The point of all this is that John’s theological claims depend upon his historical claims; the two cannot simply be separated. If the Word did not actually become flesh, if Jesus did not die upon the cross, and if he did not rise again, then John’s entire theology collapses. Far from diminishing the importance of history, therefore, John’s theology depends upon it.

What I am suggesting, then, is that theological interpretation does not necessarily mean historical invention. Of course, John interprets the actions and words of Jesus, but interpretation is inherent to historical writing. He does not merely give us a transcript of Jesus’s life; rather, he seeks to explain what Jesus’s actions mean. For example, when Jesus feeds the five thousand, John presents him as the Bread of Life. When Jesus heals the blind man, he reveals himself as the Light of the World. When he raises Lazarus from the dead, Jesus declares that he is the Resurrection and the Life. When Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, the event reveals the nature of Christlike service and love. Even the crucifixion is paradoxically presented as the glorification and exaltation of the Son. In each of these instances, John takes events from the life and ministry of Jesus and unfolds their deeper theological significance. John does not merely ask, “What happened?” He also asks, “What did what happened mean?” The simple fact of the matter is that two people can describe the same historical event, with one explaining its significance much more deeply than the other, without the more interpretive account thereby becoming historically false. Interpretation and invention are simply not the same thing. John’s theological interpretation of the life of Jesus therefore need not be understood as the creation of a theological Jesus; rather, it represents his attempt to explain the true significance of the historical Jesus whom he presents to his readers.

In fact, John explicitly tells us that the disciples did not fully understand the actions and words of Jesus until after his resurrection and glorification. Reflecting upon Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem, John writes, “His disciples did not understand these things at first. However, when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written about him and that they had done these things to him” (John 12:16; cf. 2:22). Notice the progression. The disciples first experienced the historical events, later remembered what they had seen and heard, and then came to understand their deeper significance in light of Jesus’s resurrection and glorification. Moreover, Jesus himself promises that the Holy Spirit “will teach you all things and remind you of everything I have told you” (John 14:26). Thus, the resurrection and the coming of the Spirit did not require the disciples to invent a different Jesus; rather, they enabled them to understand more fully the Jesus they had already known. John’s Gospel therefore reflects both eyewitness memory and mature theological reflection upon that memory. His theological interpretation is retrospective, but retrospective interpretation need not entail historical fabrication. John’s mature Christology represents his retrospective understanding of Jesus, not necessarily a retrospective creation of Jesus. Indeed, by John’s own account, history came first and theological understanding followed as the disciples reflected upon what they had witnessed in light of the resurrection.

Of course, part of the confusion stems from the fact that the Fourth Gospel is noticeably different from the Synoptics (Matthew, Mark, and Luke). The Synoptics primarily focus on Jesus’s Galilean ministry, his parables, his proclamation of the kingdom of God, and his shorter sayings, while John gives considerably more attention to his ministry in Judea and Jerusalem, his identity and relationship with the Father, extended discourses, and signs. However, in my view, these differences are sometimes overplayed. There are significant points of continuity between the four Gospels, including but not limited to the ministry of John the Baptist, the calling of the disciples, the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus’s conflict with the religious authorities, his entry into Jerusalem, and the basic contours of the passion and resurrection narratives. Even where their emphases differ, they remain centered upon the same fundamental story of Jesus’s ministry, death, and resurrection. Moreover, we should hardly expect four different authors, writing for different audiences and emphasizing different theological concerns, to tell that story in precisely the same way. Difference in selection and emphasis does not necessarily amount to contradiction, any more than theological distinctiveness necessarily amounts to historical unreliability. John is not telling a different story; he is telling the same story from a distinct theological perspective. The Synoptics and John need not be flattened into identical accounts in order to be historically complementary.

In the final analysis, then, the relative marginalization of the Gospel of John in the study of the historical Jesus is unwarranted. John is both historical and theological. More to the point, John is theological because he believes that certain things actually happened. The Word became flesh. Jesus performed signs. Jesus died upon the cross. The tomb was empty. Jesus appeared alive. The disciples witnessed these events, and John’s theology represents his explanation of their significance. Of course, John writes with an explicitly theological purpose, namely that his readers “may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing [they] may have life in his name” (John 20:31). John does not conceal his purpose; he wants his readers to believe. But the faith he seeks to produce rests upon eyewitness testimony concerning the actions and teachings of Jesus. His theology therefore does not replace history but interprets it. The question is not whether John gives us history or theology. He gives us theological history: testimony concerning real events interpreted in light of the identity of the One who stood at their center. John’s theology does not require us to abandon the Jesus of history; it invites us to recognize who the Jesus of history truly was.

For further study, see also
On the Jesus of History and the Christ of Faith
On the Johannine Pentecost
On the Narrative Logic of John 21

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06/01/2026

On Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd: A Book Review

By Phillip Powers

Sloan, Paul T. Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd: The Narrative of Zechariah in Mark. Library of New Testament Studies. London: T&T Clark, 2019.

One of the most difficult interpretive questions in the study of the Synoptic Gospels concerns the Olivet Discourse (Mark 13; Matt 24–25; Luke 21). When the disciples marvel at the magnificence of the temple buildings, Jesus responds by predicting the destruction of the temple itself. Later, on the Mount of Olives—from which the discourse derives its name—the disciples ask Jesus about the timing of these events and their relationship to the coming of the Son of Man. How these events relate to one another, namely the destruction of the temple and the coming of Jesus, is the crux interpretum of the discourse, and no shortage of solutions have been proposed within modern Gospel scholarship. (For an overview of the major interpretive positions, along with my own view, see here.) In his published PhD dissertation, Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd, Paul T. Sloan, Chair of Theology at Houston Christian University and Associate Professor of New Testament, offers his own answer to these questions by exploring the influence of Zechariah 9–14 upon the Gospel of Mark generally and on Mark 13 specifically. In the space that follows, I will offer my review of his work.

Sloan’s essential thesis is that Zechariah 13.7–14.6 provides the primary narrative scaffolding for understanding the logic of the Olivet Discourse in Mark 13. He takes his cue from Mark 14.27, which is a quotation of Zechariah 13.7, “I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.” For Sloan, the “scattering of the sheep” entails more than merely the flight of the disciples on the night Jesus’s arrest. Rather, the striking of the shepherd, i.e. the death of Jesus, initiates a time of eschatological scattering that is described in Mark 13:5-23 and which spans the time between the death and the return of Jesus as the Son of Man. After examining the reception of Zechariah 13–14 in Second Temple Judaism and Mark’s use of Zecharian imagery elsewhere in the Gospel, Sloan develops his thesis through a detailed analysis of the logic and structure of Mark 13. According to Sloan, Jesus answers the disciples’ question concerning the timing of the temple’s destruction in verses 5–23 of the chapter, a section marked by an inclusio. He then turns to the coming of the Son of Man, not because the discourse changes subjects, but because this is the next stage in the eschatological sequence established by Zechariah 13–14. Thus, there is no break in logic between Jesus’s description of the events leading up to the temple’s destruction and his description of the coming of the Son of Man. Rather, both belong to a single prophetic scenario structured by the narrative flow of Zechariah’s vision.

