MetaCatholic

It seems to me that all too often, conservative and liberal share the same assumption in talking about the gospels. Early writings are held to carry a higher degree of historicity. Today Dan Wallace offered an initial post on the modern history of critical appraisal and dating of John. The idea that John was of little or no historical use certainly grew strongly in parallel with movements to date it late into the second century. Wallace relates how manuscript dating put paid to that, since we have a fragment of John earlier than the mid-second century, and possibly considerably earlier, as many readers will know. I don’t know where he will go with this idea, but there are hints that just as arguing for its lateness went hand in hand with doubting its historical value, so arguing for its early composition will strengthen its historical value.

In the same way Markan priority is often equated (perhaps subconsciously) with Markan historicity. Part of the mania for Q seem likewise concerned with constructing an earlier and more reliable (and more reliable because earlier?) source than the Synoptics. Likewise, and in face of some of the pained arguments, whether Thomas can be dated to the first century is a different question from whether it gets us any closer to the historical Jesus.

On the one hand the idea that early is more likely to carry historical memory is a reasonable starting assumption with which to explore the evidence, but it can’t overrule the character of the evidence: rather the evidence must be allowed to challenge the assumption. Luke, for example, makes an explicit claim that he has done detailed research and an implicit claim that he has found other earlier accounts (Matthew and Mark) unsatisfactory. The more we recognize Mark’s theological agenda, the less we can use the criterion of embarrassment to argue for the certain historicity of, say, the disciples’ thickness.

The fourth gospel is problematic – both assessing it in itself, and considering it in relationship to the synoptics, and in the face of such a complex work, its probable first century dating can say little enough about its historicity.

written by doug

Nathan Stitt points to a book that also comes as a free PDF and e-book. It’s on that hardy old perennial of the identity of the author of the fourth gospel. I’m never quite sure why that should excite more interest than the identity of the authors of any of the other three. Nor do I think it makes much difference if any to the significant questions of interpretation. But since Nathan described this book as making the case for Lazarus as “the beloved disciple” and the author of the gospel, I thought it would be worth a quick look (and a quick look is all I have given it). I’m afraid I find myself completely disagreeing with Nathan over the value of this book.

I should begin by coming clean about my own views. While I think John 21:24 identifies the beloved disciple as the key tradent for the gospel’s traditions, I think that is some step away from claiming him to be the author. I should also say that I regard the appellation “beloved disciple” as an implicit polemical claim to the superiority of the Johannine version of Christianity, especially vis-à-vis James and the Jerusalem church. (See here and here for a couple of previous posts that touch on this conjectural sectarianism.) I do not regard the term as part of a straightforward historical puzzle, so I’m not part of the natural audience for this book.

I must confess also, that without Nathan’s post, I would have written this book off if I had simply stumbled across it. Lots of underlining, shouty bold type, copious quotes from the KJV and the note that “References to the Greek text are from the Interlinear Greek-English New Testament, © 1981 by Baker Book House”: these things all conspire to prejudice me.

The problem is, the book’s arguments rather confirm all my prejudices. A large part of the book is devoted to arguments why the apostle John couldn’t have written the gospel. These include such gems as saying that if he had done, he would have included incidents like the transfiguration to which he was an eyewitness. Since John’s gospel noticeably omits the transfiguration, it can’t have been written by one who was there. This is not the world’s most impressive argument.

Mr Phillips (our author) also seems to be in two minds:

As stated earlier, the writer of this Gospel always described himself with phrases that avoided directly disclosing his identity. When one takes note of this, then mere dogmatic assertions regarding this author’s identity are likely to seem less convincing than they might have otherwise – since his identity is the very thing that God saw fit to have him conceal. (p7 pdf version)

He has a view of inspiration that makes him believe that the author concealed his identity as a matter of divine prompting. It leads me to wonder why, if God wanted the author’s identity concealed, Phillips is trying so hard to reveal it. The logic escapes me.

For a book which makes much of appealing to the Bible alone, it is surprising that the disciple whom Jesus loved is with no argument identified as the anonymous other disciple of John 18:15-16. It’s by no means an unreasonable or unusual conjecture (and I’m inclined to agree with it), but it’s far from certain fact. The beloved disciple is anonymous. The disciple with Peter is anonymous. Therefore they are the same person. The logic doesn’t quite work. You know you’re facing a dodgy argument when completely specious appeal is made to the Greek cribbed from an interlinear: ” The literal Greek says: “the other disciple” (Jn. 18:15) and “the disciple other” (Jn.18:16).” Yeah, that really proves the identification.

