TOM THATCHER
. ._. . . Jo n
._.'fL a Gos e JESUS
MEMORY
HISTORY
Why John Wrote a Gospel
WHY JOHN WROTE A GOSPEL J esus-Mem ory-History
Tom Thatcher
if) 200610m T llatd1cr
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ISBN- 13: 978-0-66+-22905-4 ISBN- 10: 0-664-11905-0
Contents
Prescript: \Vhy Ask \Vhy Jo hn \\'rotc a Gospel? or, \Vhat Difference Docs This Make?
ix
Part Om:: The Quc:.tion- \\'hy \\'rite :1 Gospel? I : \Vhy Did .John Wrirr a Gospel? 2: \\'riting as Archive: The Founh Gu~pcl and the 1\lcdidnc of 1\lcrnory
1\m 1\ro: Joh n's .\ \emory of Jesus 3: The Persistence of J ohn '~ .\\emo ry +Writing as Rhcwric: The Fourth Gospel in Jo hn's 1\ lcdia Culture Pout Three: The t\h:mory \Vars: Bent Frameworks, Countermcmorics, AmiCh ristianiry 5: John 's 1\l emory Frumework 6: One \\'ay lbd: to ' J'\ro Places: AntiChristian Countcrmcmory i: jcsus Now ami Then : John 's Dogm:uic ,\\cmorv 8: AmiChrisrian J\lystictl !\lcmory~ . Pan Four: The Ans\\cr-.\lcmory and l listory 9: ~E\'Cf)'thing That Ri se~ 1\l ust Comcrgc : The Pri\':ate Past in 1\l cmory
II
21 .?3 37
51 53 69 83 93 103 105
viii
Contents
10: Beyond the Scope of the Present Study: The Public Past in History Books 11 : Why j ohnWrmeaGos pc1 Postscript: The Original Quest for a Historical J esus Abbre\•iations Notes Works Cited Index
12 5 145 157
169 171 \ 83
189
Prescript
Why Ask Why John Wrote a Gospel? or, What Difference Does This Make?
About halfway through my work on this m:muscript, I bcbr:1n to rea lize that :1 book so short and so sweeping would need many C;II"C:as, or at least some contc:nualization. But rather th:ul couchin g such comments in mctiHxlologic:tl digressions, long histories of research, :~ nd dense footnot es, I decided tha t it woul
thinking in
:1
prcf.Jce. \Vhat fo llows here, then, is the series of steps that
brought me t O this j)()int, refracted through the lens of my 011 n umlcrst:mding of the problems undcrconsi
ix
Prescript elevated all four to a point of authority at lc;tst equal to the texts of the Ch ristian canon-iJl(leed, superior to those texts, as the lens through which I viewed almost everything in the Bible. Doubtless because of my b'l"eat awe in the presence of this pantheon, I cannot remember the contents of any of their presentations. I do, however, clearly recall the last ten minutes of the "open discussion" at the end of the meeting, after all members of the general audience except myself and a b>'UY from New Zealand had left the room. I remember those dosing moments, because in them I was privileged to ask Prof. Kelber a <JUestion , and he actually took time to answer. " Professor Kelber," I asked, "what difference would Mark's o ri brinal :wdi ence have seen between his Gospel and the oral traditions he used? In other words, what did he th ink was going to hapJ>cn with all this information, o nce he wrote it down?" My irHJuiry went something along those lines, but was probably actually much less coherent. I was nervous and in:trticulate. I have since learned that Graham Stani'On ha
C the trndicion irsclf and the church's reception of that tradition , th e C hristian understanding ofjesus? For if the transition to literacy is of no interpretive value- if the production of the Gos1>els is insignifiealll to tl1e naru re of the contents of tl1ose texts-then the interpretive sign ificance of Mark's cOm]>OSit.ion history is exhausted by a si mple fonn-critical chronology of the development of"the tradition," with the written text as the fina l link in the chai n. Once the line from j esus through tr:ldition tO written text has been drawn, the bra me is O\'er- unftss there is something inherently Sib'llificant in the very act of writing j esus' story, someth ing that wm1ld maL:e us read the Gospels in a different way. And for me, it was and is im]>Ossible to th inL: that this move from the gos]>elto a Gos]>el was not perceived to I>C signifiC'.tnt by the early Christians. Admitted !)', all these broader implications were not entirely clear to me at the moment I asked Prof. Kell>er my seminal question . Yet I remember his answer word for word: " I'm not yet sure how to answer that." And I am certain now that this w;ts not because Prof. Kel ber did not know how to answer, but simply because 1didn't know how to ask. Since that time, I have been seeking for a better way to I>Ose the question. I share this experience to identify the constellation of interpretive problems that has been at t.he forefront of my thinking for the past decade, the core constellation that underlies the book you arc now reading. I became interested in folkloristics and ora lity theory during my b st rear of seminary, and since that time 1 have been on :1 <JUCSt for the answers to two basic CJ uescions. First, \Vhy
Prescript did 1\ lOint to a solution , their inherent limi r:nions torment :tny student of Christian origin<> who tries to harness them. Spcci lic:llly, while contemporary fo lkloristics emphasizes the significa nce of the :mswer to my first question -~ometh ing very import:mt tlors happen in the ~hift from tr:adirion ru text- it doesn't provide that :tnswer. Ruth Finncg.m and J ohn i\ lilcs Foley c:ut tell biblical scholars 1\ h~· the rr.u1~ition from orality to litcr.K'}' i ~
xii
Prescri pt
important , and what o r.~ I tr.~diti on s look like before and after specific performances arc committed to writing, but we obviously cannot expect them tO work out all the impl ications of their conclusions for pro blems in our own field. Even worse, many folklori srs refuse l O answer my second question out of humble admission that they don't h:ave the right tools for the job. T hey're interested in how traditions work, not necessarily in whether I>Cople who tell traditional stories are actually relating "faels" about the past. As an inter-pretive method, folkloristics gave me :a glimpse of the promised land but left me to die on the moumain, forever seeing yet blind to the specific reasons why the Gospels were written and what difference it makes to interpretation. Aside from my inabili ty to make my methods answer my questions, my journey has been hindered by the many trnps and snares that lie in that part of the ca non where I spend most of my ti me. Vl hile most J>eople have approached my b'lt iding problems through J\1\ark, almost at the very beginning my pursuit took a stra nge turn through the dark woods of the Gospel of J olm. Truthfully, I was never that interested in the j o hanninc literature, bur my doctoral adviser, Cer-J id Borchert, was working on a commentary onJohn, and his enthusiasm and the convenience of following behind him leel " and posntrcd it as a supplement to the Synopt:ics- both a supplement to the content ofJ esus' story, providing information the others deleted, and, more important, a sort of theological supplement to the others, revea ling the deep spirituaVchristological truth behind the cvenrs of history. The most remarkable thing abom C lement's postulate is the fact that it smnds as the majority view to this day. Indeed, it is hard to identify any thesis in any academic discipline that has held consensus so long as C lement's claim that J ohn is a "spiritual gospel" (although of course our modern understandings of that moniker differ somewhat from Clement's emphasis). And the durability of th is thesis problematizes any attempt tO say anythi ng about the interface between Jo hn 's J esus tradition :and Lhe text of the Fourth Gos1x:l, simply because scholars have had difficulty identifying parts of this "spiritual" text that might reflect traditional content. That is, scholars have had :1 hard time detennining what pa rts of the Gospel of J ohn are "traditional" in any sense of the word, as o pposed to th ings the author simply worked up out of his theological im:agination.
xiv
Prescript
As the name of the discipline suggcslS, Social Memory theory is essentia lly concerned with the social dimensions of memory, specifically with the wa}'S th:n present social realities impact the way that groups envision and use the past. "Memory" is taken in the broadest ]>Ossible sense here to include any means by which groups ancmpt lO preserve the past, construct the past, or evoke the past, includingoraltr.aditio ns, rituals, trends and styles, bodily pr.actices and habits, and written texts. Social approaches to memory arc grounded on at least two key premises: fi rst, that " rcmeml>cringn is a complex pheno menon that can not IJc reduced 10 the recall of data br isolated individuals; second, that the interplay between the past and present understandings of the past is always a complex pheno menon, and ultimately a group phenomenon. As such, Social Memory theory dr.aws its energy, insighlS, and vocabulary from a wide range of fields, including psycholob'Y• sociology, ant.hro1>0logy, neu rolOb'Y· linguistics, philosophy, and history-basically, any disci pline that deals in any way with anything that human IJcings do with the past. I realized immediately that th is approach held the key to my <1ucst, because it suddenly became possible 1'0 view the guiding questions from a new angle. Social Memory theory seemed especi:11ly relevant to the Jo hannine tr.adition, because j ohn himself uses "memory" and the rcl:ned term "wirness" to describe the connection between his Gospel and the historical j esus. Since my initiation into the mysteries of this new discipline, my thinking about John and his tr.adition has followed the lines of three new and improved <JUCstions. First, what is "memory," and what docs john mean when he talks about the disciples' "memories" of j esus or "wimess" to j esus? Second, ifthat's what "memory" is, wh:u is " history," and how do written history books relate 1'0 living memories (what bibli c~ l scholars gcner.ally c~ ll "tradition ")? Are history books, like the Gospel of J o hn , the same as memory-just a permanent version of recollections lhat people have stored in their br.ains? Or arc they somet hing else? Third, if history books and memory differ, why do people write history books? H'hat 's the J>Oint of doing that? \\'h)• write a book about Jesus? Essentially, these three <Juestions h:we led me to conceptualize my ongoing pursuit in a differcm wa}', which boils down to approaching the problem of tradition a1Hi text from the opposite direction. In other words, I real ized that 1 had been working with ~ model of tradition that moved fro m j esus to memory ro tr.aditions to written Gospels, an approach I inherited from my parents and gr.andJla rents in the gt•ild of biblical srudies. But from the perspective of the acmal evidence, this approach looks at the problem backward. Fo r the si ngle indisputable piece of dat:t about the Johannine J esus tr.adirion (or the Markan j esus tradition, or the Manhea n, or the T homasine) is this: somrbody nt wmr poilll i11 timr tlrcidrtl ro 7Jl1itr rb11t trmlitioll dow11 i11 a book.
Prescript This poim has become so sign itic:m tto my thinking th:H I nee([ to unp:1ck it a biL The single thing we can pro\·c about :my ancicm Gospel, the single historical Etct that we can know with absolute certa inty, is that some e:1rly Christi:tn decided to write his or her thoughts about jesus down on paper. As such, the only absolutely firm starting point fo r irwestig;nion docs nor lie with Jesus, theJe ~ us tradition, or d1e history of the early church; the o nly finn sta rt ing point li e~ at the other end of the line, with the existence of the written texts themselves. \Vh:n wou ld hapJ>en, I wondered, if I start('d my inquiry imo the G ospel of J ohn from that single. certain Etct and worked backward? Specifically, what happens if the irwcstig:nion s!'arted not with questions about Jesus or or.J l tr.Jditions, but r.1ther with the question, \Vhy did j ohn- living as he did in a cu lture where most people couldn't read, fewer could write, and no one rebrrcttcd that f:!ct at :tl l- write(lown his ideas about J esus? \Vhy did John write Cst efforlS to suppress them. I suppress them simply becmse I do n't think dtey would impact my conclusions ei ther way, hut you may think they're more illljlOrtant rh:tn th:u. In any case, perhaps by bringi ng them into the liglu at this early stage I c 1n J>CTSuadc them 10 go back to the closet mail we're done. First, my current \'iew of the authorshi p of the Fourth GoSJ>cl: I think that the Hdo\·cd Disciple, who apJ}C:lfS in the upper room the night before J esus' death and at se\"er.J l other places in the Go:.pcl ofjohn, w:ts a rcaiJ>erson, albe it po rtrayed now :ts a leb<endary fib•ure to meet ~pccific needs in the Fourrh Evangelist's situation . In my view, this Beloved Disciple, whose specific identity is of Jl (l s ignifi~nce to rny argurncut, was ;I n associate of the historical J esus ;tnd the source of the information in the Founh Gosj>el. at least the bulk of it . I am gener..tlly inclined, :u the prcscm time, to think that this J>erson is probably also the mysterious "Elder" mentioned in 2 John and 3 J ohn. I do not, howe\'er, l>elie\·e that this person ';wrore"the Gospel of John , any more th;m I thin k that Pilate took a piece of cha rcoal :1rul'\vrotc" ~ INRI " on J esus' cross Qohn 19:ll). I t;1kc the wonl "wrote" at John 2 1:1-l :ts synmt~·mous with modern uses of the word
xvi
Prescript
"published." Tholt is, if you were to say that "Thatcher published a book on memory and history inJolm," no one would mke that tO mean tlmt I did all the proofreading, desib'lted the cover, bound the book, and distributed it. I did "write" this book, bml did not produce the physical product that you now hold in your hands, and, for all you know, I didn't C\·cn type it. The statement lhar I "wrote" lhis book simply means that I was responsible fo r irs comems. Sim ilarly, I think that the Beloved Disciple was responsible for at least the bulk of the Fourth Gospel 's content, and that one or severa l of his followers, whom I here (collectively) call "John," was/were the person(s) who actually wrote down lhe Gospel of John and published it among the Johannine churches (at least among theJohannine churches who were willing to listen to it). \oVltcther or not John used sources other than lhe Beloved Disciple-a Signs Gospel, or the Synoptics, or a Sayings Source, or other free-floating om] traditions-! do not know for certain butwm1ld general ly say, "I doubt it," and would certainly say, "\oVe can't prove it from the text ifh c/shelthey did. " As a genera l mle, I tend 1'0 say " I doubt it" about things that can't be proved with certainty from the text-meaning, of course, "certain" to me. Hut I would also say, in tenns of this particular study, "This issue makes no difference whatsoe\'Cr," because J>Crsonal recollections, reporrs from eyewitnesses, and documen ta ry sources ;t rc all facers of the same jewel within the lheoretical orientation of this book. I need to stress this point, because I want to make it clear from the outset that the conclusions I advocate here would, in my view, remain rcle\':lnt reg-ardless of one's SJ>ecific \•iews of the Fourth Gospel's authorship. Srtecifically, I am interested in lhe shift from memory/tradition to wriuen text that produced lhe Fourth Gospel and in the motives beh ind that shi ft, and every approach w the authorship question has to deal with that issue. Many scholars today support versions of the traditional view that the Fourlh Evangelist was a direct associate of j eS\IS, J>Crha]>S the aJ>Ostle John, and that the Fourth Gospel is this person's autobiograph ical memoir. Yet even in this model, the Gospel of John is placed at the end of a long period of oral preaching and is treated as a reposimry for a primitive witness to Jesus, generally with no specific e.\:pbnation of why John evenmnlly felt compelled to commit his vision to writing. 1 The present book also seeks to transcend the problem of possible literary sources. Advoco1tes of the view that John utilized wri uen sourceswhether the Srnoptics or sources now lost- believe thar materials from these sources were revised, conflated, and supplemented in tl1e production of the Fourth Gospe1.4 lfdtis is indeed what hap]>ened, it remains relevant to ask why John felt it necessary to produce a new written Gospel thar would combine infonnation culled from a Signs Gospel or the Gospel of Luke or other documents with supplementa l traditional m:ttcria l. Essentially, I am concerned
Prescript
xvii
wi th John's recycling of rr:adition:tlm:ttcri:t ls :and the motives behiml his decision to comm it these tr:adition:tlmateri:tls tO writing, rqprdless of the specific source (or;.tl, written, or person:al recollection) of :any p:trticubr unit of that tr;.tdition. Second, from time to time you mar wonder wh:at any of this might say about the ""historicity" of the Gospel of J ohn or of specific sections of that text. \ Vhilc I will talk ahout John 's historic:a l consciousness, this hook does not adtlrcss rhc historicity issue, not even implicitly, and no pou·t of my argument should be taken as :m attempt to support or challenge :my of John's claim~ about J esus. As l noted, m~· thinking here is dri\·en prim:l rily by contemporary approaches 10 or;.tl tradition and ancient liter:u:y and by th:n br:mch of Socia] ,\ \emory theory th:n focuses on the politics of eotnmemor.ttion, what's :H st:tke in the ways we construct im:agcs of the past. These methods do not and, in my view, c:mnot sa~· :tn}'thing definit ive :about the historicity issue, :although their irnplic:ttions could doubtless be developed in th:tt el wri ter was doi ng. J\ 1 ~· ])Oint in this book is not nccessaril~· to affirm that m;trgin:tlization no r ro counrer it, but r:ather to expl:!in wh:H John thought ··memories" :t bout J esus were, how those memories :tre rclateermit me to mention o nly a few of them: Alan Kirk, my good friend :and colleab'lte who introduce(! me to Social ,\ \emory theory and who is, in so m:any w:tys, a wonderful person; Dick Horsley. who has encour:~gcd hoth Abn ami rne immensely with his gr:1cious emhusi:brn :md whose l'ision opened my eyes
xviii
Prescript
to the potential of this approach; Barry Schwartz, who has invested a remarkable amount of time in my undersmnding and who has bruided me on the journey through memory and ke pt me honest all the while; Gerald Borchert, my Do~·torvfftrr, who introduced me to thc J ohannin e literature and ro whom I am forever grateful for !,'11idancc at a key junctu re in my career; \-Verner Kelber, who left footprints big enough fo r so many of us to walk in; Robert Fortna and Bob Kysa r, who arc 1'\1-'0 of the best men alive today, and whose wisdom has been my 1,ruiding light on many occasions. 1 must also thank the library staff at the College of Nit. St. J oseph in Ci nci nnati for being my gracious hosts as 1 worked on this project. Actua lly, I never told them who I was, and I know they often wondered about me as 1 came into the library day after day in the middle of summer and in the dead of winter breaks, when no other living soul disn1rbed their secret work among the books. I should have introduced myself, but quiet places arc so hard to find these days, and I didn't want to loose that sanctuary. Let me now say to all of yo u Mount people how much I appreciated your hospital ity. Finally, in this and everyth ing I am fo rever thankful to, and grateful for, my wife Becky, my son Aaro n, and my daughter J uli e, who arc truly and in so many ways the only reasons 1 am :1livc totLly.