One of the greatest strengths of Sloan’s work is the way that he brings coherence to the logic and flow of the Olivet Discourse. One of the persistent challenges in the interpretation of Mark 13 has been explaining the relationship between the destruction of the temple, the period of tribulation described in the discourse, and the coming of the Son of Man. Rather than treating these as disconnected subjects, Sloan argues that they belong to a single prophetic scenario structured by the narrative flow of Zechariah 13–14. Whether one ultimately agrees with all the details of his proposal or not, his reading has the significant advantage of explaining why the discourse unfolds in the sequence that it does. A second strength of the book is Sloan’s sustained attention to the Old Testament background of Jesus’s teaching. Too often discussions of Mark 13 become preoccupied with historical reconstruction or modern eschatological systems, but Sloan consistently grounds his interpretation in the scriptural world that shaped both Jesus and the Evangelist. In particular, he demonstrates that Zechariah functions as more than a source of isolated proof texts; rather, it provides an important theological and narrative framework for understanding the discourse as a whole. Finally, Sloan’s treatment of the relationship between the Olivet Discourse and the Passion Narrative is particularly illuminating. By connecting Mark 13 with the citation of Zechariah 13.7 in Mark 14.27, he highlights a literary and theological relationship that is often overlooked. The striking of the shepherd is not merely the occasion for the disciples’ flight, but the initiating event of the eschatological drama that unfolds throughout the remainder of the Gospel. Taken together, these features make Sloan’s work a significant and valuable contribution to the ongoing discussion surrounding Mark 13.

Despite these strengths, there are a couple of areas where Sloan’s proposal left me wanting further development. First, while he successfully demonstrates the narrative relationship between the destruction of the temple and the coming of the Son of Man, he gives comparatively little attention to the possibility of a typological relationship between these events. In my view, the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70 functions not merely as an event that precedes the coming of the Son of Man, but as a historical anticipation of the final judgment and vindication that will accompany Christ’s return. A stronger account of typology would help explain not only why these events appear together in the discourse, but also why Jesus is able to move so naturally from one to the other. Second, although Sloan makes a compelling case for the importance of Zechariah 13–14, there are points at which Zechariah threatens to become so dominant that other important Old Testament backgrounds recede into the background. In particular, I would have appreciated more interaction with the book of Daniel, which plays a central role in Jesus’s eschatological teaching elsewhere and provides much of the conceptual framework for the coming of the Son of Man. These observations do not undermine Sloan’s thesis, but they do suggest avenues where the discussion might be further refined and developed.

In the final analysis, Sloan’s work represents a significant contribution to the ongoing discussion surrounding the Olivet Discourse and the interpretation of Mark 13. Whether one ultimately agrees with every aspect of his proposal or not, he succeeds in demonstrating the importance of Zechariah 13–14 for understanding the logic and structure of the discourse. His emphasis on the striking of the shepherd as the initiating event of the eschatological drama provides a fresh and compelling way of reading Mark’s Gospel as a coherent narrative whole. Moreover, his careful attention to Old Testament backgrounds serves as a helpful reminder that Jesus’s eschatological teaching must be interpreted within the scriptural world that shaped both him and his earliest followers. While I remain unconvinced that Zechariah alone can account for every feature of the discourse, and would have appreciated more discussion of the typological relationship between the destruction of Jerusalem and the final coming of the Son of Man, these reservations do little to diminish the overall value of the work. Sloan has produced a thoughtful, carefully argued, and highly stimulating study that deserves serious engagement from anyone interested in Mark’s Gospel, the Olivet Discourse, or the eschatological teaching of Jesus.

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05/04/2026

On Messianic Sonship in the Gospel of John

By Phillip Powers

In my previous post, I argued that in the New Testament the title “Son of God” should be understood primarily as royal and messianic before it is understood in fully developed theological terms. However, because of its clear emphasis on the divinity of Jesus, many assume that the Gospel of John moves away from this historical and messianic framework. In this post, I want to suggest that John does not abandon these categories; on the contrary, he deepens them in order to reveal what it truly means for Jesus to be the Messiah. Or to put it another way, John presents Jesus in continuity with Jewish messianic expectations, while also showing that this messianic sonship entails a uniquely intimate and divine relationship with the Father that exceeds what was previously anticipated. The question, then, is not whether John’s understanding of Jesus is messianic, but what kind of messianism he presents.

In his purpose statement, John writes that “these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God.” Here again, the grammatical construction is significant. The term “Christ” (or “Messiah”) stands in apposition to the phrase “Son of God,” meaning that the two expressions are placed side by side, with one defining or clarifying the other. In this context, to confess Jesus as the Messiah is to confess him as the Son of God. This same connection appears at the beginning of the Gospel of John. In John 1:49, Nathanael declares, “You are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel.” The parallelism in these lines again equates divine sonship with messianic kingship, but more importantly, these two statements function as bookends to the Gospel, framing John’s presentation of Jesus from beginning to end. The point, then, is that John does not abandon the messianic meaning of “Son of God.” Rather, he affirms it at the structural level of his narrative. To believe in Jesus as the Messiah is to believe in him as the Son, and this understanding stands in direct continuity with the Synoptic presentation explored in the previous post.

This same connection appears at the midpoint of the Gospel of John. In the account of Lazarus in John 11, after Jesus declares that he is “the resurrection and the life,” he turns to Martha and asks, “Do you believe this?” She responds, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.” This confession is loaded with Christological significance. Not only does it once again place “Messiah” and “Son of God” in apposition, reinforcing the connection we have already seen, but it also adds a further layer by describing Jesus as “the one who is coming into the world.” This language resonates with broader biblical expectations of a coming deliverer—one who is sent by God and arrives to accomplish his purposes. It echoes themes associated with the coming figure of Daniel 7 and the one who comes in the name of the Lord in Psalm 118. Taken together with John 1:49 and 20:31, this confession strengthens the pattern: to be the Son of God is to be the Messiah, the King of Israel, the one sent into the world. In other words, John clearly preserves and reinforces the traditional messianic categories that were already in circulation.

Of course, conceptions of the Messiah in the literature of Second Temple Judaism were far from uniform. Expectations were diverse and often overlapping rather than monolithic. Some traditions emphasized a royal figure in continuity with the promises to David, drawing on texts like 2 Samuel 7 and Psalm 2, where the Messiah is understood as the anointed king who would rule on God’s behalf. Others envisioned a more prophetic figure, in keeping with the promise of a prophet like Moses in Deuteronomy 18, one who would speak God’s word with unique authority. Still others anticipated a more exalted or even heavenly figure, shaped by texts like Daniel 7, where the “Son of Man” is portrayed as receiving dominion and glory from God himself. The point is not that these expectations were clearly defined or neatly separated, but that Jewish messianism already contained a range of categories capable of accommodating a figure of significant authority and even transcendent status. This is important for reading the Gospel of John. When John presents Jesus in elevated terms, he is not abandoning messianic categories or importing something foreign into the tradition. Rather, he is drawing on a rich and developing matrix of expectation already present within Second Temple Judaism and showing how these strands converge in the person of Jesus.

Now, as I argued in my previous post, in the Synoptic Gospels the idea of sonship is primarily representative. As the Messiah, Jesus stands as God’s appointed ruler on earth, the true king who embodies and fulfills the role that Israel and her kings failed to carry out. But in the Gospel of John, the concept of sonship is taken further. The relationship between the Father and the Son is not merely one of representation, but of participation. That is, the Son does not simply act on God’s behalf; he acts in a way that is inseparably bound up with the Father’s own activity. This is made clear in passages like John 5:19, where Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, the Son is not able to do anything on his own, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, the Son likewise does these things.” The claim here is remarkable. It is not merely that the Son imitates the Father, but that his actions are perfectly coordinated with and reflective of the Father’s own work. The same idea appears in John 10:30: “I and the Father are one.” In other words, the Son does not merely represent the Father as his agent; he shares in his work in a unique and unparalleled way. This is not a departure from messianic sonship, but a deepening of it—one that begins to press beyond simple representation into a more profound unity between the Father and the Son.