This is worth noting, since the author tries to build on it. His later argument (pp17-18) seems to have three elements:

• The other gospels never mention a particular disciple whom Jesus loves
• The other gospels specifically don’t mention him when we know he was present, like at Peter’s denial.
• The other gospels do mention John the son of Zebedee.

From these elements Phillips concludes that this somehow proves John is not the beloved disciple, and therefore not the author of the gospel. It is hard to take such fallacious reasoning seriously: it conflates the phrases “the other disciple” and  “the one whom Jesus loved” into a discrete identity, and assumes that this person can’t be someone referred to in another way in the Synoptics. Similar and equally fallacious arguments follow. They are predicated on a jigsaw-puzzle approach to the gospels, which assumes that we are dealing with identical literary material, describing exactly the same events, with the same intent, and that what we need to do is put them together. This, in my view, completely misses the point.

The idea that the gospels are a jigsaw puzzle to be pieced together continues even more bizarrely with arguments about the Last Supper which totally ignore the significant differences between the Synoptic and Johannine narratives. So he takes Mark 14:18-20: “And when they had taken their places and were eating, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.”  They began to be distressed and to say to him one after another, “Surely, not I?”  He said to them, “It is one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me.” He comments that the phrase “one of the twelve” must imply others present, because when Jesus addresses them directly in John 6:70, he says “you, the twelve”. This not only ignores the parallels in Mark between “one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me” and “one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me” but also ignores the way that Matthew edits this linguistic awkwardness out. (Luke does something else again.)

While it is historically likely that others, such as the women who travelled with Jesus, were present at the Last Supper, the gospel accounts imply a meal only with the twelve. While the fourth gospel’s narrative is different yet again, the foot-washing narrative does appear to make most narrative and dramatic sense if only the twelve are present. Phillips’ desire to smuggle others in, of course, is that it is essential to his argument that Lazarus is the beloved disciple. If the Last Supper is limited to the twelve, then Lazarus can’t possibly be he.

His next argument shows the danger of the person who thinks “the Bible alone” obviates the need for scholarship. The KJV is alone among English translations in taking John 13:2 καὶ δείπνου γινομένου as “And supper being ended”. This suits Phillips’ argument, for it allows him to reconcile the eucharistic picture of the synoptic tradition with the non-eucharistic picture of the fourth gospel, and keep putting that jigsaw together. But unfortunately he reveals his ignorance:

[Various Bible versions translate this verse differently because of conflicting interpretations of the Greek word tenses involved. However, the study of things like word tenses can often end up with us having to choose between the opposing opinions of Greek scholars. So instead, let’s look again to the Bible to learn what it can teach us.] (p 25)

We don’t have to choose between different interpretations of the Greek “word tenses”, because we can always just read the Bible! (And Jesus said unto them: you have heard it was said in the aorist, but I speak unto you in the present.) “Ended” does strike me as the least likely interpretation. Most translations settle for “during supper” or something similar. I would be more inclined to take it along the lines of “When it was supper time…”. It seems to me, again, that the foot-washing makes most sense as an action that precedes eating. (John 13:4 poses a hint of a problem for this, but need not be taken to imply a meal already in progress.)

The argument continues in like vein. And there are some right doozies in there, like the argument that Lazarus as the fourth evangelist paid particular attention to the linen cloths that had wrapped Jesus’ body, because he remembered what it was like to wake up wearing your burial shroud! Buried in this inanity are the two reasonable arguments for identifying Lazarus and the beloved disciple.

1. Lazarus is particularly introduced through the phrasing of Mary and Martha’s message (John 11:3): “κύριε, ἴδε ὃν φιλεῖς ἀσθενεῖ – Lord, he whom you love is ill”. How significant this is will depend in part on whether you think φιλέω and αγαπάω are synonymous. It is always the latter verb in references to the disciple whom Jesus loved. John 11:5 is yet another argument for thinking the only difference is stylistic: “ἠγάπα δὲ ὁ Ἰησοῦς τὴν Μάρθαν καὶ τὴν ἀδελφὴν αὐτῆς καὶ τὸν Λάζαρον.” (cf also John 11:36)
2. References to the disciple whom Jesus loved only begin to occur after the raising of Lazarus has introduced the character precisely as someone whom Jesus loves. This does seem to me to disregard the paucity of references: John 13:23, John 19:26, John 20:2, John 21:7,20. There simply aren’t enough references, either to the character, or to specific disciples to say whether the character is only introduced half-way through, though it offers support to the argument from how Lazarus is introduced.