PA RT I
T he Question-Why Write a Gospel?
Why Did John vVrite a Gospel?
This hook will offer a new answer to the question, \Vhy did John write a Gospel? In tr:Jdi tionnl cncgories of :m:~lysis, such as we find in study Bibles and :lt rhe beginning of cornrncnt:Jrics, this concern gcncr:Jily f.JIIs under rhc hc:1ding "purpose." \Vhat was J ohn's purpose in , or reason for, producing this text? Olwiously, this is not :1 new topic or a nO\' CI problem, and in one sense this study is just another pebble in the mountain of recent ;JttcmpL~ ro reco nstruct rhe b;Kkground of the Johanninc literature. T he huge num ber of essays, monographs, :md inrrodm:tory chapters prO
Why john Wrote a Gospel point of depamtre the single indisputable fact about the Fourth Gospel's historical background: that j ohn decided to commit his view of the gospel, his version of j esus' stOI)', to writing. This concrete block of foundational data will be treated here as a natural law, buttressed by a hypothesis that, though theoretically subject to
'--:.==---------'
over the identity of its protagonist- is, in itself, sufficient to generate a definitive thcol)' about t.he purposes of the Fourth Gospel. This is especially the case when these two f.tcts arc viewed ab':linst the backdrop of comemporary approaches to the interface between memories, traditions, and written history books.
WHY DID JOHN WRITE A GOSPEL? At first glance, :my attempt to offer a "new" perspective on the reasons why John wrote a Gospel must be viewed as a lost cause, for the topic is addressed in detail in evel)' textbook, cornmental)', and Sunday school curriculum on the J ohannine literature. Closer exa mination, however, reveals that almost all of these snrdies focus on the word Why in the ahmc questio n, arguing t.hat john 's peculiar vision ofJ esus was forged in the context of his unique experiences and assuming that he wrote a Gospel because he wanted to preserve this vision for posterity. J olm wrote a Gospel, it is arbrJ.red, because he wished to establ ish the legitimacy of his group's messianic-Jewish beliefs after their excommunication from the synagobrJ.te; and/or because he wished to counter the heretical teachings of the proto-quasi-gnostic Antichrists mentioned in the Epistles of John; and/or beca use he wanted to persuade inquirin g J ews to accept Jesus as the Christ; and/or because he wished to portray his cormnunity's j esus tradition as e<1ual or superior to the gospel messages of other Christian communities, especially those churches that aligned themselves with Peter; and so forth. It is genera lly assumed that :1 1.:oherem theory on these issues is synonymous with the motivations that led the Fourth Evangelist to write the Gospel of John. In other words, answers to the question "H'hy did J ohn write a Gospel?" gener-
Why Did John \Vrire a Gospel? ally begin with Ond with fnith."5 Culpepper's an:1lysi~ offers an iuuninendy plausible explanation for the unique themes of the J oh:mn ine liter:lture, :md his swdy is cited here simply bec:mse it summarizes so many major issues so well :md so concisely. I h:we used this book as a required course text more than once. But C
Why John Wrote a Gospel
= =-:-:-::-:::c-:-,-:---:-:-:-c--::--:cCJ
aq:,,ue that John was writing for all
Why Did John Write a G ospel ? Christians in me church at large. Answer
Answer
Answer
i\mwcr
'-; ;=----------' "theological developments arc often prccipit:Jtcd by social crises~
Indeed, the above quote is an excellent summary of biblical scholarship's approach to all Jesus traditions and all Gospels: Mark shaped his Gospel mcss:Jge to meet the "liturgical, polemical,
~~:~~~~~~ischa~:~h; L~~=~~~:~i~;!
the needs of his church; Matthewofhis church; Thomas of his; and so on. T he inherent usefulness of this principle and t..he validity of its underlying assump~ tions will not be addressed here- indeed, both will be assumed for purposes of this study. The situational nature of all rhetoric suggests that texts arc in her~ encly dia logic, tailored to meet the needs of specific social contexts and antic~ ipating particula r responses within those contexts. l-Ienee it is entirely reasonable to argue thar Jolm, like every ocl1er early Christian, developed the contours of his thinking and preaching about Jesus in response to some his~ rorical situation. But at the same time, it is impor~ rant to stress what me argument that "theological developments lltatchcr'st\ns"·cr(this book!) arc often precipitated by social crises" cannot explain: it cannot the reasons john explain why the Gospel of John, or tl10ught what he did the Gospel of Mark, or the Gospel
'=- - -------tlte rcasons joh~ wrotc a Gospel
of Thomas, or any other ancient
~~;~:,l, t~ : t~;~;:;~; ~at ~: 1 5
0
unique theological and literary themes of the Fourth Gospel were developed in the context of specific historical circumstances cannot necessarily be extended to e.tplain why the Gospel of John exists today. By way of analogy, the conclusions advocated in this book arc an expression of my (fom Thatcher's) personal convictions about mc j ohannine literature, and about the correct interpretation of several key passages from the Gospel of John and the Johann ine Epistles. T hese convictions were developed through my study of the texts under consideration and my interactions with the arguments of omers, and all mis research was played om within the arena of my total life experience. Such research and such experiences may therefore be viewed as formative events in the development of my views on me issues I am now discussing. But neither my research, nor my life experiences, nor me
\Vh~,
Did Jo hn \\'rite :1 Gospel?
1•iews I h:we developed about thejohannine literature in response to them, can e.~ plain why [ wrote the book that you are now reading. To answer the <[Uestion, \ Vhy placed on the word ''writing- or on the word "response." If cmph:rsis is pbced o n the word "writin g"-"T he ;;·r·irmg of the {Fourth ] Gospel .. was in pan a response to this pcrsccution''-Culpeppcr simply means that the first ed ition of the Gospel of John w;~s 11 rittcn '"tlru·ing this persecution,'' th:lt th e text was pr(){luced at a particular moment in history when the author was being persecuted by synagogue authorities. Th is conclusion is support ed by severa l J ohannine theological themes th:n seem especiall y rcl ev:mt to such :1 historic:t l context. On d1e other h:me"-~T h e writing of the [Fourth] Gospel ... wors in part a n•spons1• to this pcrsecution"-Culpeppcr is high lighting the point noted abO\c, that the un ique theologica l themes of the Fourth Gospel may be viewed :rs products of the author's c .~pcriences of e.~cornmunienion from the synagogue :tnd, !:ncr, of in ternal community debates. But howC\'Cr Culpepper's statement is
H'hy John \A/rotc :1 Gost>el interpreted, it remains :111 assumption aUout, rather than an explanation of, why d1c Gospel of John was writtm as a response to any particular set of circumstances. Culpepper's arguments, then, arc sufficient to explain the ori ~,'in of m:my peculiar nuances of J ohn's theology, and of several unique narrative motifs in the Fourd1 Gospel. Such arguments may also be sufficient to offer a relative date for the composition of the first draft of the text, at least relative to the history of J ohn's Christian community, if not relative to general history. Funher, Culpepper's arguments are entirely sufficient to explain why John and!or the Beloved Disciple and/or the followers of either or both of these indhiduals preached and taugh t alxmt Jesus the way d1ey did. In fairness, it must be stressed that these arc Cul pepper's primary concerns, and that the question of the relationship l>etween the developmen t of John's theology and John's motives for writing :1 Gospel is simply not an issue within the scope of his study. But even if all of Culpepper's arbTUments--or any arguments of a similar type-were accepted without debate, d1ey would rema in inadequate to explain why any person involved in thc J ohannine trajectory of early Christianity felt it necessary w preserve d1eir unique vision of J esus in writing. Why did J ohn choose to write a Gospel in response to his difficult situation, r:n.her than, say, preaching a sennon? Or assassinating the leading local Pharisees? Or organi7jng a mass suicide for all Chr i sti:~ns in the area? Or fil ing a protest with the Roman authorities? Or simply giving in, rejecti ng Christ, and returning to the Jewish fold? VVhy, from all these and m:my other options, did John choose w write a Gospel in response to his sim:uion? In other words, in answering the question, \-Vh y did John write a Gospel? Culpepper acmally discusses why the Gospel of John exists rls it does tod11y but does not explain why the Gospel of John exists.
\Vhy Did john Write a Gospel ? ·nuce key questio ns:
~ VVhy did john decide to cm_nm it his version of Jesus' story w " ' writing, when most people m his culture couldn't read?
~ VVhy did john think a written text was necessary, when he " ' believed that the Spirit wou ld preserve Jesus' memory?
~ llow did a written Gospel serve J ohn's purposes?
\\11y Did John \\'rite a Gospel?
9
The present study, by contnst, will focus on t.he word write in the above question: \ t\Thy did J o hn choose to commi l his version of J esus to 7t~riting, at a point in time when it was expensive and difficu lt to do so, <1nd when the vast majority of people in his oral culture could not read? \ Vhy, especially, did he choose to do this when he apparently believed that me memory of Jesus could be prescn·ed indefinitel y without me support of written texts? Finally and prim:~rily, what rhetoric::~ I moves were involved in the very act of writing the Gospel of J o hn-what was, ro resurrect Marshall McLu han, the "message in Lhe medium" of the Fou rth Gospel? These and related questions will guide our discussion .
2
Writing as Archive: The Fourth Gospel and the Medicine of Memory
In order to explain why J oiU1 wrote a book abom]esus, it will be necessary to discuss the reasons why anyone anywhere wou ld choose to commit events from the remembered past to wri ting. Translated into the jargon of biblical studies, d1is means d1at we must explain the motives behind d1e shi ft from oral J esus u·adition to written Gospels, from "the gospel" tO "the Gospels." But before divi ng intO J ohn's thinking and circumstances, it will be helpful first to dip our toe into me ways that biblical scholars have typically understood dle dynamic interaction between eyewitness memories of] esus, early traditions about jesus, and the wri tten Gospels based o n these memories and trad itions. The paradigm described below is foundational to the way biblical scholars have approached d1e question, vVhy did john (or anyone) write a Gospel?
FROM TRADITION TO GOSPELS: THE CONSENSUS VIEW From me early centuries of the church, me existence of me Gospels has been exph1 ined m rough a broad set of assumptions abo ut the relationsh ip between memory, traditions, and wri tte n history books, assumptions that undergird a disarmingly simple story of the composition-history of these textS. Th is paradigm views "memory" as a fil ing cabinet fo r past experience, and the act of "remembering" as a process of retrieving and reviewing bits of data "like checked baggage from storage."' \Nc observed, felt, or did someming before now, and when we review our mental notes abou t d1at situation we say we
11
12
Why John Wrote a Gospel
"remember what happened," however inaccmately. This approach to memory is quite ancient. Augustine, for example, describes "the huge repository of the memory" as a vast network of "storage-places" for "the images of things perceived by the senses" and, in the case of ideas and concepts, "the [conceptual] realities themselves." 2 One can pull these images and concepts from the brain for mental mastication much "the same way that cattle can bring food back from the stomach for chewing the cud."3 As a logical corollary, one technically could not "remember" something from outside tl1e realm of personal experience, something not "perceived by the senses"-it would naturally be impossible to re-collect what we did not collect in the first place. In terms of the present study, Augustine's model of memory can easily be interpreted as a prooftext for the modern view that the memory of]esus is "a finite activity" limited to rus original disciples and associates, those people who could recall objective empirical data from their direct personal encounters with him. 4 Yet according to the Gospels, even before his deatl1 J esus' followers began to tell stories about rum and the Kingdom of God that he proclaimed (see Matt. 10:1-40; Luke 10:1- 17;John 1:40-45). Through their proclamation a new killd of"memory" of]esus emerged. jesus' associates remembered things they had actually seen rum do and heard him say, and his friends and enemies later recalled these personal experiences and described them to their own disciples. The second-generation Christians remembered and preached the information contained in these stories but had no firsthand experience of their contents, giving birth to that elusive entity known as "the jesus tradition." The "Jesus tradition" is a critical concept in modern biblical studies, for it represents a fatal ruptu1·e between the Gospels as tl1ey exist today and the disciples' original memories of Jesus. Whereas the associates of]esus could make "personal memory claims" because they themselves figured as characters in tl1e image of the past, those who repeated Jesus tradition could make only "cognitive memory claims," secondhand statements about past events that they knew did not involve them. 5 Each time tl1e stories were repeated and new links were added to tile chain of tradition, tile memories became more cognitive and less personal, more removed from tile original experience. Over tinle, it became impossible for Christians to determine tile original somce of the information, making tile stOry of Jesus more and more a matter of faitil and less and less a question of the remembered past. Eventually, tilese individual strains of tradition were recorded in writing, producing tile various Gospels tilat exist today (and, before them, any written sources from which tileir authors may have drawn). Under this model, tile written Gospels are viewed as "an adjunct to memory"-essentially an extension of tile early Christian tradition, now preserved in a more permanent form-and the evangelists functioned as "remembrancers," people who preserved tile past for tile benefit of posterity.6
\\'ritingasArchivc
I)
This categoric~! distinction between ori~,'inal memory :md wrinen Gospel, sep:lrated hy the grc:u gulf of tradition, cre:nes the interpreti1·e problem th:at has neeessit:ued the quests for :1 historie:ll)csus. Even eyewitnesses sometimes confuse f:~inst which the :waihlblc sources com be m e~sure(l to reconstruct the :JCtlJ:t l p:tst.8 In (too) general terms, then, it mar be s:aid th:Jt biblic:1l schobrship h:lS tended to view the com r}()Sition-hiswry of the Gospels as a thrcc-acr dnmu- Act I· Memory; Act II: 'f radition; Act Ill: \ Vriting- with two intermissions, the shift from memory to tradition :md the shift from tradition to written text. T he hook
The Memory of j esus: A Drama in Three Acts Act I:
Act II:
Act Ill :
I.Vitlless mu/Reml/
Gospel Tmdition
Written Gospels
-~it
Su rnrn:uics: lnl,hichJcsus':Jssociatcs St.. ..:andhc:Jrhimdo thinb<s:mdrccallthcir cxpcricnccsaJalaJcrdaJc
hea.r!lltlatone ...~
lnwhichJesus'associ:Jtcs t:Jikal>outtheircxpl·ricnn:s, andothapt.-oplc lhcn rcpc;u thO>e 'toril'S more ork-ss corrcctlr.
lnwhiL·hChristians dccidctowritcallthis >mffdnwn,in'-"''"'hcy forget something later o n
14
Why John Wrote :a Gospel
you are now reading is concerned with the motives behind the second shift: VVhy did john choose to commit his particular mcmory/tr.~dition ofj esus ro writing?
Viewed through the consensus paradibrrn, the answer to this question appears obvious. j ohn wrote a Gospel ro preserve memories and/or rraditions ;lbout Jesus because he knew that important details wo uld eventually be forgotten if they weren't written down. Return ing to our earli er discussion, Culpepper's comment, "The writing of the [Fourth] Gospel was in part a response w this persecution," seems tO;lssumc this foun dational principle. I-I is conclusion may therefore he paraphrased, ~J ohn developed his unique theological perspective in response to persecution fro m the synagogue and confl icts with the Antichrists, and he wrote a Gospel to preserve this perspective for later generations of the church." In the end, the written text of the Gospel of J ohn is si mpl y ;1 more permanent version of Jo hn 's teaching, a primitive recording of his voice. The Fourth Gospel is thus a record of J ohn's response to his si tua tion, but not an as pect of his response to that situation- not something th:Jt he did as a str:Jtegy to :1ddrcss the immediate needs of the moment, aside from lhe general need to hel p people remember to pick up a loaf of bread.