At this point, it is helpful to introduce a category that has received significant attention in recent scholarship, namely the Jewish concept of agency. In the ancient Jewish world, an agent functioned as a representative of the one who sent him. The basic idea was that “the one sent is as the sender,” meaning that the agent could speak and act with the authority of the one who commissioned him. This framework helps explain much of the language in the Gospel of John, especially the repeated emphasis that Jesus is the one “sent” by the Father. He speaks the Father’s words, performs the Father’s works, and carries out the Father’s will. In this sense, Jesus clearly fits within recognizable Jewish categories of agency. And yet, as the Gospel unfolds, it becomes evident that his sonship cannot be fully contained within that framework. Jesus does not merely speak for God; he speaks as one who uniquely knows the Father. He does not simply carry out God’s works; he does what the Father himself does. The point, then, is that while the category of agency is helpful, it is ultimately insufficient. The Son does not merely act on God’s behalf—he acts with God’s authority in a way that is inseparably bound up with the Father himself. In other words, John presents a form of agency that is intensified to the point of revealing something more about the identity of the Son.

According to John, this is precisely why opposition to Jesus intensifies. In John 5:18, we read, “This is why the Jews began trying all the more to kill him: not only was he breaking the Sabbath, but he was even calling God his own Father, making himself equal to God.” This observation is significant because it shows that the implications of Jesus’s claims are drawn from within the narrative itself. John does not import the idea of divine sonship from some external philosophical framework; rather, it emerges organically from the way Jesus speaks about his relationship to the Father. What is particularly striking is that Jesus does not correct this interpretation. Instead, in the verses that follow, he deepens it. He speaks of doing whatever the Father does, of giving life as the Father gives life, and of exercising judgment as the Father does. In other words, the claim to sonship entails participation in divine prerogatives that belong to God alone. The response of his opponents, then, is not a misunderstanding but a recognition of the implications of his words. They perceive that Jesus is not merely claiming to be God’s representative, but is placing himself in a unique relationship of shared authority with God. The point, then, is that in John’s Gospel, messianic sonship presses beyond representation into a form of equality that raises unavoidable questions about the identity of the Son.

And this is why Jesus is uniquely able to reveal the Father. In John 1:18 we read, “No one has ever seen God. The one and only Son, who is himself God and is at the Father’s side—he has revealed him.” There is a well-known textual question here as to whether the verse should read “the only begotten God” or “the only begotten Son.” While the evidence favors the reading “the only begotten God”, what is most striking is that both readings point in the same direction: John is describing a relationship between the Father and the Son that is without parallel. The Son stands in the closest possible relation to the Father—“at his side”—and precisely for that reason he is able to make him known. This is not simply the language of a prophet who speaks on God’s behalf; it is the language of one who knows God from within that relationship. Jesus makes this point explicit in John 14. When Philip asks, “Lord, show us the Father,” Jesus responds, “The one who has seen me has seen the Father.” In other words, the Son does not merely communicate information about God—he reveals him. The Son is uniquely qualified to make the Father known because his identity is inseparably bound up with the Father himself.

As in the Synoptic Gospels, the identity of Jesus as the Son reaches its fullest expression in his death, but in the Gospel of John this moment is framed in a striking way. The crucifixion is not merely suffering; it is glorification. In John 12:32, Jesus says, “As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” The language of being “lifted up” carries a deliberate double meaning. On the one hand, it refers to the physical lifting up of Jesus on the cross. On the other, it points to exaltation, to being lifted up in glory. For John, these are not separate events but one and the same reality viewed from different angles. This is confirmed in John 13:31, where, immediately after predicting his betrayal, Jesus declares, “Now the Son of Man is glorified, and God is glorified in him.” In other words, the cross is not a contradiction of Jesus’s identity as the Son—it is its revelation. The glory of his sonship is displayed precisely in his obedience, his self-giving, and his willingness to suffer. The Son is most fully revealed not in avoiding the cross, but in embracing it.

And the resurrection brings this trajectory to its proper conclusion. After seeing the risen Jesus and placing his hands in his wounds, Thomas responds with the climactic confession, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20.28). This is not merely an emotional outburst; it is the narrative’s decisive answer to the question that has been building throughout the Gospel of John: Who is this Jesus who claims to be the Son of God? Thomas’s confession brings together the strands that John has been developing from the beginning. The one who is the Messiah, the Son of God, is also rightly confessed as Lord and God. In this moment, the identity of Jesus is not revised but fully recognized. The resurrection does not introduce something new; it confirms and unveils what has been true all along. As such, the arc of the Gospel reaches its climax in the full acknowledgment of Jesus’s identity, echoing the claims of the opening prologue. The Son who was sent into the world is revealed to be none other than God himself, now seen, known, and confessed in the risen Christ.

So, to bring all of this together, we can now see the full trajectory of the title “Son of God” across the canon. In the Old Testament, sonship is grounded in covenant and kingship. Israel is called God’s son, and the Davidic king is identified as God’s son, functioning as his appointed ruler and representative. In the Synoptic Gospels, this category is sharpened and focused in the person of Jesus, who is confessed as the Messiah, the Son of God—the one who fulfills the role that Israel and her kings failed to carry out. But in the Gospel of John, this messianic sonship is not abandoned; it is brought to its fullest expression. John shows that the Messiah is the Son in a deeper sense than previously expected. The Son does not merely represent God’s rule; he participates in the Father’s work, shares in his authority, and uniquely reveals his identity. In other words, John does not move beyond messianism into something else entirely. Rather, he reveals what messianism was ultimately pointing toward all along. The royal Son of the Old Testament and the messianic Son of the Synoptics find their fullest meaning in the one who is not only God’s appointed king, but the Son who stands in a unique and unparalleled relationship with the Father.

What all of this means, then, is that the confession that Jesus is the Son of God is not merely a doctrinal statement to be affirmed, but a reality to be believed and lived. In the Gospel of John, belief in the Son is consistently tied to life. To believe in him is to receive life, to enter into a relationship with the Father, and to know God as he truly is. This is because the Son is the one who uniquely reveals the Father. He is not simply a messenger who brings information about God; he is the one in whom God is made known. And so to come to the Son is to come to the Father. At the same time, this confession is grounded in the unfolding story of Scripture. The title “Son of God” begins in the Old Testament as a royal and covenantal designation, is sharpened in the Synoptic Gospels as a messianic identity, and is brought to its fullest expression in John, where the Son is revealed in a uniquely intimate and participatory relationship with the Father. To confess Jesus as the Son of God, then, is not only to affirm his role as Messiah, but to recognize him as the one who stands at the very center of God’s redemptive purposes, the one who makes the Father known, and the one in whom we find life.

For further study:
Reynolds, Benjamin E., and Gabriele Boccaccini, eds. Reading the Gospel of John’s Christology as Jewish Messianism: Royal, Prophetic, and Divine Messiahs. Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Leiden: Brill, 2018.