For me, unfortunately, Phillips has so many daft arguments that stronger ones take on the overall inanity of the rest. There is half a case to be made that Lazarus is the beloved disciple within the narrative of the gospel. But when it is presented by so many specious arguments, it is hard to take seriously. It is important, thought, to bracket this from any question of authorship. Luke’s account of Martha and Mary (Luke 10:38-42) calls the historicity of Lazarus into question, as does the way in which his resuscitation becomes in the fourth gospel the motivation for the crucifixion, and makes him also a target for execution (John 12:10). When one moves beyond identifying Lazarus with the beloved disciple to identifying him as the fourth evangelist, that becomes a serious question mark.

It is hard, in short,  to see that the argument is strong enough to overturn the early tradition that associates the fourth gospel with John the Apostle, even if this seems to be confused in the memory with John the elder. For Phillips, any argument from tradition is as suspect as one from the Greek. Catholic tradition and grammatical knowledge alike detract from sola scriptura. But it should not be so for the rest of us. It is possible that early church tradition relies as much on plausible deduction as we do, but it is not unreasonable to see some strength to this particular tradition. It is also hard to imagine that as unknown a figure as Lazarus should appear to be a rival for Peter in some circles, which seems to be the implication of the narrative.

I must conclude that the beloved disciple remains an enigmatic character in the fourth gospel, but seeing the appellation as the way in which the community of John the elder has characterised John son of Zebedee their founding apostle seems still to make the best sense of both tradition and narrative.

written by doug

Various blogs are noting the death of Krister Stendahl. There are comparatively few books that come to be seen as discipline-altering and influential decades after their publication. There are even fewer articles /lectures, but his “Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West” is one of them – possibly the most significant. What would Pauline studies look like today if he’d never written it? How many other articles can you say that about?

written by doug

The blogabout boxing match on 1 Corinthians 9:27 continues. To the blogs referenced in yesterday’s post, you can now add (at least) David Ker now lingering in Better Bibles, ElShaddai Edwards, and that most perspicacious and pugnacious pugilist John Hobbins.

I repeat yesterday’s defensive block first. Despite everything everyone else is saying, I always called my rendition a paraphrase, not a translation. Take that into account.

Interestingly, David and John seem to take opposite sides on one key point. David thinks that

The reason this word [ὑπωπιάζω] gets used in such different contexts is that the word is a dead metaphor, or “semantically bleached” (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase on a blog). And further proof of this is that Paul collocates it with “body” which would really be strange: “I hit myself on the face my body.”

By contrast, John clearly wishes to translate it as a live metaphor, by a corresponding metaphor, though he doesn’t like the one of my original paraphrase. After toying with his son’s “bust my butt” he settles for “break my body”. The problem is that the former is as AmE as my “ponce” was BrE¹, and the latter, as far as I know, simply isn’t an English metaphor, nor does it seem to me vivid enough to become one.

Is it a live metaphor or a dead one? If we only had the use of it in Luke 18:5 we would, I think conclude that it was indeed pushing up the linguistic daisies, and nailed to the semantic perch. If we only had the use in 1 Cor 9:27, then I think, seeing it amidst all those other agonistic metaphors, we would think it was not so much pining for, but avidly looking forward to a frolic in the poetic fjords.² Even if it had become a dead metaphor, we would have to think there was at least the possibility of its metaphorical roots being raised from the dead by Pauline punning. So if we think, as I do, that in context it is probably impossible completely to ignore the metaphor implicit in its etymology, we may still want to argue for a far less precise English equivalent, since there are some grounds for thinking the metaphor is imbued by contextual and etymological pun rather than customary contemporary usage.