THE SUPPORTING EVIDENCE The consensus view of memory, tr:Jdition, and written Gospels is compelling, not only because it is disarmingly simple, but also bec:1 use it enjoys support from a growing body o f recent anthropological literature and, further back, from the testimony of the church fathers :1nd perhaps even from the text of the Gospel of Jo hn itself. I will survey this su pporting evidence brieRy in order to outl ine the type o f issues tha t must be addressed in offering a new answer to the question, Why did John write a Gospel ? Following the sem inal work of Milman Parry in the 1920s, a large number of stu
15
Writing as Archive
The Gospels as "History Remembered" Note the view of "memory," and the implied relationship betv.·een "memory," "history," and written Gospels, expressed in the foUowing conunents by leading Jesus scholar J ohn Dominic Crossan: • O n the Gospels' claim that hung on the cross:
darkn~
fell over the land as j esus
"To explain those accounts as ' history remembered' means that j esus' companions observed the darkn~, recorded it in memory, passed it on in tradition, and'recalled it when writing their accounts." -Oossm, Who J(jjktJ]QJII/ 2
• On the Gospels' accounts of Jesus' death: "To describe the passion story as 100 percent history remembered means that everything happened exactly as narrated so that it is, as ir were, a coun tranSCript of the proceedings against j esus combined with a jourrutlist's factual description of the surrounding events." --Crossan.WboKifkJ]nus~ 4
:»
"History"•"wh~l happened~
: . "Memory"•sensory experiences of wha1 h~ ppened imprinted on bl'.l.ins
: ) "\-Vri ting•-sensory experiences imprinted on bnins and transmitted to characters on paper
res haped. W riting, however, is dura ble, and it is easy to preserve written information, at least easier than to preserve oral traditions and local litanies. For this reason, the earliest written documents in almost every culture are generally functio nal texts, such as business receipts and tax records, that maintain dara criric:d to social interaction and cohesion. One c-an imagine a similar functional necessity at the origins o f the Gospels (and their hypothetic-al liternry sources): written texts helped the early C hristians remember traditional information about J esus, thereby preserving his memory against the vicissirudes of amnesia and orali ty and safeguarding dara that were critical to their ongoing community existence. Writing creates a sense of pennanence around irs contents, and from this it may be deduced that
16
Vlhy John \o\frotc a Gospel
the early C hristia n conununitics adopted writing lO create permanence, to store infonnation about j esus !.hat might otherwise be forgotten. This phenomenon-the usc of documents to store and preserve infonnation- may be referred to as the "archive function" of writing. Viewed from the perspective of the archive fu nction, written texts arc essentially parallel to memo ry-or, more specifica lly, the con tents of written texts arc essentia lly synonymous with the comems of memory-and reading these texts is an act of surrogate reca ll. The logic of the archive approach 10 wri ting was clc:trly appealing to the early C hristia n commentators, who were themselves immersed in an o r:1l culrure and who imagined that the Gospels were written to pcnn:mently preserve what Papias (fl. I 30-150 CE), borrowing a J ohannine term, called "the living and abid ing [J.~.Evoii~FTt[ voice" of the o riginal memory of J esus (£«/. H ilt. 3.39.4). According to Eusebius (fl . J20s CE), Papias claimed that the GOS]>el of Allark was written tO preserve the words of Peter, whose disciples wished to obta in "through writing a memory of the word that had been given to them through [orn\J teaching" so that they could archive this infonnation for future reference after the aJlOSlle's Cn his own text, but again for the purpose of preserving his ora l message. "Matthew fi rst preached ro Hebrews," Euscbius expl ains, "and when he was about to go on to others he gave in writi ng the gospel according to himself in his native language [Arnmaic], thus through the text lca\•ing his presence to those from who m he was being sent" (&d. Nist. 3.24.6). The apostle J o hn later real ized that some teachi ngs and events from early in J esus' ministry were not re!:orded in the Synoptics, and wrote the Fourth Gospel so that these memories would not be J>Cnnancntly lost (&d. Hin. 3.24.7-8). Eusebius's comments dearly emphasize the archive fu nction of writing: the early Christians wrote Gospels because they wished to preserve the first disci ples' actual memories of Christ. W hile his specific concl usions about the authorship of the ca no nical Gos]>Cis no longer represent the majority view of bibl ical scho larship, the logic ofEusebius's argument sti ll dominates discussions of these texts as sources for the historical J esus. Are the Gospels reliable archives of J esus? Do they preserve accurate memories o r not? From the pcrsJ>CCtivc of the archive function, the Gospel of j o hn is simply a pennanent version of the Fo urth Evangelist's ornl preaching and teaching, and reading th:n book is not very different fro m a sermon believers might have heard in one of John's churches. At le;JSt two passages in the Fourth Gosrtel could be taken as evidence that J ohn 's first readers also held this view: J ohn 19:3 1- 35 and J ohn 2 1:20-25. Both pass:1gcs are cri ti cal to any discussion of memory and history in the Fourth Gos1>el.
\\ 'riting:~sArchi1·e
17
J ohn 19:3 1-35 is one of only two :mcicnt ;lccounL~ of the trurifmgillm (cf. Gospd of Prtrr 4: 1-5). This scene lindsJe:.us h:mging on :t eros:. :n Calv:l'!' between two crimi nals. In order to hasten their deaths so d1at the corpses will not become a source of impurity during the Passo1·cr fcstiv:1l, :1 S(JU3d of l{orn:m soldiers comes 10 break their legs. B111 Jesus, to their surprise, has :~lrc:1dy expired, an observation they test by (lri1•ing a spe:~r into his side. This produces a Aow of watcr :~nd blood, satisE1ctory evidence of his dcmisc.
Th e Crurifragium (John 19:31-35) li T hcn the J ews, si nce it w:~:. the D:~ y of Prep:lr.Hion, :1skcd Pilatc th:~t their legs should l>c broken and they shoul the rruth, so that you also may believe" (l ohn 19:35). lhscd on the immediate :mtcce(lent in the context, it ;tp]>ears that ;'the one who saw this" cn~nt i:. the lklowd Disciple, 11 ho i~ st:Jnding ncar the uoss :~nd to whom Jesus has just entmsted his lx:rc:wcd mother (19:25-27). 10 Bee:~ use the Founh Go:.pd 1x:1rtr:ays the Hclovcd Disciple as :1dose associ;Ltc of the historieal Jesus, verse 35 ~is most n:~tur:ally understood as the writer's [:: J ohn's] :I ]Lpe:ll to the [eyewitness] evidence of someone ... on whose authority he \"entures to relate so rcrnarbblc a f:1ct. " 11 Some comment:Hors go :.o f.tr as to suggest that in 1·crse 35 the Hclo1·ed Disciple is :u:nmlly re1·ca ling himself as the author of the hook. Carson, for ex:1mple, arb'"lLCS that "here the witneS'> [tO J esus' death I and the [Fourth) E1•:mgclis1 :1re one, and the most COill]lCI Iing;Lssmnption .. is th:lt he [the :Luthor] is :also the lx:loveddist:iplc." 1! \\'hcthcr or not the Beloved Disciple is here Jx:lrtr:aycd as the author of the Fourth Gost>el or only :JS the sou rce of the ;Luthor's information, the text cle:lrl}' :~ ssoci ate s itself closcl)' with the testimony of an cycwimess, :111 individu:~ l who could rec:1ll personal cmpiric:1l c .~ J>ericnccs of J esus. "Someone,'' John s:~ys, ''sm;.• this happen (6 (wfK'IKW<;), :md that person sometimes pulls the 10
Why j ohn W rote a Gospel
18
images of what he saw out of his brain and shows thcm ro us as wcl1 ." 1l Read
in this light, John 19:35 seems
to
claim that the story of Jesus' death as
reco rded in the Gospel of Jo hn is equivalent to an autobiogra phical recollection of a peculiar ci rcumstance connected with that event. One could therefo re eire this passage as evidence thar j ohn views ar least some po rtions of his Gospe l as a memory a rchi ve,~~ surrog:atc reca ll that places readers of the text in a position simil ar to that o f the Beloved Disciple and other associates o f the historical j esus. A second, :md very similar, passage from the G ospel o f J ohn seems tO con -
firm this interpretation. John 2 l: 15-23 describes another episode invol ving the mysterious Beloved D isciple.
4 --------------l ~~2~ :2~ oo21~ ----------~J~o~ turning around, sees the disciple whom Jesus loved following (the one who lc:mcd on his breast :n the supper and asked, "Lord, who
10 Pctcr,
is the o ne bc£raying yo u?"). 1 1T hcn Peter, seeing this m an, says to j esus, "Lord, wh:1tabout this man?" 22J esus says to hi m, "Should I wish fo r h im to remain until ! come, what is that w you? You follo w me."llTh cn this
saying went out among the brothers, that that disci pl e would not die. Bur j esus did not say to him that he would not d ie, but rather, "Sho uld I wish for him to rem ain until! come, what is that ro yo u?" HThis is the
disciple who testifies about these thin1,rs and who wrote them, and we know that his testimony is tn1c. On this occasion, the resurrected Jesus is walking with Peter along the shore of rhe Sea of G alilee, and at some poi nt they discuss i'eter's ultimate fa te Qohn 2 1: 19). Confronted wi th the soberi ng prospect of a violent death, Peter asks Jesus abo ut th e future of the Beloved Disciple, who is following some distance l.>chind them. Jesus refu ses w answer the question directly and instead urges Peter to focus on his own pasroral calling: "If I want him (the Beloved Disci ple[ to remain [J.LEvuv] unti l I come, what is that to you?" (v. 22). This oblique reply apparently cre~ned con fusion at a late r ]mint in the life of the church, leading som e ro believe th ~n "that [Beloved] Disciple would not die" before Christ's second coming (v. 23). John , attempting to squelch this n11nor, clarifies that "Jesus did 110t say, ' He [the Beloved Disci pl e] will not die'; ru ther, [he said], ' If I wam him to m11ai11 umil I rome, what is that to you?'" (v. 23). John then reasserts the validity of the llcloved Disciple's witness to Jesus: "This is the disciple who testifies [6 J.LOP'l'\lflOw] to these thin brs and who wrote [6 -yplnjJoc;J them, and we know that his testimony is true (v. 24; cf. 19:H). T he significance of John 2 1:24 to discussions of the authorship of the
Writing as Archive
19
Founh Gospel is uni\•ersally recognized, and for this reason the verse is surrounded with controversy. As Brown notes, and as my translations above indicate, "the best G reek textual witnesses [z the most reliable ancient manuscripts of the Founh Gospel! coordinate a present and an aorist participle." 1• Thus, the disciple in question "is testifying" 11ow, at the present time, about what he saw; he also "wrote" these thi ngs down at some poim in the past, or at least "caused them to be written down" by a secretary or by one o f his own disciples.15 \o\'hat does this statemem imply about the relative dates ofthe Beloved Disciple's death and the authorship of the book? Is he still alive and preaching, or has he passed on and left the book to replace his living presence? At the most literal level, John 21:24 seems to suggest that the Beloved Disciple was still alive when the Gospel ofJohn was written, and perhaps even that the Beloved Disciple was the author of the book. 16 Brown, however, argues that this reading "do[esJ not do justice to the sense o f crisis in v. 23," and insists that the overall meaning of the passage is clearer if the Beloved Disciple had already passed on by the time these words were wrinen.ln Brown'sview, some of the Beloved D isciple's followers were "disturbed by the death of thei r great master since they expected him not to die" before the second coming of ChristY The causes of such "disturbance" would be obvious, as this event would raise at least two crucial questions. Does the fact of the Beloved Disciple's death threaten the integri ty of Jesus' prophetic word about his fate, since he clearly did not "remain until I come"? Or did J esus actually "come" in some secret way before the Beloved Disciple's death, the same concern that had {I'Oubled Paul's chu rches at Thessalonica several decades earlier (2 T h ess. 2: 1-2)? John answers both questions at once by assuring his readers that, whatever Jesus meant by this cryptic srntement, he did nm mean that the Beloved Disciple would never die, nor that this person's life or death would somehow be a spedal sign of the second coming.18 But whether John 21:24 suggests that the Beloved Disciple was alive or dead at the time the book was written, it clearly em phasizes what John must have seen as rhe greatest potential risk in the spread of rumors about that individual: Does the fact of the Bcloved Disciple's (imminent or recent) death mean that we can no longer trust his wimess? If rbe Beloved Disciple was wrong about J esus' comments abo\lt his own personal situation, how could anyone trust the credibility of other aspects of his testimony? John's reinterpretation of J esus' saying waylays such questions by stressing rbat the Beloved Disciple's memory of Jesus' wo rds w:~s not incompatible with his own (past or impending) fate. One can therefore still confidently assert that the Beloved Disciple's "testimony is true" and, consequently, can accept the Founh Gospel as "true" because it is a pennanent writren record ofthat testimony. For purposes of the present study, then, John 21:24 seems to portr:ly the
20
Why John Wrote a Gospel
contents of the Fourth Gospel as a persisting repository of the Beloved Disciple's witness and memory. If the Beloved Disciple were very old or, especially, if he had recently died, it is logical to imagine that his own disciples would wish to preserve the words of their departed teacher for future reAection, and that tl1ey would claim for the written version of his witness an "ecclesiastical authority" equal to firsthand memories of Jesus. 19 From this perspective, the present tense participle 6 1-1-aprupwv means tl1at tl1e Beloved Disciple continues to "testify" about Jesus in the form of what has been written, making the Fourth Gospel synonymous with that individual's personal recollections: "This is the one who is still testifying even through what he wrote." Following this logic (but not this translation), Barrett portrays the Gospel of]ohn as an authoritative, ongoing extension of the Beloved Disciple's presence in the community. "He [the Beloved Disciple] was not to survive, a living witness of Christ, till tl1e pm·ousin lsecond coming], but he was, tl1rough the written gospel, tO constitute himself tl1e permanent guarantor of tl1e church 's tradition and of the word of Jesus."2° By citing tl1is written Gospel and exlJOunding upon it, the Beloved Disciple's followers could continually capitalize on the authority of his memory of Jesus and keep that memory alive for future generations of the church. The view that the Gospel of John was written in specific historical circumstances to archive and preserve John's unique view of]esus for posterity thus draws support from three distinct quarters: the testimony of the ancient church fathers, tl1e field research of modern anthropologists and literacy specia lists, and two key passages in the Gospel of JohJ1 itself Qohn 19:35 and 2 1:24). The powerful convergence of these spheres of authority would render any alternate explanation of tl1e Fourth Gospel's existence utterly vain, were it not for a single, simple fact: John himself did not subscribe to this theory of memory and writing. Specifically, jol111 does not understand Christian memory to be simple recall of past experience, does not acknowledge any sharp distinction between "memory" and "tradition," and does not believe that written texts would be necessary to preserve tl1e memory of]esus for posterity. In order to explore these claims further and to describe John's own perspective on memory and writing, pan 2 will analyze in detail several passages from the JohanniJ1e literature that explicitly discuss both the nature and preservation of tl1e disciples' memories of Jesus.
PART 2
John's Memory of Jesus
The Persistence of]ohn's Memory
As chapter 2 has shown, the consensus view that Gospels were written primarily to archive their respective authors' tr:lditions and/or personal memories of Jesus is persuasive. The chu rch f.lthers advocated this approach, and furthe r support may be drawn from anthropological research and from the text of the Fourth Gospel il'Se!f. Fortunately for modern readers, this evidence is consistent with our own experience of the Gospels as permanent reco rds of early stories about jesus, and it is easy to project this experience backward and trnnsform it into an author's motive. As such, the Gospels may be treated as sacred fili ng cabinets, and the Fourth Gospel specifically may be treated as a record of John's unique response to a particularly difficult situation. But while the Fourth Gospel has clearly preserved the j ohannine image of Jesus for almost two millennia, the archive model runs aground on J ohn's own theory of memory and writing. First, John does not understand the memory ofJesus to be simple autobiographical "recall." John does not, in other words, think that his portrait of j esus is equivalent to the disciples' initial empirical experiences of j esus, and he does not rrear his accounts of those experiences as raw recollections of moments from jesus' life. Despite John's persistent emphasis on "witness," the Gospel ofjohn does not claim to be based on simple fucts about the historical jesus pulled di rectly from the brains o f his associates. It claims to be based on something much better. Second, regardless of J ohn's theory of the nature of memories, he does not seem to believe that written archives are necessary to preserve them. Instead, the H oly Spirit will operate in the chu rch to preserve the memory of J esus, making the existence of a wtitten Gospel unnecessary for the 1x:rsistence of the ~:rad ition over time.
2J
24
Why j ohn Wrote a Gospel
John's theory of the nature of memories and the persistence of memory makes it unlikely that he wrme a Gospel pri maril y to preserve infonnario n abo ut j esus, and this perspective is refl ected in the explicit purpose statements in his book. The remainder of iliis chapte r will attempt to support these claims by analyzi ng several key passages that refl ecr john's approach to me mories and writ-
ten Gospels. Chapter 4 will continue this discussion by situating John's perspective wil:hin its broader social context.
JOHN ON THE NATURE OF MEMORY For John, the disciples' "memory" of Jesus is a complex combi nation of witness, recall, fai th, and Scripture. T his is perhaps most obvious in John 's version of the temple incident, the story o f J esus' disru ption of animal ve ndi ng and currency e:o.:.change in the tem ple couns during a Passover festiva l Oohn
z,IJ-12). In John's account of this episode, which differs from the Synoptic Gospels drasriC:IIIy in its overoll narro tive context and slightly in its specifi c internal de tails(see M ark li:I- 19;Matt. 2 1:1- 17; Luke 19:29-48), "the J ews" demand a m iraculous sign from Jesus ro authorize his radical actions (cf. Matt. 2 1:15-16). j esus reslX'nds by challenging them to "D estroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it" Qohn 2: 19). As is typically the case in the Fourth Gospel, the J ews are astonished by Jesus' ap parently fl ippant atti tude, and C:ln only point out the absurdi ty of his proposition: "This temple has been under construction fo r forty-six years, and you will raise (i "Y€ptio;] it in three days?!?" One can only imagine that things went downhill from there, but the conclusion of the story is suspended as John interrupts to o ffer an interpretation of the event. " But he Uesus] said this abou t the 'temple' of his body. Then when he w:~s raised fil-y{p911] fro m the dead, his disciples remembered (i ~oLV'ftu&r!(Jo:ll] tha t he said these thi ngs, and they believed the Scriprure and the word ("' the saying in v. 19] tha t Jesus spoke" (2 :2 1-22). From the perspective of narrati ve criticism, John's explanation of J esus' comment about the temple is entirely satisfactory, serving as a coherent foreshadowing of j ohn 19:42-20:1. Jesus' dead body will, indeed, lie in the tomb three days-from the day of Pre para tion (Friday) until the fi rst day of the week (Sunday)-before being "raised." O ne might argue that the Beloved Disciple, and/o r J ohn himsel f, and/o r some other associate of Jes us who was the ultimate source of John's info mution (or the ul timate source for J ohn's written sources), witncs...ed both events-Jesus' comment about his temple/body and j esus' subsequent resurrection after three days-and brought these discre te
·n,c Persistence ofJ ohn ~ ,\ \emory
15
The Temple Incident (John 2:13-22) tiThe P~ ssm· e r of the Jews w:ts ne:~r, and Jesus wen t up to Jerusa lem. I~ And in the temple he found j>eoplc selli ng oxen and sheep and doves, ~nd the currency-exch:mgers at their seats. HAnd m~king :1 11 hip fro m cords he drove them :~ II from the temple, along witlt the sheep :and the oxen, :~nd he po ured out the coins of the money chnngers :~ nd threw over the currency t:1bles. tr•And he said w the dm•e sellers, "' E1ke these things out of here! Do not nwke my Father's house :1 house of business! " 1-1lis disciples remembered that it has been 11ritten. "Zea l for rour house will consume me." 11~"fh en the J ews anS\\ered and sa id to him, '' \\'hat sign do you show us th:u you C:Jn do the~e thinb-s:- 19J esus :~nswered and said to them, " Destroy this templ e, ami in three d~ ys I will raise it." !0 T he J ews said whim , "This temple has heen under construction for forty-six years, and you will r:1isc it in three days?" !I But he s:1id this :ahout the ''temple'' of his body. !!Th en when he was mised from the dead, his disciples rememhcred th~t he said this, and they bclicwd the Scripwre and the word]s] th:n Jesus had spoken. memories together in hi ~ mind. 1At the 1·ery least, it seems obviou<; that J ohn 111 :1king such a claim here, whether or not th:1t cbim is credibl e. Hoth the templ e saying :md the resurrection wou ld thcoretictlly fall within the li nite corpus of thl· disciples' autobiographic:\] recollections, the <Jucsrion being \1 hethcr the Fourth Go~JlCI is :m :1ccur:at c rcconl of genui ne recollections in this particular insrancc. Hut this line of im1uiry would O\'erlook the fact th:1r John docs not j>Ort ra~· the Oke on that occasion and messian ic pass:.1ges from the llehrew l!iblc Qohn 2:22). J oh n also seems to think that thi s su~e<J u elll recotleClion/bclicf displaced the disci ples' initial memories of J esus' :J ction ~. or at le;tst :t ltere
POINT-COUNTERPOINT: j O HN ON M EMORY, TRADITION, AND GOSPELS
Tonight's Topic: The Consensus View-John as Archive of Memory Tbe Consensus View: Pro
The Commsus View: Con
• "The church fathers believed that the Gospels were written to preserve eyewitness testimony aboutJcsus, and those guys were a lot closer tO the fans than we are today."