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04/27/2026

On Son of God as a Messianic Title

By Phillip Powers

When Christians confess that Jesus is the Son of God, we are usually affirming something of his divinity. In other words, the title “Son of God” is typically understood in doctrinal terms as an affirmation that Jesus is the second person of the Trinity come incarnate. This understanding reaches back to the formulation of the First Council of Nicaea in AD 325. In that creed, we confess that Jesus is “the only begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father.” These are beautiful words that faithfully express the truth of Christ’s divinity. However, they also risk skipping the story. In Scripture, the term “Son of God” first emerges as a royal, messianic title before it is developed into a fuller theological claim about his divine identity. Its meaning is shaped by covenant, kingship, and expectation, and only later expanded in light of who Jesus truly is.

The idea of sonship appears early in the Old Testament. As early as Exodus 4.22, God declares that “Israel is my firstborn son,” identifying the nation as his covenant people, set apart to represent him among the nations. Later, in the Davidic covenant, God speaks of the king in similar terms: “I will be his father, and he will be my son” (2 Sam. 7.14). Here, sonship is tied directly to kingship and divine appointment. The king stands as God’s representative, ruling on his behalf and under his authority. This same idea is expressed in Psalm 2, where, in the context of royal coronation, the king declares, “He said to me, ‘You are my Son; today I have begotten you.'” The language is not biological or metaphysical, but covenantal and functional. It marks the king as the one chosen and installed by God to exercise his rule. The point, then, is that in these texts divine sonship refers to representative, covenantal identity. It speaks of relational authority, divine election, and royal vocation rather than transcendent metaphysical realities. To be called ‘Son of God’ in this context is to be appointed as God’s king, entrusted with the responsibility of embodying his rule among his people.

The problem, however, is that these “sons of God” consistently fail to live up to the height of their calling. As God’s son, Israel was called to be a kingdom of priests, a light to the nations, and a visible reflection of God’s character in the world. Yet instead of faithfulness, they fell into sin and idolatry, broke the terms of the covenant, and were ultimately sent into exile under its curses. The same pattern emerges in the Davidic line. The kings of Israel and Judah, who were called to mediate God’s rule over his people, likewise failed through disobedience and compromise. This tension is reflected within the Psalms themselves. In Psalm 2, the authority of the Lord’s anointed king is met with resistance as the nations rage against him. In Psalm 89, the psalmist recalls God’s covenant promises to David, only to lament that those promises appear to stand in contradiction to present reality. The result is that the category of “son of God” begins to carry forward-looking weight. It no longer simply describes a present reality; it generates expectation. There emerges a longing for a faithful son, a greater son, who will succeed where Israel and her kings have failed, a hope captured in texts like Isaiah 9.6–7, where the promised son will finally bear the government in righteousness and peace. In other words, the Scriptures create space for a future Son who will succeed where others failed.

This hope for a greater Son of God becomes more clearly defined in the Second Temple period. Of course, these texts are not inspired Scripture, but they do provide important insight into the expectations and categories that were alive at the time of Jesus. What we see is a growing anticipation of deliverance increasingly framed in royal and messianic terms. While these expectations are diverse, there remains a significant continuity with Old Testament categories, especially the idea of the “Son of God.” For example, among the Dead Sea Scrolls, texts like 4Q174 (the Florilegium) link the Davidic covenant and the language of sonship in 2 Samuel 7.14 with the expectation of a coming royal Messiah. Likewise, 4Q246 explicitly uses the titles “Son of God” and “Son of the Most High” in reference to a future ruler. Another text, 1QSa (often cited as 1Q28a), appears to echo Psalm 2.7 with language of divine begetting applied to the Messiah. These examples could be multiplied, but the point is clear: in the Second Temple period, the concept of divine sonship is not abandoned or redefined, but carried forward and intensified. It remains closely tied to the Davidic king, even as it takes on heightened expectation in anticipation of the one who will finally fulfill that role. Or to put it another way, the term “Son of God” was already a loaded, expectation-filled term before Jesus appeared.

In the Synoptic Gospels, “Son of God” language appears at key moments in the life and ministry of Jesus. Most notably, at his baptism and again at his transfiguration, a voice from heaven declares, “This is my beloved Son,” marking him out as the one uniquely appointed and affirmed by God. The demons, too, recognize Jesus as the Son of God, a recognition that underscores his authority and signals his messianic identity, even when others fail to perceive it clearly. This comes into sharper focus at Caesarea Philippi. When Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”, Peter responds, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” The grammar of this confession is particularly significant. The predicate nominative “Messiah” and the phrase “Son of the living God” stand in apposition, meaning that the second expression defines and clarifies the first. In other words, to confess Jesus as the Messiah is to confess him as the Son of God. In this context, divine sonship is directly tied to his mission, obedience, and kingship. At the same time, Jesus redefines contemporary messianic expectations. He rejects the political and nationalistic ambitions often associated with the Messiah and instead frames his identity around suffering, obedience, and ultimately his death. The point, then, is that throughout the Synoptic Gospels, the title “Son of God” functions primarily as a messianic designation, identifying who Jesus is and what he has come to do.

Even at his crucifixion, the language of sonship is front and center. The religious leaders mock him, saying, “If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross” (Matt. 27.40), and again, “He is the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him” (Matt. 27.42). The parallelism in these statements is striking. “Son of God” and “King of Israel” function as equivalent titles, reinforcing the connection between divine sonship and messianic kingship. And yet, this is the tension: the one who claims to be the Son of God appears to be defeated. He does not come down from the cross; he remains and suffers. But this apparent contradiction is precisely the point. Jesus does not abandon his identity as the Son; he fulfills it through obedience and suffering. His sonship is not negated at the cross; it is revealed there. The resurrection then serves as the divine vindication of his claims. As Paul writes in Romans 1.4, he was “appointed Son of God in power… by the resurrection from the dead.” That is, the resurrection publicly confirms what was already true of him, now revealed in power. The cross is not the denial of his kingship, but the path to it. As even the Roman centurion confesses at his death, “Truly this man was the Son of God.”

The early apostolic witness continues this same pattern by interpreting Jesus’s sonship in light of his resurrection and exaltation. In the book of Acts, the apostles repeatedly draw from the Psalms to explain what God has accomplished in Christ. For example, in Acts 13, Paul cites Psalm 2.7—“You are my Son; today I have begotten you”—and applies it to the resurrection of Jesus. In this context, the language of “begetting” is not about origin, but about installation. The resurrection marks the public declaration and vindication of Jesus as the Son of God, the one who now reigns in power. Similarly, Psalm 110 is used throughout the New Testament to describe Christ’s exaltation to the right hand of God, a position of authority, kingship, and rule over all things. The point is that the apostles read the Psalms as speaking directly to the identity and mission of Jesus, particularly as they relate to his enthronement. His sonship is not merely a title attached to his earthly ministry; it is confirmed and displayed in his exaltation. In other words, Jesus is revealed to be the Son of God in power as the risen and reigning king, fulfilling the royal and covenantal expectations embedded in the Psalter. (On Christ as the fulfillment of the Psalms, see here.)

Bringing all of this together, the title “Son of God” in Scripture carries a rich and layered meaning that is rooted in covenant, kingship, and ultimately fulfillment in Christ. It is a title that begins with Israel as God’s son, is focused and intensified in the Davidic king, and then expands into a forward-looking expectation for a faithful Son who will succeed where all others have failed. In Jesus, that expectation is finally realized. He is the true Son who embodies what Israel was called to be, the true King who fulfills the promises made to David, and the obedient Son who accomplishes the will of the Father. His sonship is not defined by abstract speculation, but by his mission—his life of perfect obedience, his suffering on the cross, his resurrection from the dead, and his exaltation to the right hand of God. To confess Jesus as the Son of God, then, is to confess him as the promised Messiah, the one in whom God’s purposes for his people and his world are brought to completion. And yet, as full and glorious as this picture is, the story does not end here. The New Testament, particularly in the Gospel of John, will press even further, showing that Jesus’s sonship is not only messianic, but also reveals something deeper about his identity. But that is a discussion for another time.