In which case we have now been give a wide range of metaphors to choose from in posts and comments. Of them, the one made so far that strikes me as the most common idiom is a variant on Peter Kirk’s suggestion in a comment. He suggested “I bust my gut” but I would say “I bust a gut” is more idiomatic. If one wishes for a less colourful yet still colloquial alternative, I would suggest “I push myself hard”: it loses the sense of bruising or breaking, but maintains the sense of hard competition, and given the argument above ought certainly to be an acceptable alternative metaphor.

Translating a metaphor remains a knotty problem. While I think it well worth the effort of finding equivalent metaphors that work naturally in the target language, I think there are also occasions when the original metaphor is so striking, we may legitimately translate it term for term. The English language has been immeasurably enriched by the willingness of Tyndale and the KJV among others to do just that.

1. for those not in the know, Am(erican) E(nglish) and Br(itish) E(nglish) [↩]
2. All references to Monty Python’s Dead Parrot Sketch [↩]

written by doug

The conversation about 1 Corinthians 9:27 seems to be growing. See TC, Nathan (and again) and my previous post. Now the pugilistic Peter Kirk has stepped into the ring, and I need to exchange a few punches with him. He’s aided by John Hobbins, who doesn’t like my suggestion, but has only said so in a comment on Peter’s blog and not here. I’m sure this is against the Marquess of Queensbury’s blog rules.

First a defensive block: please note that I offered what I did explicitly calling it a paraphrase, so critique it on those grounds and not, strictly speaking, a translation.

Now on to the meat of it. One of Peter’s key points is about principle. It is possible, he suggests to take my English metaphors literally. It seems to me that if that is a valid objection we had all better stop using metaphors, since most can be taken literally by someone. Six days of creation, anyone? Son of God? Peter claims that no-one could possible take Paul’s “I bruise my body / give myself a black eye” literally. I suggest that those who have indulged in corporeal self-mortification have done just that.

Peter’s own “literal translation” of this verse is: “I give my body a black eye and lead it in slavery”. The problem I have with this is twofold, and both objections are exegetical.

The controlling metaphor which overarches the whole section is one of competitive participation in the games. If this is what people are prepared to put up with to win a paltry prize, how much more discipline should Christians put into winning the refulgent rewards of righteousness! I simply fail to see how giving ὑπωπιάζω its simplest meaning easily fits that overarching metaphor. It is possible that Paul’s language is confused. It is also possible that he draws on its extended semantic field, which my paraphrase suggests. We need not stray very far. Hard training, particularly in practice bouts, could easily lead to “accidental” black eyes on the part of the one in training. We could stray a lot further. The importunate widow of Luke 18:5 is hardly in the business of giving the unjust judge a black eye. Personally, I think the training metaphor keeps us nearer the core usage, but we need to recognise that the word is used in a wider range of metaphorical contexts, with less precise meaning.

My second objection is in considering the straightforward sense of these verses if they are taken as “”I give my body a black eye and lead it in slavery”. If this is the case, Paul is characterising the body as an enemy to be fought against, and conquered. Certainly this dualist view of the body has regularly appeared both in the interpretation of Paul and in the Christian tradition more widely. I am unconvinced that it is an accurate interpretation of Paul, whose view of the body, while not remotely hedonistic, is more positive than the Platonism of σῶμα σῆμα (the body is a tomb). Again, it is possible that Paul is inconsistent, but when two interpretations are equally possible, I prefer the one that is most consistent with what Paul says elsewhere.

And I think I’m winning on points.

written by doug

Nathan is posting regularly on his learning of Greek. I’m sure that’s going to be helpful to all sorts of other people. Most recently he’s been getting down to it with the BAGD – the big boys’ lexicon. His particular examination raises some questions in my mind. The verses he is looking at are interesting in themselves.

24 Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it.  25 Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one.  26 So I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air;  27 but I punish my body and enslave it, so that after proclaiming to others I myself should not be disqualified. (1 Corinthians 9:24-27 NRSV)

24 Οὐκ οἴδατε ὅτι οἱ ἐν σταδίῳ τρέχοντες πάντες μὲν τρέχουσιν, εἷς δὲ λαμβάνει τὸ βραβεῖον; οὕτως τρέχετε ἵνα καταλάβητε.  25  πᾶς δὲ ὁ ἀγωνιζόμενος πάντα ἐγκρατεύεται, ἐκεῖνοι μὲν οὖν ἵνα φθαρτὸν στέφανον λάβωσιν, ἡμεῖς δὲ ἄφθαρτον.  26  ἐγὼ τοίνυν οὕτως τρέχω ὡς οὐκ ἀδήλως, οὕτως πυκτεύω ὡς οὐκ ἀέρα δέρων·  27  ἀλλὰ ὑπωπιάζω μου τὸ σῶμα καὶ δουλαγωγῶ, μή πως ἄλλοις κηρύξας αὐτὸς ἀδόκιμος γένωμαι.