• "John doesn't equate the disciples' 'memory' of Jesus with their recall of empirical experiences dtey had with Jesus. VVhen J ohn says 'witness,' it's not exacdy what we mean by 'eyewitness testimony."'
• "Anthropolobr:ists report' that most cultures adopt literacy for the functional necessity of preserving critical infonnation that might otherwise be forgotten."
• "John lx:licves that dte Holy Spirit helps you remember what you need to know about Jesus. So why bother to write a OOok that almost nobody could read, anyway?"
• "John 19:35 :md 21:14 clearly indicate that John himself saw the Fourcl1 Gosr1el as a repository of recollections about J esus."
• "John \9:35 and 21:24 don't say that the Gospel of John is an ;Jrchive of info about J esus. They actually show rhat the book was written to serve the author's rhetorical pul'jX>SCS."
• " I'm not sure I sec the relevance of this discussion if we're trying to answer the question, Why did J ohn wri[C a Gospel?
• "Once you figure out why John mvte a Gospel, it will become dearwbyJ olm wrote a Gospel."
"Sowhal'syouragendahere, anyway?Justtellmethat"
"Talkaboutagendas ..
'llle Per.;isrence ofJohn S Memory
27
consciousness, so different that it could scarcely be called a "memory" in the conventional sense of the word. Their recollections are not a snapshot image of the past. The peculiar mode of memory described at John 2:22 surfaces once ag:~in in John's story ofJesus' triump hal entry into Je rusalem, an event that immediately precedes the temple incident in the Synoptics but follows it by some ten chapters in the Fourth Gospel Oohn 12:12-16).
1lThe next day, the great crowd that had come to the feast, upon hearing, "Jesus is coming into Je rusalem," 11 too!.: the branches from the palm trees and came our to meet him and cried out, "H osanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, and rhe King of Israel!" l4ButJ esus, finding a donkey, sat on it, just as it has been written, l5"Do not fear, daughter of Zion! Behold, your King is coming, seated on the colt of a donkey!" 16 At first, his disciples did not !.:now these things, but when J esus had been glorified, then they remembe red that rhese things had been written about him and that rhey did these things to him.
As the disciples observe J esus' journey on the donkey and listen to the crowds proclaiming him "King of Israel," they are apparently at a loss to comprehend what they see and hear. "At first, his disciples did not know (l-yVWO"av] these things," John says, "but when J esus had been glorified, then they remembered {if.lvfto"&r!aav] that these things had been written about him and that the y did these things to him" (12:16). "At first" (TOnpWTov) here must mean "at the time this happened," and since the disciples later "remembered" the incident,JohnS assertion that they"did nor know these things" must mean that their first memories differed from their later understanding. In other words, the disciples' initial neurological impressions of the event were flawed and were reconfigured and corrected in light of subsequent events) Here again, then, john portrays his "witness" to j esus, or at least the disciples' "memory" of Jesus, as a complex cognitive interaction between (a) the disciples' autobiographical recollections of an ambiguous event involving themselves and j esus, (b) their subsequent awareness of j esus' destiny, and (c) a messianic reading of a passage from the Hebrew Bible, in this instance Zechariah 9:9 (loosely quoted in v. 15). Nota bly, john uses the same Greek verb (fJ.VTJ~VEUw) to describe both the disciples' recollection of the actual event and the subsequent interpretatio n of the Scriprure that clarified the experience for them. While john 2:22 and 12: 16 are John's only explicit references to the disciples'
\.Vhy John \.Vrore a Gospel
28
The Johatmine Memory Equation Remll of]ems' Wordr am/ Deetls
+
Messianic Prophecies
+
Postresun-ection Perspective
"M~:~nory"
"memory" ( J.~-111'11-lOVEUw) of J esus, the same perspective is reflected in other p
"!11c Persistence of John) ,\ \emory
29
such, the rL'Casting of the disciples' memory after Jesus' death must have been tho rough , wide enough to cross the vo1St distance Octwcen their previous ignor;tncc nnd their subsequent comprehcnsion. Jolm's remarks on the temple incident and the triumphal emry coulCrspectivc as John 2 :md l l. Three passages that do not refer explicitly t'O the disci ples' ~memory.. of J esus yet seem to reAectthe perspective of J ohn 2:21 and 12: 16 will Oe not'ed here as ex:tmplcs: J ohn 7:37-39; l 2:3 1-33; and l 3:6- t 1.
Traces of Memory ]01-L'i
7:37-39
''On the last day, the great day of the fe:ISt, Jcsus stood :1nd cried out, sayi ng, "Should :tll}'Olle thirst. let them come to rne, and let the one who believes in me drink." 11>Just :1s the Scripture s:~ ys, " From his bel ly there will Row ri1'tTS of living water." J9Bur he sa id this about the Spirit, which those who belie\'c in him were going 1'0 n."t."eivc. For the Spirit was not yet [given], bcc:lll!>e J csus w:1s not yet glorified. ) O li N 12:3 1-33
Uesus sa id,[ ll"Now this world is under judgment, now the ruler of this world wi ll he (.':.!St out. J!A nd I. should I be lifted up from the earth, will d r":.!w allJ>eople 10 myself.'' '' Hut he s:~i that the
30
Why John Wrote a Gospel
does not refer explicitly to the disciples' "memory" of that statement, the explanatol)' note at verse 39 implies that the disciples were later forced to reconfigure their initial recollections of his words, for o nly ahe r j esus' "glori· fication" was it possible to understa nd that he was alluding to the Spiri t. Similarly, when jesus says at 12:32 , "I will draw all people ro myself" after being
"lifted up," the explanation in verse 33 that he was thus referrin g to his crucifi~on suggests that the disciples reworked their memory of his comment in view of a significance it could have possessed o nl y after his d eath. Their subsequent recall of the saying was thus somewhat diffe rent from, and in Jo hn's view better informed than, their first memory ofjesus' words. And whe n J esus tells t he disciples in the up per room that they do not need a bath bec:I.Use they are already d ean and then adds, " But not all of you," the aside in verse 33 clearly reshapes the saying in tenns of what the disciples later understood, after judas had l:ietrayed him. In these three cases, as with j ohn 2:22 and 12:16, t he d isciples' memories o f Jesus- the initial recollections of those people who witnessed his actions, based on their empirical experiences-must have been altered in light of the deepe r understanding to follow. This d eeper understanding of the events recounted in these texts was, funher, dearl y enhanced t hrough conAatio n with passages from the Hebrew Bible. Jesus himself cites the Scriptures in Jo hn 7, again in a vague wa y; the Johannine the me of J esus' "lifting up" at IZ :H is drawn ex plicitly from Numbers ZI:B-9, as Jesus himself indicates at John 3: 14-15; finally, John understands Judas's treason to be a fulfillment of Psalm 4 1:9 (see john 13:18). Hence, while John does not explicitly refer to the disciples' "me mory" of any of these events, his presentation seems to imply that their original recall was reconfigured to fit their subsequent knowledge of Jesus' identity and destiny and their subsequent understanding of the Bibl e. Of course, it is nothing new to say thatJohn's J esus tradition was a mixture of eyewitness testimony, biblical interpretation, and post-Easter faith , all packaged in distinct theological themes. But it is important here to note that John himst/fwas annplettly conscious ofthis fart.lf a modem scholar were to travel back in time, meet j ohn over coffee at a cafe in Ephesus, and confront him by saying, "\Nhy, what you call 'witness' is nothing but a hodge podge of memories, personal beliefs, and Bible verses strung together on a postresurrecrion thread," John could only reply, "That's exactly what I said it was." John might funher point out that this scholar's discomfort does not arise from anything inhe rent in the text of the Fourth Gospel, but rather from the fact that John flagrantly blurs the modem distinction between two categories of remembrance, "memory" and "tradition."Traditions, because they are secondary to personal experience and because they mix genuine recollections with subsequent community beliefs, indeed require one to " believe" Oo hn
The Persistence ofjohn's Memoty
ll
2:22), to accept the veradty of someone else's testimony about the past. Memories, in the modem scholar's paradigm, do not require those who rec::~.ll the m to "believe," even when we acknowledge that our memory would benefit from clarification and corroboration. But what we generall y call "memory" could neve r be clarified and corroborated by "'the Scriprures," faith Statements, or anything else totally alien to the initial empirical experience. J ohn, however,
}Ol iN 14:15-17
(Jesus said,]15 .. lf you love me, you will keep my commandments. 16And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another parnclete, so that he would be with you forever: 17the Spirit ofT ruth, which the world is notable to ret-eive because it does not see nor know it !the Spirit]. But you know it, because it remains with you and will be in you."
jOHN 14:26
(Jesus said,jl6.. But the Parnclete-the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name-that one will teach you evetything and will remind you of everything that I said to you."
jOHN 15:26-27
Uesus said,]I6"When the Paraclete comes, whom I will send to you from the Father-the Spirit oflTuth, who goes out from the Father- that one will testify about me. l1And you will testify, because you were with me from the beginning."
jOHN
Uesussaid,] 7"But I tell you thenuth, it will be bener for yo u should I go a~.~-11y. For unless I go away, the Paraclete will not come to you. But should I depart, I "'ill send him to you. 8And when that one comes, he will convict the world about sin and about righteousness and about judgmem-9about sin, because they do not believe in me; lOabout righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will no longer see me; II about judgment, because the ruler of this world has been judged."
16:7-11
jOHN
16:12-14
Uesus said,]ll"I ha\·e yet many more things to say to you, but you are not able to bear them now. BBut when that one comes, the Spirit of Truth, he will guide you into all ttuth. For he will not speak from himself, but rather he wi ll say whatever he hears and he will tell you the things to come. l"llm one will glorify me, because he will take from me and tell it to you."
32
Why John W rote a Gospel
apparen tl y oblivious to this problem, consistently postures his images of J esus as someone's direct "witness, n yet makes these recollections contingent upon a subsequent faith in j esus' resurrection and the C hristian interp reta tion of the H ebrew Bible. Anhu r D ewey has therefore defi ned the te m 1 "witness" in the J ohannine literatu re as "a revisio n th rough memo ry," an image of the past that combines recollections of j esus with "both the Gospel story !viewed from the perspective of its conclusion] and the resources of j ewish scripture."'6
J OHN O N THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY It is perhaps not surprising tha t the memory of jesus is stamped with fa ith in the Fourth Gospel, for J ohn portrays memory as a gift of the Holy Spi rit to all believers after Jesus' death and glorification (John 7:37- 39; 20:22). According to john, j esus made a num ber of specific promises to the disciples shortly before his arrest concerning the coming of the Paraclete (1fap6:K.>..'fi'TIX), a title for the H oly Spirit that is unique to the Johannine literaru re and may be variously tra nslated " Helper," "Comforter," "Counselor," or "Adnx:ate."7 It is clear from these "Paradete Sayings," preserved now in lhe Fourth Gospel's farewell address Qohn 13- 17), that j ohn understood the Holy Spirit to be an extension of j esus' living presence in the church. At j ohn 14:1 6- 17, Jesus tells the disciples that he will send them "another counselor" (b.>...>..o11 1fDp6: K.>..'fi'TOVi cf. I j ohn 2: 1) who will "remai n with you and be in you" (unlike j esus, who is about tO leave them; 16:7). Wh ile commentators are divided on the relationship between the coming o f this Counselor and the reference ro j eslli' own "coming" at v. 18,8 almost all agree tha t Jesus' subsequent statements indicue that the Spirit will fu nction in the Christian community "as remembrancer and interpreter. 009 The Paraclete will "teach you all things and remind you of all things that I said to you" Qohn 14:16), "guidi ng" the disciples "into all truth" by speaking "onl y what he hears" from Jesus Qohn 16: 13- 14). As Schnackenburg suggests, John 16:13- 14 should be taken to mean that the Spiri t "simply continues jesus' revelation, not by providing new teachings," but only by enhancing and clarifyi ng his wo rds, thus fu lfilling the ministry of"a commemorative deepe ning of tha t revelation."IO Notably, this revela tory memory and the comfo rt it ~ffords are the only "gifts" tha t the J ohannine H oly Spirit gives to the ch urch, a presentatio n strikingly different from the pneumatology of Paul (see Rom. 12:6-8; I Cor. 12:18-31). For John, then, the Spiri t is the archi\·e of the community's jesus tr.~dition, preserving both the content of his memory and the correct interpretation of that data. T he implicacions of this doctrine for the present srudy arc c\•ident in I j ohn 2:20-27, a passage that clearly indicares thar the j ohanninc Chris-
The Persistence ofJohn's Memory
33
tians did not fee l an inherent need fo r a " 'ritren Gospel to srore infonnation about j esus.
20And you have an anointing from the Holy One, and all of you know. 21J have not written to you because you do not know the truth, but because you do know it, and [you knowj that every lie is not from the truth. 12 Who is the liar, if not the one who denies that j esus is the C hrist? This is the Antichrist, the one who denies the Father and the Son. HEvervone who denies the Son also does not have the Father; the one confessi ng the Son has the Father also. HL.et what you heard from the beginning remain in you. If what you heard from the beginning remains in you, you will also remain in the Son and in the Father. HAnd this is the promise that he promised us, eternal life. 26( have written these things to you about the people who are deceiving you. !7And the anointing that you received from him remains in you, and you have no need for anyone ro teach you; but rnther, as his anointing teaches you about everything and is true and is not a lie, remain in him, just as it has taught you. In this controversial passage, the author of I j ohn, who seems ro l>e "the Elder" of2 j ohn and 3 john, urges his readers to guard themselves against the heretical teachings of the "many Antichrists" who have invaded the world and the church (2 :1 8- 19). C'.enuine believers (i.e., those who accept the Elder's interpretation of the situatio n) will be protected from this blasphemous doctrine by an "anointi ng [xpiutJ..OJ from the Holy One," an anointing that seals them in the truth and in f.tct makes it unnecessary for anyone to teach them what is true (2:20-1 1, 27). For centuries, debate has rnged over the specific identity of the "anointing" in question. Is the Elder referring here to the community's trndition and/o r onhodox teaching about j esus, the doctrine "which you have heard from the beginning" (v. 24) that reveals the f.tlsehood of those who deny that "J esus is the C hrist" (v. 22}-that is, of those people who remember Jesus in a different way? Or is the "ano inting" the Holy Spirit, who, as noted above, lives in believers and provides a constant witness to the truth about Jesus? II \Nhile reasona ble arguments may be offered fo r either position, from the perspective of the present stud y both answer the wrong question. Since, in John's view, the content, continuity, and veracity of the onhodox tradition are all guarnnteed by the work of the Paraclete, it seems a moot point whether the Elder has the tradition or the Spirit in mind when he refers to the anointingthese two entities are functionally synonymous, because the tradition is the ongoing work of the Spirit. Based on John's view of memory, I John 2:20-27
34
Why john Wrote a Gospel
most likely encompasses both realities: the anointing that believers enjoy is the ability to combine memory, faith , and Scripture unde r the impulse of the Spirit, producing a "true" image of Jesus. But whether the anointing ar 1 John 2 is the Spirit, the tradition, or both, it is important here to note what it is not. The anointing is certainly 110t the wriu en text of the Gospel of John, nor a primitive Signs Gospel, nor the Elder's autographed copy of Luke, nor anything else that the audience of I John might pick up and read about j esus. Christians do not "know" these things about}e.'lus because they have read, or could read, them in a book somewhere, and they do not remember the truth about Jesus because it has been wrincn down . 'fhe Elder does not, in other words, refer to some written document as the special, definitive resource for the community's memory, and does not seem to regret his inability to do so. ln his view, the genuine witness to Jesus persists ::adequately in the form of tnJdi rional teaching, sustained and verified by the ongoing influence o f the Holy Spirit. The Spirit and the tnJdition arc themselves the archive of memory, a reJXIsitory that both supports and is supported by the community's theological creeds and that refutes the claims of the Antichrists (see I j ohn 4: 1-6).