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03/16/2026

On the Narrative Logic of John 21

By Phillip Powers

The twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel is full of climactic moments. Not only does it record the resurrection of Jesus and his interaction with Mary in the garden, but it also tells the story of Jesus’s appearance to his disciples in the upper room (On the Johannine Pentecost) and the climactic confession of Thomas a week later. The chapter ends with a clear purpose statement when John writes, “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” (20.30-31) To many, these verses sound like an appropriate conclusion to John’s Gospel; for this reason, many scholars (and some readers) treat John 21 as a kind of appendix or addendum or afterthought. Although there is no manuscript evidence to support this claim, it is often argued that if chapter 20 brings the Gospel to its climactic conclusion, then why would John write chapter 21? It seems unnecessary. From a narrative perspective, John 21 is not an awkward appendix but the necessary completion of the Gospel’s story. It resolves tensions left intentionally open in chapter 20 and brings the Gospel’s themes — discipleship, love, witness, and mission — to their proper conclusion.

As I noted above, John 20 is the clear climax of John’s Gospel. Jesus is resurrected, the disciples are commissioned, and Thomas confesses Jesus as “My Lord and my God.” (20.28) This confession serves as a kind of bookend in the book that points the reader back to John’s opening where he affirms that Jesus is the Word that was with God and was God and was made flesh and dwelt among us. (1.1, 14) Following these climactic moments, it only makes sense that John’s purpose statement in verses 30-31 would bring the Gospel to its logical conclusion. This chapter proves that Jesus is the Christ of God, and that faith in Him as the resurrected one results in eternal life. The end. Or so one would think. Not only is there no manuscript evidence that John’s Gospel should end in chapter 20 (as there is with Mark’s ending, on which see here), but if John were to end his gospel with chapter 20, then there would be many narrative threads that would remain unresolved. What becomes of Peter after his denial? What becomes of the beloved disciple? What becomes of the disciples’ mission? Yes, chapter 20 concludes the narrative arc of Jesus’s identity, but chapter 21 goes on to explain what that revelation now means for the followers of Jesus.

John 21 returns the reader to the Sea of Tiberias, aka the Sea of Galilee. Narratively, this is a return to where it all began. Not only did Jesus begin his public ministry in Galilee, but he also called the first four disciples after a night of fishing on the Sea of Galilee. The scene intentionally echoes the earlier calling narrative familiar from Luke 5. After a night of fruitless labor, Jesus shows up and tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. They haul in a catch that is nearly too large, and Jesus commissions them to discipleship and mission. Many interpret this scene as a regression for the disciples, a return to the life and vocation before Christ. However, in light of this parallel, this scene should be understood not as a regression, but as narrative symmetry. John intentionally returns his readers to the beginning to show that the resurrection does not erase vocation — it redefines it. Vocation that is engaged apart from radical dependence on the risen Christ is utterly futile, but when vocation is entered into from a position of dependence and obedience to the risen Christ, then it is abundantly fruitful. When we submit our vocation to the mission of Jesus, then we will reap abundant fruit and reward. Even so, the real center of John 21 is not fish, it is Peter.

Of course, all four Gospels record Peter’s three denials of Jesus on the night of Jesus’s arrest, but John is the only one who records Peter’s restoration. (Luke hints at the idea when Jesus tells him that after returning, he will encourage his brothers.) John deliberately connects the scene in John 21 back to the denial scene by noting that Jesus prepared a “charcoal fire” and the threefold repetition of the question “Peter, do you love me?” matching Peter’s three denials. Some tend to make a big deal out of the various words that are used for love in Peter’s answers, but this is overplayed. Not only were the words basically synonymous in the first century, but the idea that Peter’s love did not rise to some divine standard is wholly alien to the logic of the text. This is a threefold public restoration that corresponds to Peter’s threefold public failure. Moreover, it reveals the pastoral tenderness of Jesus. Jesus does not scold Peter; he does not call him out over his failures. He doesn’t berate or condemn him. He graciously restores Peter to ecclesial service. “Feed my lambs. Shepherd my sheep. Feed my sheep.” This commission is not merely personal therapy for Peter; it is an ecclesial necessity. John cannot end his Gospel with Peter in unresolved failure. The shepherd of the disciple group must be restored if the flock is to endure. But Peter is not the only disciple in view here either.

After his restoration, Peter noticed the disciple whom Jesus loved and he asks Jesus, “Lord, what about him?”, and Jesus responds, “What is that to you? As for you, follow me.” (21.20-22) Jesus’s point is that he has different callings for each of his followers, and that following Christ is more important than comparing callings. Peter’s calling was to shepherding and martyrdom; the beloved disciple’s calling was to abiding ministry and public/written testimony. As he writes in 21.24, “This is the disciple who testifies to these things and who wrote them down. We know that his testimony is true.” Not only is this important for establishing the credibility and reliability of John’s Gospel, but it is also a fundamental component of John’s understanding of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus. To put it another way, John 21 grounds the authority of the Gospel in eyewitness testimony while clarifying that discipleship does not look identical for all. We all serve the risen Christ, but we all serve him in different and varied ways. These verses are not just random narrative details added on to the end of the story; they are essential for completing John’s theology of discipleship.

In other words, for John, discipleship is a life that is characterized by following Jesus, loving Jesus, abiding in Jesus, and witnessing to the truth about Jesus. When we confess Christ (chapter 20), he commissions us to a life of embodied mission (chapter 21). If we truly believe that Jesus is the risen Christ (and he is), then we will follow him in whatever calling he has placed on our lives. Put differently, discipleship is the vocation of following Jesus. The risen Christ is not merely to be believed in — he is to be followed. If we say we love Christ, we will commit ourselves to and give ourselves for the care of his people. Moreover, John hints at the fact that discipleship can involve suffering. In 21.18, Jesus tells Peter, “when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will tie you and carry you where you don’t want to go.”, and John explains that “He said this to indicate by what kind of death Peter would glorify God.” (21.19) This is part of the vocation of discipleship, too. We must be willing to follow Jesus wherever he leads; this is the kind of discipleship that Jesus is calling us all too.

However, returning to my thesis, without John 21, Peter’s denial remains unresolved, the beloved disciple’s authority is unexplained, and the future of the community of Jesus followers is unclear. In terms of John’s narrative, John ends his gospel not with spectacle but with discipleship as vocation. Chapter 20 concludes the revelation of Jesus’s identity, and chapter 21 concludes the formation of Jesus’s community. Or to put it another way, John 20 answers the question “Who is Jesus?”, and John 21 answers the question “What now?” Without this pastoral and ecclesial resolution, John’s Gospel would be incomplete. John does not end his Gospel in private mystical belief. He ends it with shepherding, witness, martyrdom, and mission. And he leaves the end of the story open when he writes, “And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which, if every one of them were written down, I suppose not even the world itself could contain the books that would be written.” In other words, the story is ongoing, and all the things that the risen Jesus will do have not yet been completed even two thousand years later. John 21 is not a loose epilogue. It brings the Gospel to its proper end — not merely with a confession of Christ, but with the commissioning of those who will testify to him. The risen Lord restores the fallen, distinguishes callings, anchors testimony, and sends his followers into a future shaped by love and sacrifice. That is not an afterthought. That is narrative completion. And it poses the question to the reader, “Will you follow Jesus?”