The passage is replete with metaphors drawn from the experience of (especially) the Isthmian games which Paul may have experienced first hand.¹ The use to which he puts them is loose enough to invite caution. He is clearly not intending to suggest that only one person can achieve salvation. The passage as a whole suggests that his emphasis is on training rather than competing, and the key idea controlling the later metaphors is that “athletes exercise self-control”. The exercises described in vv26-27 are, it seems to me, best understood as part of the gymnasium training package. That is part of what makes the passage so interesting. Paul shows no sign of discomfort with the imagery of the gym, but seems at ease in the culture. (The other part of what makes it interesting, of course, is the immediacy of this kind of imagery for today’s fitness-obsessed society of largely unfit people.)

It is the training metaphor, therefore, that renders translations of verse 27 like RSV “I pommel my body” or NIV “I beat my body” and Nathan’s own “I black my eyes” so dubious. It’s indisputable that ὑπωπιάζω does mean “give someone a black eye” but the phrase makes little sense if it is taken literally. No-one in training injures themselves on purpose. Incidentally, this also means the verse gives no real support to the use of the flagellum or cilice. A literal meaning is often not a nuance of a colloquial meaning, but a distraction from it.

Without my trying to offer an exact translation, it seems to me that the heart of these closing verses is best captured by a paraphrase something like this:

“I don’t jog around taking my eye off the ball, nor do I ponce about shadow-boxing. Instead I put my body through a punishing training schedule, so that I don’t become one of those who tell others what to do, but themselves collapse before the finishing line.”

1. Murphy O’Connor St Paul’s Corinth (1983) p 16 [↩]

written by doug

Nick Norelli persuades me that I should add Bauckham’s book to my reading list. But on the issue of the foot-washing I have a few questions.

Does Bauckham argue that Jesus at some point in his ministry washed the feet of one or more of his disciples, or does he argue that on the night he was betrayed Jesus washed the feet of the Twelve? It seems to me possible, in the light of the rest of the gospel tradition to make a case for the former being historical. These are, I think, very different questions. I am willing to entertain the possibility of the former. I am doubtful of the historicity of the latter.

There are serious questions to put against the historicity of the event as it is presented:

• The version in the Synoptics of the “institution of the Eucharist” (anachronism) is supported by Paul, our earliest witness. The foot-washing is effectively an alternate action, and although set at a meal, the meal content provided in our other witnesses is entirely omitted. Any account of John’s narrative has to as much account for this omission as explain this addition.
• John evidences a willingness to divorce historical events from their historical position to serve a theological agenda. His placement of the “cleansing of the temple” story evidences this most clearly. Historically it is easy to see this event as a proximate cause of the crucifixion, and very difficult to see the raising of Lazarus taking its place. John may well build on events recorded in the common Jesus tradition, but he does so in a most uncommon way.
• While there is evidence of a foot-washing ritual within the early Christian centuries, I am unaware of any evidence that places it so early as to have any chance of being independent of the Fourth Gospel. Isn’t it more plausible that churches that valued this gospel also valued this tradition?

Now it might be that Bauckham answers these questions, although I get the impression from Nick’s review that he doesn’t. But I think that they need answering before any claim to historicity is remotely persuasive.

written by doug

… see the extremely helpful blogging by Tim Ricchiuti of the recent forum with Bart Ehrman, Dan Wallace and David Parker inter alia. He gives an index of his rolling posts throughout the forum here. Thanks Tim.

written by doug

Mike Bird posts a good summary of the mixed motives of Luke-Acts. One bit I would like to query is the continuing repetition of the phrase “salvation history”. It’s not so much that it’s inaccurate, but I am beginning to think it’s misleading. As normally used it continues to carry overtones of Conzelmann’s idea that Luke locates Jesus in “Die Mitte der Zeit” — the midpoint of time. In my view, Luke does not have this kind of temporal continuum in mind. His thought is more apocalyptic than that.