MEMORY, AMBIGUITY, GOSPELS The passages surveyed above highlight three facets of thejohannine theory o f memory thar are relevant to the question , Wby did J ohn write a Gospel? First, j ohn does not reduce recall to a mechanical, neurological process; as a result, his view of memory contrasts sharpl y with popular modem conceptions of the workings of "memory" and "tradition." As noted in chapter 2, "the classic [modern} theory of memory, after a srudy of the acquisition of memories, srudies their preservation [in the brain] before giving an account of their recall," an approach that assumes that "'memo ries as psychic stares subsist in the [individual's] mind in an unconscious state, and that they become conscious again when recollected ... !! ln other words, in today's common parlance, "memory" is a comprehensive term for all the sensory and intellecrua l processes by which the brain receives data, stores data, and later recalls data for review. For john , however, the memory of Jesus is nm a simple act o f storage and recall, but rather a complex reconfigurati on of past experience in light of faith and Scriprure. John's perspective might have led to a thoroughly existential approach to the past, were it not for the seeond aspect of his theory: memory is a spirirual gift, not a cognitive process. The memory of Jesus is preserved and enriched by the Paraclcte, and this doctrine supports a key literary theme in the Founh Gospel:
"l11c Persistetll"C of.John's 1\ lcmory
35
misundenmmding. ThcJohannine J csus is int·omprchcnsiblc to e\'CT)'One who encounters him, no maner how cle:1r his words :md actions seem tO be, l:.ecausc, for John, mernOT)' is not reducible to the sum roral of the sensory impressions th:u the associates of the hiswric-Jl J esus swred in their brains. \Vhile memory begins with witness, it ends with Scripture, Spirit, and f:1ith, so that un:1ided reCJll could ne\·cr trul}' recreate the tot:tl person of Jesus or e\'Cn individual moments from his life. For th is reason, the Jews who watched the hiswrical Jesus drive animal vendors from the temple could nc1•cr "remember" that incident, even d10ugh they witnessed his deeds and words. In f.1ct, bcc:Hl~e they arc unable to rccci\"e the Spirit (lohn 1-J.: 17) and therefore do not enjoy the P:tradcte's "guidance into all truth," the J ews' most detailed accoums of that cvem would simply be wrong. This would be the CJ:>C c1·en if the Jews could compile an infinite list of eyewitnesses, :mericnce r..nher than a personal ment:t1 hard drive, it seems unlikely that he
Summary: John's Theory of Memory ) DU N'S Tl! EO IU:.\ 1
L\IPLICATION
::~:ee~h: 111•:::!~,~~ a~~i~ti!~:~~i~~
I. MclliOT)' is :1 complex rccon figuratio n of past ex1>erience in light of faith and Scripmrc.
3
2. Rcer ll and the interpretation of the past arc guided by the P:lraclctc, a specia l anointing gi\·cn only to true believers.
3 :11~~t;~~~~~:~c~~~~:1~~ o~~~;~rs1 :"i~1!;~
tion'' :rs:malytic:al categories
one Spirit of Truth: uniform from one generation to the next and in every church ei'CT)'Where
,
~~J~~::C C~:·~~:t d~CI\Ill~:lb\~;\'JC:\1~~ even if they had personal empirical c.~!>ericnccs of him
3. \\'rittcn texts arc not ncccss:IT)' to preserYC the memory of Jesus fo r posterity.
3 ~~tt~:sr':~r~~i!.:'~::f~~~:a~:: abour J esus for fi.tnrre reference
36
Why John Wrote a Gospel
would feel compelled to produce a written Gospel primarily in orde r to archive traditional information about Jesus. So long as the Paradere contin ues to work in the church (and j ohn does not seem to foresee a time when such work would cease), pneumatic memory will continue to preserve the community's jesus tradition for furure generations. As such, there would be no need fora book about j esus to function as an aidr mimoin, the primary assumption of the archival approach to the Gospels. Why, then, did John write a Gospel? lf J ohn did not see his text as ::an aid to memory, what did he hope to achieve by producing a book about jesus? The next chapter will suggest that a definitive answer to this question lies within the media culture in which the Fourth Gospel was produced. 4
4
Writing as Rhetoric: The Fourth Gospel in John's Media Culture
The Johannine theory of memory weighs against the view that the Gospel of Jolm was written prima ri ly as an archive of trad itional J esus material, although it has certainly fu lfi lled that role for the past nineteen centuries. But if John believed that the Holy Spirit would preserve and enrich the memory of j esus in the church, why did he bother to write a Gospel? Viewed from the angle of his own beliefs and social context, J ohn wrote a Gospel not just to preserve J esus o-adition, but rather to capitalize on a second major function of wri ting. Rosalind Thomas has noted th at written Two R easons to Write Something texts ca n play "monumental" or 1. "Archive Function"- \Nrin:en documents "symbolic" roles, giving them help people remember th ings they might forget. social values "which take us beyond the message merely contained in the written content of the docu- 2. "Rhetorical Funct:ion"- lnfonnation seems more va luable and more credible when it's ment."1 From the perspective of put down in wri ting. if it's worth presen~ng authorial intention, this phenomeand diso·ibuting, it must be import:mt. non may be h1beled the "symbolic" or " rhetorical" function of writing, the production of documents in cu lw res where the written word carries special weight or authority. In these cases, the very existence of a document is of greater social significance than the actual contents of that text, as when we appeal to a sales receipt when negotiating with a store manager, or remind our roommates that "the lease says somewhere" that they have to pay part of the electric bi ll. For purposes of the present swdy, while the archive function
37
38
Why John Wrote a Gospel
srresses lhe value of the infonnation contained in a written Gospel, the rhetor-
ical fu nction stresses the symbolic force of the very fact of a Gospel's existence. Obviously the archive and rhetorical functions of writing are compatible, and most history books are produced under the influence of both concerns. Both functions of writi ng are, for example, evident in the introduction
to
the
very first Western "history" boolr:, Herodotus's flistorirs.
' 11
- -"WWoYWrile o ~ BooiU"
V.'hat l-lerodorus the Halicamassian has learnt by inquiry is here set forth: in order so that the memory of the past may not be blotted out from among me n by ti me fib<; fi."''jT£ TO: )'EIIOfi.U•a Et &116pWmow TO/ xp0vcr lti.TT)>.n -y£Vf)TO~] and lhat the great and marvelous deeds done b)' Greeks and fore igners and especially lhe reason why they warred against each othe r may not lack renown [&l(>.£
Wriringas Rhetoric
39
now the majority of Johannine scholars have argued that the Founh Gospel should be understood against the backdrop of ancient J udaism.l John, as a j ew living in the Roman Empire, must have been aware (at least intuitively) that a written Gospel would not only preserve memory but would also pack a greater rhetorical punch than the mere sum of its contents.
WRITING WITHOUT READING, THE POWER OF THE PEN IN THE GRECO-ROMAN WORLD One might object that physical evidence dis proves the firs t claim above-that John lived in an illiterate culture-for at fi rst glance it seems obvious that most people in the G reco-Roman world must have been able to read. A casual perusal of the Loeb C lassical series on the shelves of any library will give the impression that many intellectual Greeks and Romans read, cherished, and preserved books on a wide range of topics. At a more popular level, the muchpublicized proliferatio n of public and private letters in Roman Egypt and Britain suggests a relatively high literacy rate in those regions, and one could argue that similar evidence from other parts of the empire has simply been lost th rough physical decay due to aonospheric conditions. But the fact that written texts exist in a given cultu re is not evidence that most people in that culture could read them, as W.lliam V. Harris has demonstrated in his landmark study, Andent Littrnry. Rather than focus ing on the mass o f extant manuscripts and inscriptions, Harris highlights what is nbsmt from the ancient evidence: the social structures necessary to produce widespread literacy. Appealing to recent anthropological data, Harris notes that mass literacy is closely linked to other cultural factors . T hese include a society's level of urbanization (cities foster literacy), its abi lity to produce and distribute inexpensi'"e reading and writing materials, and the complexity of its economic system (more complex economies require higher levels of documentation and a la11.rer semiliter.ne workforce).~ Above all else, mass literacy depends heavily on the existence of an extensive educational system that covers both urban and ru ral areas and includes all social classes; indeed, subsidized education has been "an essential instrument" in "every single early-modem or modem country which has achieved majority literacy."> After examining each of these preconditions for reading, Harris concludes that "the classical world, even at its most advanced, was so lacking in the characteristics which produce extensive literacy thar we must suppose that the majority of people were always illiterate." He specifies this "majority" as "above 90%" and even "far above 50%" in the most educated G reek cities. 6 There is no evidence to suggest that Harris's statistics would not apply to
40
VVhy Jolm Wrote a Gospel
the Diaspora Jews who lived in these Greek cities, and Roman Palestine, possibly J ohn's homeland, would certainly be no exception to the rule- its economy was largely agrarian, its social patterns were largely traditional, its labor force was largely unskilled, and its theological scholarsrup was driven by oral traditions. For these reasons, Meir Bar-llan has suggested that "the total literacy rate in the Land oflsrael" during the period of Roman occupation "was probably less than 3%."7 Even if some J ewish boys did receive enough rudimentary training to pronounce Hebrew words from a section of the Torah, in John's day reading was not an everyday feature of private Jewish life.
Ancient (ll)literacy "(T]he classical world, even at its most advanced, was so lacking in the characteristics which produce extensive literacy that we must suppose that the majority of people were always illiterate." - William Harris, Ar1cimt Litemcy, 13
"[T]he total literacy rate in the Land oflsrael [in Roman times] ... was probably less than 3%." -Meir Bar- Il an, "Illiteracy in the Land of Israel in the First Cenntries C. E.," 55
IfJohn were a Jew-or at least, a member of a church heavily influenced by the J ewish religious tradition- and if most ancient Jews were illiterate, why would he write a Gospel? While most of them could not read, Greco-Roman Jews clearly recognized the symbolic value of written documents. In fact, J ews may have been more sensitive to the rhetorical power of texts than members of other groups, due to the pervasive presence of the Hebrew Bible in Jewish thought and life. As Goodman notes, "no ancient society was more blatantly dominated by a written text than that of the Jews in the Roman period."8 Josephus's exaggerated claim that Jews could "repeat [the L aws] all more readily than [their] own name" (Against A pion 2 .1 78) is particularly striking if, as Harris and others have suggested, 50-97 percent of all J ews had no direct personal access to the Bible. 9 Sacred writings formed the core of]ewish life in the late Second Temple period, whether or not individual J ews could read them and whether or not specific Jewish customs were actually based on their contents. The prestige of written revelation was regularly reinforced for first-century J ews through the public reading of the Hebrew Bible in weekly Sabbath celebrations. The earliest material evidence for a Judean synagogue, the Theodotos Inscription (a first-century CE dedication plaque discovered in a J erusalem well), commemorates the establislunent of the building "for the reading of the Torah and studying tl1e commandmenrs." 10 The Gospel of
Writing as Rhetoric
41
Lul:e portrays j esus' first public message as a synagogue sem10n in Nazareth of Galilee based on a reading from Isaiah 61 (Luke 4:17-19). Philo (ca. 20 BCE-50 CE) says that training in the Scriprurcs was also a primary feature of weekly synagogue meetings in Egypt, and claims that j ews were taught "even from the cradle, by parents and rutors and instn1ctors and by the fur higher authority of the sacred laws and also the unwritten customs, to aclrnowledge [only! one Godn (EtnbllJS] to Gaius 115 , 156- 157; Lifr of Mom 2.215-2 16).11 The Alexandrian Jews' dedication to wrinen revelation is particularly notable in Philo's description of a festival held each year on the island of Pharos, the traditional site of the translation of the Sepruagint (the Greek version of the H ebrew Bible). Through this celebration of translation, Philo says, "the laws are shown to be desirable and precious in the eyes of all, ordinary citizens and rulers aliken (Lifr of Mom 2.41-43). 1! Closer to John's geographic:al context, a similar picture of Diaspora judaism is offered at Acts 13:15, which shows the apostle Paul pre::~ching a Sabbath scnnon in a synagogue in Pisidian Antioch "after the reading from the Law and the Prophets" sometime in the mid-40s CE. Based on the evidence, one can scarcely doubt j ames's claim that "Moses has been preached in every city :1nd read in the synagob•ues on every Sabbath fromtheea rliesttimesn(Acts 15:21). Of course, one might argue th::~t examples such :lS this do not apply to the presem srudy, on the grounds that j osephus, Philo, Luke, and many Diaspora jews in major cities were literate. jews who could read the Bible and mhcr documents would of course anach special value to those texts. Bur the Hebrew Scriprures clearly carried great symOOlic \'alue for illiterate j ews as well, a fuct that may be illusmted by two passages from Josephus's Jewish Wa1·, OOth relating to events in Roman Palestine in the rime period under consideration here. Soon after Cumanus tool: office as. procurator of judea (48 CE), a b"Toup of Jewish bandits att:ld:ed an imperial slave on the road to Bethhoron. Cumanus reta li::~ted by rounding up the residents of several nearby villages and reprimanding them for harboring brigands. During the mass arrest, a Roman sol· dier confiscated a copy of the j ewish Scriprures, which he publicly mutilated and burned. "At that," Josephus says, ~ the j ews were roused as though it were their whole country which had been consumed in the flames." An enraged mob appeared before Cumanus in Cacsarea, demanding restitution. Faced with a potential riot, the procurator, in a rare Roman aclrnowledgment ofjewish sensitivities, p::~raded the offending soldier before the J ews and had him publicly executed ( I Va,· 2.228-23 1). 1J In this instance, even after a Roman show of force, the illiterate jews could not tolerate a direct affront to the Scriptures, because these texts inherently symOOlized their core social values and identity. The second telling incident appears as a minor detail in j osephus's account
42
Why John Wrote a Gospel
of Titus's victory parade in Rome after the suppression of the first Jewish remit. Among the spoils of Palestine were wrious sacred items from the ruined Jerusalem temple, including the table of showbread and a golden menorn h. "Aher these, and last of all the spoils, was carried a copy of the J ewish Law" (u-6r 7. 150). ln the absence of idols, even a Roman mob understood that the presence of the vanquished J ewish god was most clearly represented by the written word. \N ritten revelation was the symbolic glue that bound literate and illiterate Jews together as a distinct community. The pervasive influence of the sacred Scri prures disposed ancient J ews to
view written texts as the final authority in matters of fu ith and conduct, and this seems to have enhanced thei r appreciation for the prestige of secular docume nts as well. For example, the Zenon Papyri, a private file of reco rds and correspondence kept by a Ptolemaic burea ucrat in Egypt, include Zenon's cor· responde nce with Toubias, a Jewish tax collector in Palestine. Zenon visited Toubias in 259 BCE and returned home with a num ber of new docu ments, suggesting that Toubias also maintained a similar fi le of important personal papers and that the two sometimes shared copies. 14 \..Vhile Zenon lived long before J ohn, a contemporary example ma y be found in the th ree priva te archives discovered in the Cave of Letters at N ahal H cver, west of the D ead Sea. All three sets of documents were hidden there in the fin al year of Bar Kokhba's rebellion agai nst Rome (135 CE), the :~.nci enr j ews' last major anemp t to achieve independence. One stash included the much·publicittd leners from the rebel leade r Bar Kokhba himself to two of his leading aides, who apparently preserved them for personal legal protection because the documents "backed up various con fiscatory actions." 15 The sec· ond stash, the Babatha archive, was stored in a leather purse and included thi rty·five documents wrinen sometime between 94 and 132 CE, the same period in which the Gospel of j ohn was most likely wrinen. Babatha, a j ewish wom:m who fled to the cave to escape the adva ncing Roman army, preserved a variety of legal papers dealing with "maners of property and with the law suits instituted by her or against her." The fa ct th:~.t Babatha chose to save these documents, carefully arra nged by subject mane r, underscores her sense of their significance, yet is seems unlikely that she could read all or even most of them-some are in Greek, some Aramaic, some Na batean. 16 The third cache of documents discove red in the Cave of Letters includes six leases and deeds relating to properties acquired by one Eliezer b. Samuel o f Engedi _l7 The preservation of these papers by private individuals in the face of a complete breakdown of the social o rder indicates the value that ancient j ews attri buted to writte n texts, even when they could not read them. 18 \Nhat social conditions prevail in a culture that is 90 percent illiterate, yet saturated with sacred and secular documents? How would members of such a
\•Vriting:ts Rhetoric
43
society respond w written texts, and wh:Jt value would they :Htribute to them? Specilic:tlly, wh:Jt force would written Gospels carry for John, :t Christi:tn J cw who s:tw no need to write down memories in order to preserve them? Such questions :1re difticult to answer if writing is viewed solely as a tool for lHC+ serving the content of speech, the medicine of mcmo1y But writing c:tn pby other roles, roles that tr:mscend the contenr... of documents themselves. For this reason, "the ch:1racter of a religious system can still be fund:Hnem:tlly determined by writing and by a 'liter:lte mentality,' e\·en in simations where very few of the practitioners of that religion are themselves literatc."l9 T he evi{lence suggests that a "literate me11t:llity" of this kind prev:tile{l in Second 1Cmple Ju&1ism, e\·en though less than h:1lf of J ohn's J ewish contemporaries, :md perhaps as few as 10 percem, could read beyond a b:1re functional mini+ mum. Even illiterate J ews from Palestine, the homel:md of John's Beloved Disciple, recognized the role of writing in the systems of politic:~ I :1nd rel igious power th:H dominated their lives. John could not h:n•e been ignorant of this fact as he conternphned writing a Gospel.