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03/09/2026

On the (Un)Importance of the Gospel of Thomas

By Phillip Powers

In my last post, I argued that the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas has little to no value when it comes to the study of the historical Jesus. However, ever since the Jesus Seminar published their book, The Five Gospels, it has become somewhat common among Jesus scholars to include Thomas as another source for Jesus studies. The Gospel of Thomas is a collection of 114 logia, or sayings, that are attributed to Jesus, most of which are enigmatic and/or aphoristic in style. For example, saying 7 reads, “Blessed is the lion which becomes man when consumed by man; and cursed is the man whom the lion consumes, and the lion becomes man.” Thomas was discovered in 1945 at Nag Hammadi among some 52 other documents, most of which are from the 4th century CE. While Thomas contains intriguing sayings, its late date, its wholesale dependence on the Synoptic tradition, and its Gnostic coloring render it of very little importance for reconstructing the historical Jesus. Its primary value lies in understanding early Christian Gnostic interpretation and theological creativity, not the life and teaching of Jesus of Nazareth.

As noted above, the Gospel of Thomas, sometimes referred to as the Secret Gospel of Thomas, contains some 114 independent sayings attributed to Jesus without any kind of narrative structure or frame. Although the complete text found at Nag Hammadi in 1945 is in Coptic and dates to the 4th century CE, it also exists in three Greek fragments previously found at Oxyrhynchus around the turn of the twentieth century that date to the mid-second century CE. Some scholars argue that the oral traditions behind these Greek texts may be earlier, but this is speculation that is not supported by any physical textual evidence. The biggest difference between Thomas and the canonical Gospels is that it is completely lacking in narrative details; it contains no geographic markers, no passion narrative, and no account of the resurrection. More often than not, it simply reworks material from the Synoptic tradition. In spite of these differences, its non-narrative, aphoristic style is perhaps part of its appeal, but it is also the reason for its interpretive challenges.

This is perhaps why many, both scholars and popular readers alike, find Thomas so intriguing. It is cryptic, wisdom-oriented, less overtly theological, and resembles Synoptic style. For many, especially those who are skeptical of the canonical accounts of Jesus, Thomas reflects a non-apocalyptic, secretive, purely ethical Jesus, which is more in keeping with modern sensibilities. For example, saying 98 reads, “The kingdom of the father is like a certain man who wanted to kill a powerful man. In his own house he drew his sword and stuck it into the wall in order to find out whether his hand could carry through. Then he slew the powerful man.” Or again, saying 77 reads, “It is I who am the light which is above them all. It is I who am the all. From me did the all come forth, and unto me did the all extend. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there.” According to the scholars of the Jesus Seminar, these sayings represent independent (read secret) traditions not found in the canonical Gospels. However, these claims often overlook Thomas‘s dependence on earlier Synoptic material and its interpretive framing.

Estimates vary, but roughly half of Thomas‘s 114 sayings have parallel, often more primitive, versions in the Synoptics. For example, saying 54 reads, “Blessed are the poor, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.” This is clearly a restatement of the beatitude found in Matthew 5.3 and its parallel in Luke 6.20. Saying 55 reads, “Whoever does not hate his father and his mother cannot become a disciple to me. And whoever does not hate his brothers and sisters and take up his cross in my way will not be worthy of me.” This is taken from Matthew 10.37-38 and its parallel in Luke14.26-27. Saying 65 is simply a retelling of the parable of the vineyard owner found in Matthew 21, Mark 12, and Luke 20; saying 57 is simply a retelling of the parable of the wheat and tares found in Matthew 13. Other examples could be cited, but the point is clear, namely that the author(s) of Thomas have simply reworked Synoptic material, typically drawn from the Sermon on the Mount or the Kingdom sayings/parables of Jesus. Moreover, the ordering and grouping of these sayings typically mimics that which is found in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. This evidence clearly demonstrates the secondary literary dependence of Thomas and mitigates against arguments that it preserves independent oral traditions. To put it another way, if Thomas is so clearly dependent, then it cannot be used as an independent historical source in the study of the historical Jesus.

Beyond its late date and its dependence on the Synoptic traditions, another reason Thomas holds no value for the study of Jesus is its clear Gnostic leanings. Gnosticism is a second century syncretistic heresy that combined elements of Christianity with Jewish mysticism and Greco-Roman philosophy. It is primarily characterized by its dualistic worldview, its emphasis on hidden knowledge (gnosis) and spiritual ascent, and its devaluation of material reality. The Gospel of Thomas, as well as most of the other documents found at Nag Hammadi, clearly fall into this stream of thought. For example, saying 62 reads, “It is to those who are worthy of my mysteries that I tell my mysteries.” Saying 24 reads, “There is light within a man of light, and he lights up the whole world. If he does not shine, he is darkness.” Or again, saying 108 reads, “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.” Clearly, sayings from the canonical Gospels have been filtered through Thomas’s Gnostic framework. This theological overlay makes Thomas more a reflection of early heretical Christian thoughts than of Jesus’ own teaching. While Gnostic themes are historically interesting for understanding the history of the early church, they further limit Thomas’s usefulness for reconstructing the historical Jesus.

Methodologically speaking, for a source to contribute meaningfully to historical reconstruction, it must be anchored in some kind of narrative frame, some cultural or geographic context, some chronological markers by which its historical veracity can be evaluated. The Gospel of Thomas is clearly lacking in this regard. It does not contain any of the details of Jesus’s life, his public ministry in Galilee, his conflicts with the Jewish authorities, or his passion, death, and resurrection. Without any anchoring in actual historical events like these, a collection of sayings cannot be attributed to Jesus with any real confidence. Therefore, using Thomas as a primary source in the study of the historical Jesus risks reconstructing him as an abstract, decontextualized, disconnected figure. Or to put it another way, a Jesus disconnected from historical realities can become anything and everything, except who he truly was. The Gospel of Thomas is simply too late, too dependent, and too Gnostic to be of any value in the study of the historical Jesus. Of course, this does not mean that Thomas has no value at all. After all, the Gospel of Thomas gives us an open window into early Christian theological creativity within heretical movements. It highlights the role of wisdom and of spiritual and mystical orientations in the beliefs of the early church. And it gives us insight into how the teachings of the historical Jesus were received and interpreted by one particularly Gnostic tradition. However, whereas canonical sources like the Synoptics and Paul ground their theological reflections in the reality of historical events, Thomas abstracts wisdom and secret knowledge from reality. In this regard, then, Thomas illuminates early Christian imagination and hermeneutics rather than the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

In light of the above evidence, I can only conclude that because Thomas is derivative and shaped by Gnostic and Synoptic traditions, it cannot be used as an independent source to reconstruct the historical Jesus. Sound theological reflection must be grounded in the historical realities of the person and work of Jesus. Or to put it another way, history grounds theology, and theology interprets history. The two must remain interconnected in the theological task. To neglect one or the other would necessarily lead us into either hardened skepticism or wild theological speculation. While Thomas is a great source for understanding early Christian diversity, it simply should not be conflated with the life of Jesus of Nazareth. Thomas may open a window onto early Christian imagination, but the historical Jesus stands firmly in the Synoptic Gospels and the apostolic testimony of the New Testament.