Whereas a heavenly journey towards understanding is a common motif, Luke brackets the earthly journey of Jesus (which is a journey towards his disciples’ understanding, and the consummation of his task) with the conversation on the mount of transfiguration at its start (Luke 9:31) and the acclamation of heavenly peace at its end (Luke 19:38). Luke is the only evangelist to specify that Jesus’ journey and “exodus” are the topic of conversation with the heavenly guides, Moses and Elijah. He equally edits the triumphal entry conversation to include the “Peace in heaven” echo of the angels’ song at Jesus’ birth. Within the narrative of the journey, when the disciples (a wider circle of them too) take up the mission successfully, Jesus in apocalyptic vision sees Satan fall from heaven.

Now yes, this is in part Luke’s recasting of things to dampen expectations of an imminent parousia, but it seems to me that what Luke is doing is not creating a theology of time, but locating the beginnings of the new creation within the history of the old one. Luke is turning the Pauline “now and not yet” into historical narrative.

written by doug

I want to pull a quick thread out of the comments on yesterday’s round-up. (You can skip below the quotes if you’re in a hurry.) In the course of the post I said:

Soloveichik says: “When someone asserts divinity, his interlocutor has only two options: Believe, obey, and worship, or back away slowly.” But did the historical Jesus assert such a thing, and what, in any case would it have meant in context?

Justin queried this in the comments:

You do not believe the historical Jesus claimed divinity? What do you make of John 10:30 or John 8:58?

I replied that I saw those verses as part of the evangelist’s creative meditation on the significance of Jesus, and then Michele of Reformed Chicks Blabbing asked in another comment:

How can you be sure? What is your proof? Are you denying that the interaction with the Jews took place? Or just the words that John attributed to Jesus.

Part of me was a bit surprised to be asked these questions, because I’m so used to reading and describing John as a highly creative narrative in my preaching and teaching as well as in my own thinking. The primary indicator seems to me to be style, and in particular the piecing together of two fairly obvious points:

• The style of Jesus’ speech in John is quite different from that of the Synoptic Jesus.
• The style of Jesus speech is of a piece with the style of the narrator.

The conclusion that the author is creatively writing Jesus’ speeches seems to me to follow fairly logically. This dovetails with the way in which the content and focus of these speeches are declarations – testimony – about Jesus’ identity and purpose. By contrast, in the Synoptics Jesus speech about himself is elliptical, ambiguous and riddled with riddles, and the main content is not himself, but the kingdom of which he sees himself as something like an inaugurating agent, a vehicle of the active presence of God restoring his people. (Begging about a million historical questions!) The rather strange conflict over exorcism that leads to the “blasphemy against the Spirit” saying (Matt 12:31 and parallels) is one of several texts that suggest Jesus saw this ambiguity as an intentional strategy to make space for God’s revelation.

Another pointer to the stylised nature of the dialogues in the gospel — well they’re often really monologues with prompts — is precisely at the heart of part of Michele’s question. Am I denying that “the interaction with the Jews took place”? This concept of “the Jews” is itself a highly stylised presentation. I do not think it can simply be explained by translating it as the “Judaeans” in contradistinction to the Galilean movement of Jesus. Its strangeness is well illustrated by the raising of Lazarus episode. Bethany, after all, is firmly located in Judaea, and the narrative seems fairly clear that is as as much the hometown of Martha, Mary and Lazarus as Nazareth is Jesus’. Yet, we read, “many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother.” (John 11:19) Quite frankly, however, you translate it, this makes little geographical or historical sense, and the descriptor “the Jews” has to be read as a phrase describing a collective character in the Johannine narrative. This character stands in for diverse real people who had real doubts and questions about, or conflicts with, Jesus. But the drawing of the character is also coloured by the conflicts experienced at the time the gospel was written. The conflicts themselves are therefore equally stylised representations.

Leaving aside all the complicated philosophical stuff that is too much for a simple brain like mine, one reason the C. S. Lewis style “mad, bad or God” apologetic doesn’t work is that Jesus didn’t run round saying all those “I am …” claims that he makes in John’s gospel. The speech of Jesus in the gospel is largely a stylised representation of Jesus’ significance, given narrative form within the newly established genre of gospel, and I think, intentionally to supplement at least one of those prior gospels.

written by doug