LUKE THE HISTORlAN, JOHNTHE EVANGELIST As a Jewish person immersed in an oralmedi:1 culn1re, J ohn may have felt th:H a wrinen version of his gospel mess:1g:e would e:lrr)' more weight in deba tes over the correct understanding of J esus. The Fourth Gospel would thus both preserve J ohn's memory of J esus and, more important, ad
Luke on "Why Write a History Book?" (Luke 1:1-4) 1\Vhereas
many have t:lken it to hand to compile an account of the e\·ems that have come to fulfillment :1mong us, 1 just as those who were eyewitnesses from the beginning :md the servants of the word passed !these things! down to us, >it seemed good to me also, having investigated ever)•thing c:trcfully from the beginning, to write them in :m orderly way for you, Most Excellent Theoph ilus, 4 so that you may know the cert:Jitlt}' of rhe words you have been t:wght.
44
\.Vhy john Wrote a Gospel
Among the canonical Gospels, only L uke ami J ohn di rectly indicate the reasons for whil:h their respective books were written. The Prologue to Luke- Acrs (Luke I : 1-4) acknowledges that other accounrs of J esus' life, based on the testimony of eyewitnesses (ert'rrb7rnn), were al ready in existence . Luke, however, posturing himself as the first historical .J esus scholar, has carefully reviewed these te.~ts :lbrainst his own field notes, and is now prepared to preserve in writing a definitive version of Jesus' life and teachinbrs· T he verb KU'f1lX~w ("have been mught,'' v. 4), whatever its technical nuances, indicates Luke's awareness of the significance of the move from orality w literacy. T hcophil us was "taught" these thi ngs abom j csus by mouth, but Luke now writes to preserve a mo re permanent and "orderly" (&.
Writing ;ts Rhetoric
1-
John on "\¥hy Write a History Book?" jOHl\' 20: 30-3 1
jOU N 2 1:24-25
JO Hur then also J esus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that arc not written in this book. J!Hut these things have been written so th:u you may believe that J esus is the Christ the Son of God, and so that by believing you mo1y ha1·c life in his name.
NThis is the disciple [the Beloved Disciple] who testifies ahout these thin brs :tnd who wrote these things, and we know that his testimony is tme. HBur therearealsomoln}' Otherthings th:u Jesus did; should they C:lth lx· written down, l do not think the world itself could hold the books that had been written.
would presumably be obvious to his origin:tl rea
Why John Wrote a Gospel
46
preserve the whole memory of Jesus, and appeals
to
the prestige of wriuen
texts to add authority to his version of the Beloved Disciple's testimony. Luke and John, then, differ at three key points in their answers to the question, \Vhy write a Gospel? First, Luke, presents his book as an archive of carefully selected Jesus material, culled from eyewimess reports and pnxluced in dialogue with other written accounts. j ohn says that he has written a few things about Jesus to generate faith, fuith in J esus and also (perhaps mainly) in the Beloved Disciple's special witness to j esus. Second, Luke emphasizes the value of what he has included over against what has been left our. His remarks can be taken to imply that other accounts ofJesus' life are less OK.p~.IJW<;-less "orderly," "accurate," or "careful"-and the refore necessarily less valid, than his own.lO The reader therefore has the impression that Luke is serving up the best of the tradition. John, however, makes no such promises. The Fourth Gospel contains whatever infonnation is most likely to produce fuith, with an undenitanding that a great deal more of the same type of thing might have been said. Third, Luke feels that a perusal of his book will place the reader in a position similar to that of the finit disciples, a position of recalling objective infonnation. The contents of his written Gospel and the testimony of the eyewitnesses are essentially synonymous; the book and the tradition will therefore function as dual witnesses, allowing Theophilus to "know the certainty" of what he has been taught orally. In John's view, however, Theophilus should already know the truth, because he has "an anointing from the Holy One" and does not need anyone to teach him about Jesus (I John 2:20, 27). lfEusebius is correct that the Gospels were written to preserve the early Christians' memories of Jesus, Luke's comments make perfect sense, but the Gospel of John has no reason to exist.
PROBLEM TEXTS IN PERSPECTIVE, JOHN 19,35, 2 U4 Against this backdrop, John 19:35 and 2 1:24-the two verses that might be cited to support the idea that the Fourth Gospel was written primarily to preserve John's Jesus rradition for posterity-rome into sharper focus.
olmltaf HAnd the one who saw this has testified, and his testimony is m1e, and that one knows that he speaks the truth, so that you also may believe.
NThis is the disciple who testifies about these things and who wrote them, and we know that his testimony is true.
PoiNT-COUNTERPOINT: MEMORY, TRADITION, AND GoSPElS
Tonight's Topic: Luke and john on "How to Write about j esus" Luk~
John
• "Postureyourstudyas the result of careful research about Jesus based on the best written and oral sources."
• "Record a few of your best storicsaboutJ esus."
• "Emphasize the value of what you have included and impl y that what was omitted is less relevant. Then insinuate that your version is better than what other people have already said."
• "Tell people upfron t that you've left out a ton of the same thing, and let other people CO\"er that sruff if they want to. Like this: 'H ey, I could write fi ve hundred books about Jesus. Who's got the time?'"
• "Try to put your reader in the position of the eyewitnesses, so that she can remember facts about Jesus. She's already heard this stuff before. You just want to make her feel as if she \mows the story firsthand, so she'll believe what sheS been told."
• "Try to get people to think about Jesus the way that you do. Real C hristians don't need books to 'remember' anything about J esus. They need books to tell them what to believe about Jesus. By which I mean, they need to believe what the Beloved D isciple says, and forget about all that other jun k."
wblhlmicoff?Aieweoff?Us· .... you know, people just lfWI't goinglotaUyouaaioullywith tltatklndofdltuda.M
"UUtenatThucydidesoverhere. Hey,CHo,notalolusgetpMI todothis,youknow.•
48
Why john Wrote a Gosr~el
\Vhilc both of these verses insist that the written account supports and is supported by the testimony of the Beloved Disciple, both also cle:arly indicate
that this testimony has not been recorded primarily for purposes of preser~ \'atio n. John is reporting the Beloved Disciple's recollection of the piercing of J ~s us' side "so that you also may believe" ( 19:35). The text seeks, in other words, not only to prese nt the reader with the Beloved Disciple's memory of J esus, but also to instill in the reade r the Beloved Disciple's fuith in C hrist. Thi~ faith will, in turn, lead the reader into her own genuine memory of jesus under the guidance of the Paradcte, at which point she will no longer need to read the Fourth Gospel. ln this sense, the Gospel of J ohn is designed w make itself ob§Oiete. Si milarly, wh ile John 2 1:24 suggem that the Bclovt:d Disciple's witness will live on in the fonn of "the things that have been writ· ten," emphasis is clearly placed on the claim in the latter half of the verse: "We know that his testimony is true." As was noted in chapter 2, John 2 1:20-14 is dri ven by a desire to establish the validity of the Beloved Disci· pie's witness in the face of evidence that might raise doubts about his mem· ory ofJesus. In both of these passages, then, the memory of Jesus is preserved by the text, but it is preserved for the purpose of establishing the validity of John's claims. The symbolic function of writing-the possibility of apJ"lealing to written testimony that cannot be easily forgotten or ignored, and the rhetorical force of the very existence of the Fourth Gospel- remains at the fore front of both passages. It seems likely, then, that John wrote a Gospel primarily to capitalize on the poten tial symbolic value of writing. As such, the Fourth Gos pel is not merely a record ofJ ohn's response to his sirnatio n, but an aspect of John 's response to his situation, one of sever:1l strategies he adopted to defend his unique wirness to Jesus. If this is the case, two questions remain. First, what circumstances made John feel that this response was releva nt? If John believed that the Spirit WO\IId preserve the memory of Jesus, what aspects of his situation would make a written version of that memory rhetorically effective? Second, what aspects of the shift from or:11ity to liter:1cy, from memory to Gospel, would be espe· ciallr useful to John's purposes in such a situation? How would a written his· tory book meet John's needs? The first question touches on the historical ci rcumstances in which the Gospel ofJohn was written, while the second raises the brooder issue of why anyone would choose to convert living memories into a history book. The chapters in part 3 will address both issues. The first Q\lestion above may be ap proached through an analysis of J ohn's conflict with the Antichrists, a group within the church that refused to accept his version of Jesus as final and authoritative. This conflict was the social com ext in which the inherent
Writing as Rhetoric
49
differences between memories and history books become relevant to the pres· em srud y, differences that would have made a wrinen Gospel especially useful to j o hn in his debates with the Antichrists.
The Founh Gospel is not merely a record of J ohn's response to his siruarion, bur an as pect of John's response to his siruation, a str.ltegy he used to confront the problems that fa ced him.
PART J
The Memory Wars: Bent Frameworks, Countermemories, Anti Christianity
Even at the moment tha t it is evolving, sociery rcrurns to its past. {Halbwachs, On Collmi-ur Mn110ry, 86)
5
J ohn's Memory Framework
As discussed earlier, the Johannine literarure evidences a highly nuanced understanding of"memory," at least of the disciples' memories ofjesus. Defying today's conventional parndigms, John presents the memory of Jesus as a complex composite of recall, Scripture, and faith, all melted together by the dynamic heat of the Holy Spirit. Consistent with this approach, j ohn does not ponray his written version of such memories--familiar to us now as the Fourth Gospel-as a permanent record of the past or an archive of tradition. Instead, his book plays on the sym bolic significance of writing, the prestige that written texts add to thei r conrents in oral cultures. In many respects, then, John's ap proach runs counter to contemporary undersrnndings of the composition history of Gospels, or at least cowtter ro typical answers to the question, Why did they write Gospels? The remainder of this book will explore the circumstances in which John developed his unique perspective and the aspects of written texts that would make a written version of the gospel especially useful to his purposes. Memories and theories of memory do nm develop in a v:acuum, and John's approach must have been a response to some aspect(s) of his situation. This chapter will oucline those aspects ofJ ohn's context that might have motivated him to write a Gospel despite his belief that the Paradete would preserve the memory of J esus. As such, the discussion below will attempt to reconfigure standard discussions of the background of the Johannine literature to answer the guiding questions of this book.
53
54
Why John Wrote a Gospel
MY PAST IS YOUR PAST, THE PUBLIC FRAMEWORKS OF PRIVATE MEMORIES I rumed five years old on March 23, 1972. I was an onl y child lhen, and between that date and September I 5, the day I started kindergarten, I spem weekdays under the care of my grandmother in her big house on Sherwood Lane in Norwood, O hio. My mother was wo rking as a secretary at A.meriam Laundry Machinery (once the world's largest manufacturer of industrial washers and dryers, it recently went out of business), and she was pregnant with my brother Greg, who was born in early August. That experience nearly killed both of them and left my mother in the hospital for a long while under the immense weight of a rare blood disease (more accurately, a ra re dysfunction of the spleen that caused her body to destroy its own blood). For much of that earl y August of 1971, my ti ny newborn sibling-taken three months premature by C-section in an effon to save his life and our mother's-livcd with me and my grandparents, while my fath er divided most of his rime between his two jobs and the hospital. I mention these derails, some of which may nor be entirely accurate but all of which charactcriu my thinking about that early period in my life, o nl y to comextualize the fo llowing memory, which I believe originated somewhere in that time fra me. M y grandparents' house was located at the end o f a cul-desac immediately adjacent to a church, and one wall of the church building was separated from the fence in my grandpa re nts' backyard onl y by the wldth of a narrow concrete walkway. One weekday morni ng I was playing alone outside, digging in the din with a spoon and some rusty Tonka trucks while my grandmother was occupied in the house. For some reason my attention was dra wn to a narrow stained-glass window set in the nearest wall of the church only a few feet above the ground. I cannot reconstruct the exact sequence of logic that led to the next scene, but for some reason I went to the fence and began throwing roclr:s at this window. Of course, I was still too young to have bad feelings towa rd that or any other church. As is so often the case with children, even my most destructive and violent acrs were dri ven not by malice but rathe r by a genuine interest in cause-effect sequences. In any case, this activity went on for some rime, as my awkward aim and lack o f strength made it difficult fo r me to do any damage. Suddenly, however, my rock located a weak spot in one of the smaller panes, which shattered and collapsed. I stared at the smashed glass for a moment (I believe it was a pale yellow piece of the pattern), looked around carefully, realized that no living thing had witnessed my crime, and then ran into the house and rumed on Srsnmt Strut. My memory now shifts sudden ly to another episode later that same day(or
JohnS Memory Framework
55
perhaps the next), in which my grandmother is approaching me in her living room and asking if I had noticed that rhe church window was broken. No, I had not noticed that, so we went to the yard together to investig:lte. After sur\'eying the damage, I infonned her, with much regret, that I could provide no information abour this unfom.mate siruation. M y next image in this sequence must have taken place shonly after the initial incidcnr, in which I can recall seeing, from the perspective of the top of the slide on my grandparents' swing set, the church window temporarily re paired with masking ta pe. As I think about it, that ta pe seemed ro stay there for a long rime. Stained glass must be hard to replace. My grandmother o ften teased me abo ut this epiS
56
Why j o hn W rote a Gospel
past coherent to you. Even thoug h the rock incident was a private experience, my memory of that experience and, especially, my account of tha t experience above are both thoroughly public. In proper theoretical te nns, even my most personal memories are always "social me mo ries." Personal memo ries are "social," ulti ma tely pub lic in naru rc, in at least two respects. Maurice H albwachs argues that "there must exist in collective mem-
The Public Private Past All "personal" memories are "social" memories in at least two respects: • At the mome nt of the initial experience, we inte rpret and categorize sensory data accord ing to group language, logic, and norms; • At the moment of remembrance, we package and present o ur past
experiences in group language to make our past sensible to others. ory two systems of conventions which ordinarily impose t hemselves on people and even re info rce each other t hrough association, but which can also ma nifest t hemselves separately. "l T hese two systems of conventions are ( I) the system of encOOing personal experiences in grou p language and (2) the system of connecting o neself to a group when we tal k abou t o ur experiences late r o n. The system of encoding allo ws me to name t he people, things, and situations I am remembering, and to organi ze those remembe red elements aro und meaningful themes and narrati ve structures. The system of con nections refleCts my abi lity to t hink of mysel f as a membe r of a grou p and to link my ind ividual thoughts into larger, more complex systems that reflect my cul tu re's o rde r of values. Memories are thus "social," both in the sense that we ha\'e to use group language to thin k about the past and in t he sense that we are always mem bers of some group whe never we think about and/or talk about the past. H albwachs's dual e mphasis may be smoothly applied to my example above. First, even t ho ugh I was the sole witness to, and acto r in, the Zion C hurch rock incident, I was nevertheless deep ly embedded in a large r society at the mo ment that incid ent occurred. As H albwachs points out, o ur perception of the natu re and signi fi cance of o ur experiences is al ways infl uenced by the world around us, so thu other members of society are present even in o ur most private moments. T he force of their influence is often enhanced simply by t he fact that it is indi rect, which is to say that these social influences o ften touch us most deeply whe n we are least conscious of them.1
j ohn'sMemol)' Framework
57
Second, whenever I recall a personal experience or an event from general histOI)', I must shape my image of the past so as to make it comprehensible to others. lf I wam to talk about the past, even my most private moments must become sensible to people who have not had similar experiences, which means that my unique experience must be forced inro the common idiom of my culture. Realizing this fact, I have attempted ro communicate my rock incident in a way that will be comprehensible and meaningful to you; in a very real sense, then, you were a silent parmer with me in the production of th is memory. All memories are ultimately social memories, both at the point of reception (the initial experience) and at the poi nt of recall (thinlcing about and telling the story). This principle-that even my personal memories are doubly social- is so critical to the theoretical orientation of this book that I need to briefly un pack irs implications before moving on.
Reception: My Public Private Life Memories are "social" first in the sense that remembered information is conditioned by social forces even before it is stored in our brnins. For example, as a child I participated in a number o f intersecting social groups, most notably my family and my local community, and my role and identity as derived from these groups conditioned my initial reception of the sensory data of the Zion Church rock incident.4 To begin at the most basic level, the physical context of this private experience was entirely a product of social norms and realities: the layout of my grandparent.<>' house and yard; the architecture of American church buildings; the location of such buildings relative to private properties; the use of building materials such as stained glass that can be destroyed by small projectiles. Whatever I might have done on that occasion, my options were limited to actions that could occur within such an arena, but obviously that arena was built by hands other than mine. As such, even my private deeds depended on public realities, and my memory of those deeds was thereby imprinted with the sh arK~ of the physical space in which they occurred. But much more significant to both the rock incident and to my initial memory of that incident were the many social myths and culrurnl notions that shaped the experience even as it unfolded. My initial empirical impressions of that episode, the raw sensory data, were conditio ned from the moment they entered my childish head by culrural ideas about the things little boys might do when alone and ways they could escape gen:ing caught and cultural ideas about "Grandma's house" and about the standards of conduct at such a place. Such notions intersected with archetypal narrntives that I, as a young child, could never outline but followed intuitively: narratives in which young boys could be sent out to play in the yard alone, narrntives in which it would not be
;s
Why John Wrote a Gospel
inherently suspicious for a child to suddenly burst into the house and tum on &same Strut, narratives in which grandmothers can mete out only the mildest punishment for flagrant crimes. 'These narratives became the script fo r m y memory even at the moment of reception, providing the mental categories that would make it possible for me to retain this image of the past while millions of others have been forbrotten. So while the Zion Church rock incident was "private" in t he sense tha t no one else was there when it happened, my memory of that event was, from the very beginning, public. The data stored in my brain were already inscribed with culrural forces that transcended me, forces that in fact served as boundaries both for what it was possible for me to do on that occasion and for the shape of :111 my subsequent thoughi'S about those actio ns.