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02/23/2026

On the Jesus of History and the Christ of Faith

By Phillip Powers

One of my favorite topics in the study of the New Testament is the historical Jesus; it is an area of study that attempts to understand Jesus as he was within the context of first century Judaism. However, many who study the historical Jesus argue that the Jesus of history (the first century Jewish teacher) is not the Christ of faith (the exalted Lord proclaimed by the church). In other words, the early church’s understanding of Jesus has been embellished and augmented by influences that go well beyond who Jesus actually was and what he taught. This presupposition is one of the the primary factors that originally inspired the now century old quest(s) for the historical Jesus. Of course, we must affirm that historical investigation is indispensable for understanding the person and work of Jesus, but the hard distinction between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith collapses under the weight of the earliest evidence. The church’s confession of Christ emerges not as a departure from Jesus, but as the historically grounded interpretation of his life, death, and resurrection. In the space that follows, I would like to defend this thesis by examining why history matters, where the split came from, and why the evidence actually favors continuity and not discontinuity.

It would seem to be readily evident that the historical study of the New Testament is essential for understanding the Christian faith. This is because Christianity makes several direct and specific claims about real events that took place in historical space and time. So understanding these events and their historical and theological significance is a matter of first importance when it comes to understanding our faith. As a case in point, when the eternal Son came incarnate in the person of Jesus Christ, he stepped into a particular place at a particular time, the fullness of time according to Galatians 4.4. In other words, the doctrine of the incarnation requires some historical understanding of the place and time when Jesus was born. In fact, the Gospels themselves are anchored in the geography, personalities, and events of the first century Palestine. The point is that if Jesus is severed from the places and times in which he lived, then we run the risk of distorting the significance of his life and teaching. More than this, we run the risk of reshaping Jesus into a man of our making, as a some kind of modern therapist or social reform mascot. The bottom line is that the hard work of history disciplines our theology and grounds it in the life of our savior as he lived it. Or to put it more simply, to confess that the Word became flesh is to confess that history matters.

The point of this is to say that historical inquiry is not the enemy of faith. The problem comes when we presume to dictate what history is allowed to contain. During the Enlightenment of the 18th Century, philosophers and historians began to doubt the details of the New Testament’s depictions of Jesus. Because of their presuppositions about the supremacy of human reason in the pursuit of truth, they were highly skeptical of the Gospels’ accounts of Jesus’s miracles, particularly his resurrection. Their skepticism resulted in an approach to history that might be called methodological naturalism, or the idea that anything that even remotely smells like it might be supernatural must be ruled out as a theological fabrication. Ultimately, their dismissal of the miracles of Jesus, particularly his resurrection, led them to conclude that the church’s high Christology, or its understanding of Jesus as the divine Lord of heaven, must be a late addition to the New Testament that has nothing to do with who Jesus was and what he did and taught during his lifetime, a conclusion which had more to do with their own presuppositions than with any actual analysis of the evidence. The real question, however, is not whether the theology of the early church developed over time (it clearly did), but the question is whether that development moved away from Jesus or unfolded from within the impact of his life and resurrection. An examination of the earliest documents clearly demonstrates that this is in fact what happened.

Now, the earliest Christian documents are the 13 letters of Paul, which were likely written between the years 49 CE and 68 CE. (The earliest of these is most likely 1 Thessalonians, and the latest is 2 Timothy.) Important for this post is the fact that several of these letters include embedded hymns and creedal material that clearly exalt Jesus as the divine Lord. For example, in Philippians 2.6, he “existed in the form of God,” and in Colossians 1.15, “He is the image of the invisible God.” In 1 Corinthians 8.6, the Apostle writes, “for us there is one God, the Father. All things are from him, and we exist for him. And there is one Lord, Jesus Christ. All things are through him, and we exist through him.” This is clearly a reworking of the Shema (Deut 6.4) which equates Jesus with the God of Israel. Even outside of Paul, in Hebrews 1.3, Jesus is “the radiance of God’s glory and the exact expression of his nature, sustaining all things by his powerful word.” And in James 5.9 (possibly the earliest document in the New Testament), he is “the judge [who] stands at the door!” The point of all this is to show that the church’s so called “high Christology” developed very early in the life of the church, and that within the context of strict Jewish monotheism. And so the question must be asked, “How did first century Jews come to worship Jesus as God so quickly?” The only possible answer is that the seeds of this belief were already present in the life and ministry of Jesus.

Of course, Jesus never articulated his identity in the language of the Nicaean Creed, but he clearly acted with divine authority. When the Pharisees ask, “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” Jesus says to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven. Get up, take your mat, and go home.” (Mark 2.1-12) When his disciples were rebuked for picking heads of grain on the sabbath, he responded, “For the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath.” (Matthew 12.1-8) He calmed the storms, he healed the sick, he cast out demons, he raised the dead. He equated his body with the temple, and he proclaimed a Kingdom of God that centered on his own person and work. And when the High Priest asked him if he was indeed the Christ, he responded, ““I am, and you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power and coming with the clouds of heaven,” to which the High Priest responded by accusing him of blasphemy. (Mark 14.61-64) As a side note, the title Son of Man is most likely taken from Daniel 7, where Daniel sees “one like a son of Man” approaching the Ancient of Days to be vindicated and enthroned as king. The identity of this “one like a Son of Man” is debated, but it is highly likely that Daniel understood him as (quasi) divine figure. The point is that Jesus made several extraordinarily “high” claims about himself, claims that clearly threatened the Jerusalem religious establishment and eventually got him killed.

Moreover, the church did not invent these categories out of thin air; rather, it interpreted the shock of Jesus’ life and resurrection within the context and storyline of Israel’s Scriptures. And for them, the resurrection was the decisive interpretive key. The historical plausibility of the resurrection is practically certain given the cumulative effect of the evidence. The earliest confessions assume the truth of the resurrection (1 Cor 15.3-8). The earliest disciples went from fearing for their lives in the upper room to boldly proclaiming the truth of the resurrection in the temple square. The first witnesses of the resurrection were a couple of women whose testimony would have been viewed as untrustworthy in their day. All eleven of the disciples went to their deaths preaching Christ as risen from the dead, and the apostle Paul went from hateful persecutor of Christians to the most effective preacher and missionary in the early church. In other words, the resurrection was a central component of the early church’s belief, and its exalted understanding of Jesus flows naturally from this belief. If Christ was truly raised from the dead, then he truly was who he said he was, i.e. “the Christ, the Son of the living God.” The point is that the Christ of the church’s faith is what the Jesus of history looks like after Easter. Without the resurrection, a hard divide makes sense, but with the resurrection, the continuity between the two becomes inherently plausible. Or to put it another way, the resurrection is not some theological embroidery added to the story of the historical Jesus. No, it is the primary engine of the early church’s “high” Christology.

The bottom of line is simply this, namely that the hard division between historical events and their theological significance is a false dichotomy. There simply is no such thing as uninterpreted history; all historical events are immediately interpreted. The moment something happens, it is interpreted. The question, then, is not whether theology exists, but whether it faithfully corresponds to what actually occurred. In other words, theology is not the corruption of history; it is reflection upon it. And when it comes the person and work of Jesus, the Gospel accounts are just historical testimony that has been shaped by conviction. The faith of the early church was an organic and continuous development that grew out of the life and teaching of the historical Jesus, and the earliest confessions of Christ are best understood as historically grounded worship. If we separate the Jesus of history from the Christ of faith, the our faith becomes mere myth layered on memory. Jesus came incarnate at a particular time in a concrete place, and he was resurrected and he ascended to be seated at the right hand of the Father. And this is why both the history of Jesus and the faith of the early church matter. The one worshiped in the church is not a theological invention layered upon a forgotten Galilean. He is the crucified and risen Jesus of Nazareth. There is theological development, yes. There is interpretation, certainly. But there is no canyon between the Jesus who walked the hills of Galilee and the Christ that the church confesses as Lord. There is continuity — deep, historical, and theologically unavoidable continuity between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith.

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02/17/2026

On the Johannine Pentecost

By Phillip Powers

In John 20.19-23, Jesus appears in the upper room on the eve of his resurrection, and he breathes on the disciples saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” This is the so-called Johannine Pentecost, and at a glance, it would seem to contradict the very clear teaching of the book of Acts that the Spirit was given on the Day of Pentecost some 50 days after Jesus’s resurrection. If the events of that first Pentecost are understood as the climactic coming of the Spirit to indwell the followers of Christ, then Jesus’ giving of the Spirit in John 20.22 would seem to indicate that John (who was present at Pentecost) was hopelessly confused about the timeline. In the space the follows, I would like to suggest that John is not confused; rather, I think that John 20 presents Jesus’ giving of the Spirit as the breath of the new creation in fulfillment of Ezekiel’s restoration promises and in turn, it grounds the church’s corporate authority to forgive in the life of the risen Christ.

Of course, scholars and pastors have tried to resolve this tension in a variety of ways throughout the history of the church, and here I will identify just four. First, some suggest that the giving of the Spirit in John 20 is a kind of proleptic gift, a partial filling, that was meant to steel the disciples until the climactic coming of the Spirit 50 days later. Others suggest that John has theologized the giving of the Spirit by temporally relocating the event to the resurrection and directly connecting it with the risen Christ in light of his own “realized eschatology”. Still others suggest that John 20 functions as a kind of apostolic commission for the disciples which establishes their role as authoritative leaders in the early church. Finally, and this is my view, but the giving of the Spirit in John 20 should be understood as the inauguration of the age of the New Covenant/New Creation. This is not in contradiction to the Book of Acts and its descriptions of the Day of Pentecost. Rather, John has compressed these events theologically by linking the resurrection of Jesus with the concept of new creation, the giving of the Spirit, and the inauguration of eschatological life. He does this by alluding to the creation account in Genesis 1-2 and the New Covenant/Resurrection account in Ezekiel 36-37.

In John 20, the scene opens “On the first day of the week” (20.1), and this temporal note is repeated in our passage in 20.19, “when it was evening on the first day of the week.” This is a clear allusion to the first day of creation in Genesis 1. In other words, with the resurrection of Jesus comes a new first day, a new creation. This allusion is further confirmed by the fact that the scene takes place in a garden (19.31), and Mary mistakes the risen Christ for the “gardener” (20. 15). This is most likely a typological allusion to Christ as the second Adam. More significantly, we are told that Jesus “breathed on them.” The Greek word here (ἐνεφύσησεν ) is a verb that only occurs here in the New Testament. In the Greek translation of the Old Testament (LXX), in Genesis 2.7, we read that “The the Lord God formed the man out of the dust from the ground and breathed the breath of life into his nostrils, and the man became a living being.” In the same way (and with same word) that God breathed life into Adam, so also the risen Christ breathes life into his disciples. This is not just incidental language; the Evangelist has utilized this rare word intentionally, because he wants to connect the resurrection of Jesus with the new creation. When Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit on the disciples, they become participants in a new humanity.

However, there is another important Old Testament allusion that stands in the background of John 20, and that is the description of the New Covenant and the story of the Dry Bones in Ezekiel 36-37. In Ezekiel 36.26-27 (also 37.14), we read,

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will place my Spirit within you and cause you to follow my statutes and carefully observe my ordinances. 

And in Ezekiel 37.1-14, we read where Ezekiel is commanded to prophesy to the breath to “come from the four winds and breath (ἐμφύσησον) into these slain so that they may live.” In the same way that Ezekiel stood in the midst of the valley of dry bones and the dead came to life by the “breath/Spirit” of God, so also the risen Christ stands in the midst of his disciples who are “dead/paralyzed” in fear, and breathes into them the Spirit of life. Now, in the book of Ezekiel, these chapters drip with corporate overtones, particularly in regard to the restoration of the people of Israel. The dry bones coming to life is a symbol of national (and individual) resurrection and restoration, and the Johannine Pentecost symbolizes the eschatological restoration of the people of God, such that the 12 (or 11) disciples function as the nucleus of that people as a renewed Israel. The point is that John portrays the resurrection of Jesus as the moment when the promised Spirit of restoration becomes reality.

Now, it is important here that we stop and recall what John has already said back in John 7. 39, where we read, “Those who believed in Jesus were going to receive the Spirit, for the Spirit had not yet been given because Jesus had not yet been glorified.” This is the heart of John’s theology, namely that the glorification/exaltation of Christ comes in the crucifixion/resurrection of Jesus. We know this because, Jesus said in John 12:32, “As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” He said this to indicate what kind of death he was about to die.” The verbal idea of being “lifted up” refers both to the kind of death he would die but also to the idea of exaltation. Point being that in John 20, Jesus has now been glorified and so the Spirit can now be given as a sign of eschatological life.

However, there is one more problem in this passage. In verse 23, we read where Jesus tells the disciples, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” Of course, this language also occurs in the Gospel of Matthew, in Matthew 16:19 in Jesus words to Peter and then again in 18:18 in the context of the Community Discourse. Clearly, this is the language of commissioning and authority, but exactly what kind of authority is in view here is debated. Some (particularly in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions) understand these words to signify Apostolic/priestly authority to absolve sins. Others understand them to describe the authority of the church to announce the promise of forgiveness on the basis of the gospel. In my view, in the context of John 20, these words demonstrate that the Spirit-empowered community participates in the eschatological sorting of humanity. Forgiveness is determined by a person’s acceptance or rejection of the person and work of the Son (cf. John 3:18-21), but the church’s authority to forgive is part of its new-creation governance. In other words, just as the first humans were given dominion in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 1:28), so also the church as a new humanity is given Spirit-authorized responsibility as an agent of new-creation reconciliation. And John is clear that this authority is derivative, not autonomous; it flows from the risen Christ’s life and breath (i.e. Spirit).

In conclusion, then we must conclude that the Johannine Pentecost is not simply the relocation of the events of Acts 2; these are distinct narrative events serving distinct theological purposes. Whereas Acts emphasizes the public outpouring of the Spirit, the gift of tongues, and the church’s mission to the nations, John emphasizes the new creation, the restoration of the people of God, and ecclesial authority and identity. To put it more simply, John narrates the ontological beginning of the New Covenant age, and Luke narrates the Spirit-empowered expansion of the church’s mission. There is no contradiction; these are simply two theological angles on one redemptive reality. By tying his narrative to Genesis and Ezekiel, John gives us a theologically robust understanding of the significance of Christ’s resurrection. More importantly though, John 20.19-23 clearly demonstrates that the church exists because the risen Christ breathes his life into it. Its life is cruciform and Spirit-dependent, and its mission is one of reconciliation in the power of the new creation.

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