Recall: My Public Private Memory Memories are, then, "social" in the sense that each person's private life is embedded in public realities, so that, even at the point of initial perception, o ur memories are already shaped by §<>cia] forces. But memories arc also §<>cia] ar a deeper level, one much more significant to the present discussion. All my memories, regardless of the nature of t he events t hey describe, become tho r· oughly-indced, purely-social at the mo ment I relate them to others. In other words, while it might be possible to argue that some experiences are tru ly " private," any account I may I gi'"e of those experiences must be inher· entlypublic. The very fact that I can recount t he Z ion Church rock incident in a sen· sible form in a book such as this illustrates how t horoughl y public all mem· aries must be. Memories are nor experiences; ra ther, they a re tt:rts about txfJ"itnttJ. As such, memories, like all other texts, are d ialogic, developed in t he context o f commu nica tio n with other people. "lf we examine a little more closely how we recollect things, we will surely realize that the greatest number of me mo ries come back to us when our parents, friends, or other
r_ -.-"'-'"-"'-""-"'-1"-"-,""'Y-,-,"-~-·
r::n~~:ca~~ thn::,~:~~;";~~:~
or 3n 3spect of group memory, sintt each impression:mdeach&ct,evc:nifit 3pparanly , concerns a particulupcrson exdusil·d y, le:~\·es
memories in d ialogue with other people o r to meet the practical needs of some situation that mi ght
~:s~i;~~~r=~:::tJ!::'~i: connected with the thoughlll th 31 come 10 us from the soci31 milieu.~ - Hallno-xhs. 0.. Cllll«tivt MntWtJ. H ' - - - -- --
potentially involve o ther people.S This is o bviously true when we swa p detai led stories about the past over lunch or in books like
- - - - - ' th is o ne, bur it is also true even in
John's Memory Framework more mundane instances of recall when we are not consciously thinking about other people. For example, from time to time I go into the garage, get my lawnmower, and cut the grass in my yard. Obviously, the \awnmower is a complex machine, and I must recall certain in fonn:nion in o rder to operate it: where to put the fu el and oil, what kind of fuel and oil to use, how to clean the excess grass off the blades, how to set the throttle and pull the cord so as w make it stan, and so on. I am generall y alone when I recall all this infonnation. But at the same time I am aware that someone at some point in the past spoke to me about lawn mowers and taught me how to start them-possibly my fathe r or grandfather, more likely my mother. I've also read portions of operating manuals fo r lawnmowers from time to time, although I couldn 't name any specifi c document of that genre or when I may have read it. These manuals were, however, written by human beings who sought to impart the knowledge oflawnm owers to me in a cultu rally relevant way. As such, all the information that I now recall to stan the lawnmower was received in dialogue with other people, and that dialogue is still somewhere present in my mind at the moment I call it forth to cut my grass. Further, I re member this infonnation because my yard is adjacent to my neighbor's yard, and I must mow my lawn in o rder to avoid her criticism for having a messy yard. So I find that even my memory of how to start my lawnmower and the reasons I would need to recal l that in fom1ation are deeply embedded in a variety of social contexts, past andpresem. As another example, I recall the requirements for the Cincinnati C hristian University Master of Arts degree so that I can advise a student on what courses to rake. As we speak about his schedule, he relates a humorous incident from his college days in a way that he hopes will amuse me. H ere both of us recall the past in order to relate it to another person, even though our discussion functions at the mechanical level of advising sessions. Similarly, when I am depressed and seeking help from my colleagues in the counseling department, I rcdutt my most private experiences to terms tha t will admit o f a quick diagnosis, and their prescribed remedies refl ect the srnndardized wisdom of their field. My memories never cease to be personal, because they are always connected to my life experience; but my memories never cease to be social, because my life experiences are always connected to the world around me and are meaningful onl y in the context of that world. Should I become unable to make these meaningful connections, I would be diagnosed with catatonic schizophrenia and quietly consigned to a mcnrnl hospital bee! use, in my culture, discon nected memory is viewed as a fo rm o f madness. Yet the social dimension of memory goes beyond the simple observation that most of our memories are recalled in dialogue (or in anticipation of
60
Why John Wrote a Gospel
dialogue) with other people. At a deeper level, memories are "social" in the sense that the pressu re of the group's legacy and lifeways is always fo rmative when one of its members anempts to describe something from the past. This is the case, again, simply because all memories are texts, and as texts memories are strucrured and limited by group language synems. 6 We can recall the past and think about it only through the signs systems available from our cui· ture, signs systems r3nging from basic schematic images of objects to complex huma n languages. "Language" here includes lexicon and grammar, but also the larger motifs, themes, genres, and narrative schemes by which members of a group structure stories.7 The fact that all members of a group share a common set of signs forces all individuals in the group to construct: even the most personal memories in the tenns of a common idiom. No maner how dear to us, all the memories of our private past are built from words that may be found on the lips of other people, and follow plot lines drawn from stories we've heard and movies we've seen. Halbwachs refers to the totality of these socia l influences on memoryincluding the individual's network of relationships, the nonns that operate within these groups, and the language and themes that members of these groups use to communicate with one another-as the "frameworks" of memory. Every act of recall is shaped by these frameworks, even when the individual is not conscious of their influence. It appears, then, that my very personal memory of the Z ion C hurch rock incident of August 1972 is not qui te so ;<private" as I once thought. Of course, now that I've told the story in a book like this, it's public infon nation in the sense that anyone can read aOOut it. But it was already public infonnation, even when I was the onl y person who knew the details. My initial impressions of the incide nt were framed by the social setting of my life at that ti me, and my recollection of that event is entirely dependent on the memory fra meworks a,'aiJable to me from the groups in which I panicipare mday. The fact that I have related this private experience in the English language, in the genre of "illustrations for academic books," against an unwrinen code of what it is appropriate to reveal aOOut oneself in a ve nue such as this, against broader cuirural stereotypes aOOut linle OOys and things they do at Grandma's house, against a set of expectations aOOut what I should or must do both as a member of my fami ly and as a member of the academic community-all these facrs reveal the extent to which this memory is a dialogue that belongs m yo u just as much as it belongs to me. As we speak aOOut the past, I stand with you and view my childis h self and actions in the third person, across the great gulf of a life now infinitely distant from the life of that solitary OOy who carelessly threw rocks at a church window in the summer of 1972.
John's ,\ ]emory Fr:Jme\\ork
61
THEJOHANJ\11\'E MEMORY FRAMEWORK Once we acknowlc{lgc that recall is a thoroughly soci:1 l phenomenon, it Uccomes clear th:n discussions of''thc background of theJohannine liter:Jturen :1re actu:1lly pbt maps of theJohannine frumcwork of memory, the intersecting social contexts in which John shaped his image of the past. In textbooks for New lCstament introduction courses these memory frurneworks ap1x:ar in the b•uisc of topics relating to John's h i ~torical circumst:mces ("provenance,'' ~p lace," ''date"), the n:Hme :md situation of his churches ("John 's :nulicncc," "the Johanninc couununi 1y"), and his relationships with members of other brroups ("the world," ~the J ews''). Explorations of these topit:s essernia lly m:1p out the social matrix in which John fonncd his memoricsofJt.'SUS :mel e\·enmally COJWened that memory to a written Gos]x:l. A d10rough i nvc~tigmion of the framework" of John's memory is hcyond the scope of this smd}'• but two f:Jctors seer n especi:~ lly signific:tnt tO the de\'dopmcnt of John's views of memory ;md writing: John's relationship to people outside the church, :md the emergence within Jo hn's churches of the ~Antichrists," a brroup spccific:~lly opposed to John's image of J esus. The ;\michrists-or, at lc:tst, the wa}' of thinking about J esus that they prommed (and h}' "wa}'" I me:tn not just the content of their thinking, but how they actually went about constructing images of Christ)-rcpresent the ch:1llcnge th:tt motivated J ohn ro commit his memory of Jesus to writing. 'T'h e Joh;umine churches, with the bagg;•ge of their experiences, were the aren:1 in which th:n struggle was played ou1. The first readers of the Fourth Gos1x:l seem to ha1·e been memlx:rs of a group of house churches with local irulependcnt le:tdcrs, se\'Cr:Jl of whom are mernioned in the Joh:mn ine Episd(.'S (see 3 J ohn 1, 9-10; 2 John I?). At least some of these leaders lookc(l roan indivi{lual who called himsdf"the El(ler" as their spi rim:1l p:ltron (2 John l ; 3 J ohn 1). 'fh e Elder's system of :Jdministrntion w:ts simibr to Paul S: he managed his network through :t group of itiner:tnt disciples, including Demetrius and -the brcdtren" mentioned at 3 John 5-6, 12. For purposes of the present smdy, it may be assumed that John was :1 member the Elder's network (if not the s:unc person) :tnd that their views :thout Jesus were in substant i:tl :lbrreement. From ancient times, scholars h:Jvc si tu:netl these Joh:tnnine ch urches in western Asi:1 Minor, with John's head<1u:mcrs in Ephcsus.H Regard less of the specific gcogr:tphictl loc;ttion, ir is C\'erywhere pbin that life h:td been very difficult for theJohannine Christians, who face
62
YVhy John Wrote a Gospel
with archetypal heroes and villains. T he heroes-those on the side of God, Light, :md, of coursc, J ohn-:Jrc the "ch ildren of God," people who have been "born again" and redeemed from th e clurchcs of darkness through their faith in C hrist (John 1:1 2; 3:3-5; I John 4:7; 5: 1-5). Logically, the villains should be billed as "ch ildren of the de\'il," but the Elder and j ohn instead refer categorica lly to those who oppose j esus as "the world." God loves the world (John 3: 16), but his love is unrequited, for the world hates jesus and rejoices over his death (John 7:7; 16:10). Believers, unfortunately, catch the ricochet of this conAict, for the world hates the disciples just as it hated j esus (John 15: 18- 19; 17: 14-16). J esus, however, <:On<Juered the world (a lthough J ohn does nm say exacdy how he did this; scc John \ 6:33), and Ch ristinns will also conquer if they hold fnst their faith in him (I John 5:4-5). 1r should be stressed that the terms .. love" and "hale" as used above are drawn directly from the text o fth c J ohanninc literature, and reflect the imcnsiry of Joh n's feel ings and the absence of a gray w ne in his thought. Ltjohn's view, every person in "the world"-everyone who does not sha re his belief in Christ-operates in wil lful rejection of, and open hostility toward, all that J esus represents. \N h ilc it is impossi ble to know for certa in why John felt this way about "the world," most scholars conclude that he must have experienced perse<:ution of some kind from nonbelievers, lead ing him to think of all people who did not accept his gospel as enemies of Christ and lite church. It may therefore be argued that a sense of widespread opposition and hostility from outsiders was a core clement of the J ohannine memory framewo rk, a fact th:lt explains many unique :tspects ofJ ohn's presentation ofJ esus, the disciples, and nonbelievers. The key to this sense of sufferi ng, and to the dark lines J ohn draws beca use of this perception, may lie in ;mother dualistic label that appears frequently in the Fourth Gospel, "the J ews." Regardless of the specific group to which this label refers, it must be stressed th3t J oh n does not usc the word "J ews" in the way thar term would be used today. Specifically, J ohn's "jews" arc not a distinct group of people with a common ethnic or religious background. For example, at John 5:15, the lame man whom j esus heals at Bethesda "told the J ews that it was j esus who made him well," despite the fact that the lame man is himself j ewish. Similarly, at 13:33 Jesus says to his disciples, "As I told t:he J ews, so I tell you now: VVhcre I am going, you cannot come." This statement seems to suggest that the d isciples nrc not uJ cws," although they are obviously Jewish by both race and religion. Fo llowing this logic, j ohn sees no inconsistency in the fact thatjesusseveral times reminds "the J ews" about thi nbrs written in "your law" (lohn 8: 17; 10:34) even though j esus is J ewish and, as God lncarn;lte (I: l - 18), presumably the author of the Hebrew Scriptures in
John ~ ,\ \emory
Framcwork
63
\Vhatc1·cr their specific identity, it is cle:1r that John sees "thcJeii'S" as a subset of "'the world.~ l ienee, while the disciples are "bom of God" (lohn 1:1.?-13; I John 3: 1; 4:7), Hthe , - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , J ews" :1 re children of the dcl'il, who is :1 ''liar'' :Hld "murderer" (lohn ThcAntiChrists prcscnteddtcch:tl8:++). Not surprisingly, "the J ews" 1engc that motil•atcd John to commit his consmntly do the devil's work of mcmorr of Jesus to writing; the Joh:mninc hamssing those who accept J esus churchcs, "ith thchagg:•gcofallthcircxpc(lohn 9:21; 19:38-39). h is therericnccs,wercthcfidtlofcontcst.
1:~1~1 :·~::o~~~b~~o;~ ·~~:~'.:~~~ r~;~~
'--------==---'
w J ewish people who reject Jesus and, more Sj>CCifiC'Jlly, who might :1busc Joha nnine Christians. \\'hethcr such abuse had actually occurred at the time the Fourth Gospel was wriuen, and wh:lt form s d1:1t abuse would have t~kcn, :Ire {liHicultto dctcrrniue. Following). Louis Martyn 's gruundhrcaking llistory mul Tbrolog;; i11 tbt· Fou11b Gorpd ( 1968; 1979), many scho lars have :ll"b"'.Jed that someJcwishJohanninc Christi:1 ns h:ul been e.~wmmunic:ncd by the 1~1 S}'ll:lgOb'liC authorities. J esus warns his disciples that they will be ourcasrs from the syn:1gogue at John 16: 1--4 (sec 9:21), :ul(\ it is reasonable to :~ssume that this evetH had already happened hy the rime the Fourth Gospel :md the epistles were written. Removed from the relative safety of the J ewish conHnunity. theJohannine Christians would be left to f:1ce a host ile and unbelieving world on their own, without the righrs ami privileges gra med to jews in the Roman Empire. It is difticult to tell, howe1·er, whether J ohn 9 and 16 :Ire speaking about evenrs th;Jt h:we already occurred, or :1hout things that John thinks will happen to Jewish Christians if they attempt to fully particip:Hc in synagogue life. In either c:1se, one m:1y :tq,"'.te that :1 feeling of opposition from nonChristian J ews w:ts a ke~, component of John's memory fmmework, and th:H John 's experiences with and/or :mittl(\es tOwanl the Jewish authori ties signific:~ndy shaped hi s memory of J esus' relationship with nonheli cving Jews. Alongsi(le these
64
Why John Wrote a Gospel
nor in Ch ristian literature except where it is dependent o n I and 2 J ohn. "9 Of course, the Hebrew Bible :~nd other ancient jewish writings sometimes antic· ipatc the appearance of eschatological fi&rurcs who epitomize evil, but these characters arc always pictured in opposition to God, not the M essiah (i.e., tcnn "antichrist" therefore seems 10 "anti-God," not "antichrist"). 10 rcAcct a unittucly J ohanninc tht.--ologicallhcmc, one that unfortunately cannot be fully reconstructed on the b:1sis of the slim evidence now available. \,Yharcvcr the Elder thought "d1c Antichrist" was, and whether he coined the term or borrowed it from somewhere else, his usc ohhis word to labd his opponents highlights his primary point of contention wilh them. The Greek prefix &-vn.- technically means "in place of," and the Elder's opponents arc "antichrists" in lhe sense that they promote a different \"ersio n of the gospel, a differcm memory of Jesus "in pbce of" the Elder's understa nding. In other words, the An tichrists el was written. There arc a number of reaso ns for this conclusion, but most of them fall outside the SCOllC of th is book. The short 11crsion would be th ~ t , in my view, the way that the El
·n,c
JohnS Memory Framev.uri:
1 JOHN 2: 18-26
111Children, it is the last hour, and just as you heard that "Antichrist is coming," even now many AntiChrists have come-thus we know that it is the last hour. l9"£llcy went out from us, but they were not "from us" [.."oneof us"[. For if they were "from us," they would have remained with us. But [they went out[ so that it should be manifest that they are not all "from us." 10And you have an anointing from the Holy One, and all of you know. 21 1 have not written to }'OU bec3use you do not know the truth, but because you do know it and because you know that every lie is nm from the truth. !l\o\fho is the liar, if not the one who denies that Jesus is the Christ? This is the Antichrist, the one who denies the Father and the Son. ll£veryone who denies the Son does not have the Father, either; the one who confesses the Son also has the Father. 14W'hat you heard from the beginning, let that remain in you. For if what you heard from the beginning remains in you, you will also remain in the Son and in the Father. 1SAnd this is the promise that He made to us: eternal life. 26] have written these things to you about those who are dettiving you.
I jOHN 4:1-6
1Beloved, do not believe e\·ery spirit, but rather test the spirits as 10 whether they arc from Cod, bec3use many false prophets have gone out into the world. !This is how you know the Spirit of Cod: every spirit that confesses, "J esus Christ has come in the Aesh," is from God; Jand every spirit that does not confess j csus is not from God- this is the spirit of the Antichrist. You have heard that it is coming, and now it is in the world already. 4 You are from God, children, and you have conquered them, bee1use the One who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world. SThey are from the world, and because of this they speak from the world and the world listens to them. 6\.oVe are from Cod-the one who knows Cod listens to us; the one who is not from Cod docs not listen to us. This is how we know [the difference between[ the Spirit o f Truth and the spirit of dt:ccit.
65
for C hrist would more logically precede the way that j ohn makes his case for C hrist. Specifically, the Elder seems content 10 stake his claims on a gcner.d appeal to the reader's loyalty and to community creeds that he assumes that everyone !mows and holds dear. This strategy apparently fai led, and John, as
I jOHN 5:5-10
S\\fho
is the one who conquers the world, if not the person who believes that Jesus is the Son of God? 6This is the one who comes through water and blood: j esus C hrist- not in the water only, but rather in the water and in the blood. And the Spirit is the wimess, bec:~.use the Spirit is the uuth. 7For there are three who testify-lithe Spirit and the water and the blood-and the three are in agreement. 9 lf we accept the testimony of human beings, the testimony of God is greaterbecause this is the testimony that God testifi ed about his Son [i.e., that the Son came in water and blood]. 10'Tbe one who believes in the Son of God has the testimony in himself [about the Son coming in water and blood]; the one who does not believe in (the teStimony of] God (about the w.~ter and blood] makes him out to be a liar, bec:~.use she has not believed in the testimony that God testified about his Son.
2 jOHN 7-11
7Because many deceivers have gone out into the world, those who do not confess, "Jesus is the C hrist coming in Aesh"this is the deceiver and the Antichrist. 8Watch yourselves, so that you do not destroy what we worked for rather than receiving a full reward. 9 £\·eryone who runs ahead and docs not remain in the teaching o f C hrist does not have God; rhe one who remains in the teaching has the Father and the Son. lOif anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching [that j esus is the C hrist in Aesh], do not receive him into the houseanddo notsay, "Welcome,"tohim. 11 Fortheonewho says, "Welcome," tO him shares in his wicked work.
3 j OHN 9-11
91 wrote
something to the church, but Diotrephes, the one who loves to be first among them, does not receive us [i.e., will not let people see my letter]. 10Because of this, when I come I will remind [the believers] o f his deeds that he docs, slandering us with wicked words. And not being content with this, he also does not receive the brothers [i.e., will not let the Elder's liaisons come to his church], and he forbids those who want [to talk to the Elder's liaisons] and th rows them out of the church. 11 Beloved, do not imit:Jte the evil, but rather the good. The one who does good is from God; the one who does evil has not seen God .
John'~
,\!emory Framework
6i
lc John's me mo ry o f j esus was sig nifica ntly s haped by three majo r framewo rks: I . A general feeling of hostiliry from all nonhclie\·ers, people of .. thc world"' 2. A specific feeling of hostil ity :~nd persecution from J ews who did no t agree with him about Jesus 3. A need to counter and oppose the claims of the AntiChrist~ (or at least, of their way of remembering J esus)
[ "ill proceed m arb'l.te, wrote a Gospel to make up for the deficiencies of this :1pproach. Fo r our present puqlOses, hm\e\·cr, please note that 1 will show no fear in assuming th:tt at the time that the Fourth Gospel was wrim::n the AntiChrisr.s were a re:ll and coherem thre:u, n group that John ~pecifically sought to refute by writing his book about J esus. 11ut e\·en if you do not agree with n1c th:n the epistles were wrillcn before the Fonnh GOS]>Cl, and/or if you feel that the AntiChrists were not yet a distinct mo\·ement at the time that J ohn wrote his hoo k abourJ esus, 1do not think that our differences on this i~sue would n ecessaril~, invalidate my :trgument here. As wi ll be seen , 1 am not so much interested in the AntiCh rist-;' specific bel iefs :1bout Chrisr as in the way that they wen1 ahourconsrructing their beliefs allOut Christ, the approach to the issues th:tt they adopted. 1 :unconce rned, in other words, not with the romwr of the AmiChristian memory of J esus, but r:nher with me mrtms by\\ hich me AntiChrists created lheir memories ofJesus, what we might c:all the "gener:ni,·e grammar" of their ChristolOb'Y· In Ill~' \'iew, the approach that the AntiChrists ad\"Oc:ued would have hcen ;I problem fo r John, dt e Elder, :md others in their camp long he fore the t\ntiChri~ts :tcll!ally left the .Johannine churches, and I sec J olm reacting against this approach in general more th:m a br:~ in s t this group of people in p;lrticular. In support of this claim, 1 would note that J ohn Painter-who tinnly bcliC\'eS that me Fourth Gospel preceded the epistles-h:Js argued quite SOilll' time ago now thatJohn 17 was written in :1 111"icipation of the challenge that the AntiChrists wou ld later prcsem. According to Painter, Jesus' prayer for unity :tt John l 7 was wrincn in reaction to an inRux of Gemi le believers who ''no
68
Why John Wrote a Gospel
longer had a direct link wil11 the J esus tradition" and instead tended "to think of the revelation of new truth through the Spirit ofTruth." These charistn:ltic Gentiles, Painter arbrucs, bcgnn "to inrcrprct the activity of the Spirit in terms of'ccstatic utterance,' " leading them w develop and promote innovative ideas that thrc:ltcncd to divide John's congregations. In Paimcr's vicw,John's warnings about th is pro hl em in his Gospel were ineffective, and the sch ism gr;Jdually grew into the AntiChrist situ:Jtion rcfl ccrcd in I John. 11 I thin k it reasonable to argue, then, that the Fourth Gospel imcracts with the AntiChrists' approach to Jesus rradition, either by amicipating that approach at the ea rl y st<Jgcs of the con flier (i\ Ia Painter) or by attacking that approach after a formal spli t h:1d occurred. As noted, I persona lly lean toward the latter o ption, but wou ld ag':li n stress that my discussion focuses on a spectrum of options for thinking abo ut J esus that existed within thc J ohannine community around the time that the Fourth Gospel was written. Reb>"ardlcss of the precise chronological relationsh ip, John's Gospel would E1ll o n one end o f this spectrum, the AntiChrist.-.' preach ing would fall on the other, and the differences between these perspectives will provide crucial clues to the question, VVhy did J ohn write a Gospel? ThcJoh:mnine memory framework, then, was ch;Jractcrized by connict and controversy. Jo hn's memory of Jesus was shaped in dialo&rue with Christians who felt persecmcd and who faced significant doctrinal divisions. \Vithin that framework, he sought to construct a vision of the past that would unify his churches on the basis of a common image ofJ esus. But in doing so, he encountered an obstacle that made a written Gospel especially useful to his purposes. That obstacle w:1s his own theory of charismatic memory and its inherent limitations when applied to the management and usc of J esus tradition. T he specific contours of this problem are the subject of the next several chapters.
6
O ne Way Back to Two P laces: AntiC hristian Coun termemory
John's memory o(jcsus w:IS dri\'CII by the Spirit and shaped 10 meet the needs of churches alienated fro m the world :md thrc:ttcncd by the AntiChrists (or, :I&<:~ in, threatened :11 least by the kind of thinking that would hncr C\'Ok c imo AntiC:hristi:mity). This social contc.n ma~· ~thought of :as the fr:amcwork of Johanninc memory, the mold in which J ohn 's image of Jesus wa~ const:mtly shaped and reshaped. The Fourth Gospel'~ uni<]uC prescnt:nion of Jc~ us, the disciples, and 1hcir ant:lgonists rc\'ca ls the extent to which John's memory fr.uncwork differed from those tha t guided Ab uhcw, M:1rk, Luke, :md mhcr cn rly Chrisri:m :mthors. In rn:1ny respects. J ohn's charism:Jti<: approach w memory wou ld Uc a poll'crful tOOl for persuading suffl!ring Christians to maimain rheir E1ith ;1g;_1insr ch:~ l l engc:. from outsiders. Fo r John , genuine memory recalls e1'ents from J esus' life hut reconfigures these rccolk-ctions through Scripture :md Christian f:lith under the Spirit's guidance, It is therefore impossi ble for faithless people "ho do not possess the Spirit to :tccur:trelr inrerprcrJcsus' words and :1c1ions. Appc:~ling to r.h is ru le, thcjoh:tnnine Jt.'SUS c:~n confidently :~sscrt that his contemporaries do nor undcrst:md him simply because they, bcking f:tit h, arc unable to hc:~r what he s:t\"S Oohn R:43--45). In the bro:~d cr context of the Fourth Gospe l, this rnc:ms th.:Lr "the J ell's'' of Jesus' day <.·ou ld not, :~nd could nut ]}()SSibly, gr:lS]l the rrue si!,•nific:mcc of what he was doing, beewse they n.:f11~ed to aC<.'Cp t thar he "c:~me from the F:uhcr'' :Hld w;JS on his way h:1ck to heaven ( 16:1R-l'J). John cou ld e:~si ly c.nendjesus' principle to demonstr:ne rhat ''the world" and "the Jews" of his own rime also knc11 nmhing about Chris1. i\'o o ne o utside the
69
John 's Memory Bubble: Strengths and Weaknesses Strength People who don't have the Spi rit e;m't challenge what Joh n says about Jesus; uthc world" and uthe Jews" can't oppose him because they can't remember Jesus correctly.
_. ,. . . . . u
~So you want to tell me that this bastanl from Nazareth was, what, a god or something? He wasn't even a good Jew,lor Pete'a sake. Look
he's God, why Is your life such a stinking mess? Explain that to me."
..
1-
a m a n o ltlle ~tllewDfld ~
Weakness
Anyone who (locs have the Spiri t can challenge what John says about Jesus; the AntiChrists can claim that the Spirit is guiding their memory of jesus and their interpretation of that memory, just like John's.
John's th eory of memory herm etica ll y seals his image of J esus: Nolhi ng omsi{le can iJt: pushed in- BUT- nothing inside can be pushed out, either.
One Way Back to Two Places
71
church-no person who "walks in darkness" and refuses to confess that jesus is the C hrist come in Aesh ( I John 1:6; 2:23}---could seriouslychallenge j ohn's claims about j esus, because such people do not possess the Spirit and arc therefore categorically unable to understand what Jesus said and did. Put another way, J ohn's charismatic ouclook insubted his memory of Christ from outside forces to such an extent that it would be impossible for any nonbeliever to seriously threaten the authority of his claims about j esus. Since the world does not know j esus( ! John 3: 1), there's not much point fora Christian to listen to anything that worldly people have to say abo ut him. Bm while J ohn's theory of memory made it impossible for outsiders to threaten his claims, it left him especially vulnerable tO internal challenges. ln a C hristian context where the memory of Jesus was viewed as an operation of the Spirit, anyone who claimed to possess the Spirit could also claim that her memory of J esus was autho ritative, even in instances where that memory differed substantially from J ohn's memory. As Rensberger notes, if "opponents claimed that thei r ideas were inspired by the Spirit .. . they would not hesitate to offer 11n11 concepts built up fro m their basic interpretation o f the tradition," "new" in the sense that these concepts might not necessarily coincide with previous orthodox teaching. I Specificall y, it seems that the AntiChrists, as an internal threat to John's authority, were able to challenge his position by creating a charismatic "countenncmory," an alternate way of thinking about who Jesus was and what he did.
JOHN VS. THE ANTICHRISTS, A THEOLOGICAL DEBATE? Traditionally, the conflict between John and rhe AntiChrists has been postured as the first of the many great theological debates that would eventually underlie rhe rulings of the church councils. Following this model, one may utilize traditional christological categories to picture John encamped on one hill and the AntiChrists on another. ln the valley below lay their field of conflict: the in c:~.r narion, specifi cally the relationship between the human and divine aspects of J esus' nature. John insists that the divine C hrist was fully incarnate in the human J esus Qohn 1:14), but the AntiChrists hold that the human Jesus and the divine C hrist should be kept separate, with primary emphasis being pbced on his deity(sce I John 5:6--8). The AntiChrists would therefore dispute John's claims that "[the historical] Jesus is the [divine] Christ" and that "Jesus [is the] C hrist come in fl esh" (sec I John 2:22; 4:3; 2 J ohn 7). In modem temlS, one might say that the AntiChrists' Christology was "too high," an unbalanced equation in which J esus' humanity was swallowed up by his divinity.
72
Why John Wrote a Gospel
A theological approach to the John vs. AntiChrists conflict carries with it certain asswnptions about the Johannine memory of J esus, assumptions that need not be articulated in most studies but are critical to the present inquiry. Specifically, the theological approach assumes that John and the AntiChrists must have developed their thinking under the impetus of different memory frameworks, and that they probably also utiuzed different memory databases to construct their images of Jesus. This conclusion would be seen as selfevident in view of the fact that their respective conclusions about Christ were so different; such radically different Christologies could not have grown from the same root. In other words, since j ohn and the AntiChrists seem to fall into very different theological camps, their ideas must have come from very different pl::~ces. As noted in the last chapter, John's database and his memory frameworks, at least the parts of them that arc relevant to the theological approach, may be reconstructed from the Fourth Gospel and the J ohannine Epistles. But since tl1e AntiChrists left no literary remains, one can only speculate about the frameworks and database that may have informed their position. ln general, this gap in tl1e evidence has been filled by the assumption that the AntiChrists adopted an "invention of tradition" approach. Invented traditions are fabricated versions of history, often complete with new rituals and commemorativ e rites, that combine bits of the true past with a large measure of present ideas. People invent traditions to create a sense of continuity between "now" and "then" in service of some political or economic agenda, borrowing the prestige of yesterday to add authority to something totally new. 2 Following tl1is model, one may easily argtJe that the AntiChrists achieved their theological objectives mainly by importing alien elements into the sterilized J ohannine outlook, attaching fabricated memories to oriliodox tradition in service of their contemporary philosophical theories. The notion that the AntiChrists invented tradition follows easily from the general tendency, becoming less common lately, to associate them with some branch of quasi/incipient/ proto-Gnosticis m, and the correlating view that Gnostics were seedpickcrs who simply conAated canonical Christian materials with J ewish and H ellenistic philosophical ideas.3This interpretation of the Johannine situation is very ancient, and in fact emerged witl1in decades of the Fourtl1 Gospel's publication. Ircnaeus (ca. 180 CE) records an encou nter in a bathhouse between the apostle J ohn and Cerintlms, an early gnostic teacher who argued that "tl1e C hrist," a spiritual being, descended on the human jesus at his baptism and inhabited his body during his public ministry, departing just before his helpless host's agonizing de:1th on the cross (Against Heresies 1.26.1; 3.3.4). One can easily imagine that the AntiChrists, who refused to accept mat Jesus came "in me water and intbe blood" (I J ohn 5:6), subscribed to the opin-
One \ \ 'av . Back to ' 1\vo Places
73
ions of this individual. O r perhaps the AntiCh rists were acnmlly Docetists, an enrl y he retica l group that believed that "the C hrist" was a spiritual being who only "seemed" (Greek OoKew) to have a human body, maki ng j esus a sort of ph:mtom illusion and casting those who doubted h is deity in the skeptical role of Velma in a cosmic Scoohy Doo mystery ("there's no such thing as ghosrs"). The writings of Ignatius (ca. 11 5 CE) suggest that docetic ideas were circulating in western Asia 1\ linor soon after the j oha nnine literatu re was produced (Trnl!irms 9- 10; Su~)•nwms 2-7). As proro-Cno stic inventors o f traditio n, the AntiC hrists importt:d so much foreign material into J ohn 's orthodox data base that they . essentiallv' created a whole new j esus tradition. And when that i1wenred tradition was pushed through the AntiChrist s' distinct memory framework , it nawrally produced an de,·ated image ofJ esus that looked quite different from John's image. Viewed within the paradigm of a great theologica l debate, one might refer to the Anti C hrists' chrisrological position as a "counterm cmory," in the gencnd sense that they d isagreed with j ohn about what J esus did in the past.4 John's theologica l outlook generated one christologi cal image, one distinct memory of jesus; the AntiChrist S' theologica l outlook generated another image, a counterme mory. And because the Johannine Epistles describe the interaction between these rwo positions in terms of a cosmic confl ict between truth and fa lsehood , it is reasonable to suggest that the AntiChrists presented thei r memo ry of.Jesus as a counter to J ohn's memory in hostile oppositio n to his theologica l position. t\t the very least, this approach to the backgroun d of the Johannine literature has produced some interesting exege!>b in the nineteen cenwries since it was first poswlated.
A GENEALOGY OF CONFLICT: THE ANTICHRJST IAN COUNT ERMEMORY It i<; possible, then, to coherently ponray John's conflict with the AntiChris rs-or, again, with cl1e AntiChri;,rian way of thinking about Jesusas a rheological debate, the opening \'Olley in a war that would wage fifty years later between the great G nostic teachers o f the second centu ry :1nd the o rthodox bisho ps who cla imed j o hn as their ecdesia l father. Such an ap proach is amenable to the present d iscussion in that these theologica l diffe rences can be explained in terms of alternate Jesus traditions, different memory frameworks, and counterme mories: john was coming from one place; cl1e AntiChrist S were coming from somewher e else. In view of the archetypal patterns that would later emerge in the history of Christian doctrine, it seems logical to modern reade rs to model the skirmish between j o hn and the AntiC hrists afte r the
74
'Why Jolm Wrote a Gospel
titanic struggles between Augustine and Pelagius, Calvin and Anninius, Luther and everyone. Yet here again, the difficulty lies not so much in the nuances of the "theological debate" model as in its incompatibility with the Elder's understanding of the AntiChrist situation. The theological approach tends to assume that the AntiChrists were working with a traditional database and a memory framework inherently different from Jolu1's database and framework-different enough, at least, to justify treating them as an outside group, one obviously distinct from John, the Elder, and other orthodox believers. Schnackenburg, typical of those who follow tl1is model, interprets 2 John 9 to mean that the AntiChrists "aspire to higher insights in a manner typical of gnostic behavior," "higher" in the sense that they include ideas alien to "the teaching given by Christ himself."5Some scholars have even suggested that the AntiChrists were Gentiles who entered theJohannine commw1ity after theJohannineJesus tradition had already taken shape and then reinterpreted this tradition in light of pagan religious and philosophical concepts, a view that reflects the invented tradition approach in its purest form.6 But this sharp distinction between John and the AntiChrists was apparently not quite so obvious to the early Johannine Christians. The E lder does not accuse the AntiChrists of inventing tradition, or of bringing alien, gnostic elements into the church's pure memory of Jesus. He admits, in fact, that the AntiChrists "went out from us," meaning that they were once (possibly very recently) members of his commun ity (I John 2: 19). Further, despite the general]ohann ine obsession with "the world" and "the Jews," tl1e Elder does not accuse the AntiChrists of importing ideas from outside the sphere of Christian thought. He simply says that they have "run ahead" (1rpoo-yw) of the orthodox teaching, a term that seems to imply that they had developed traditional Johannine thinking beyond the safe boundaries of community creeds.7 Some Christians, even leaders Like Diotrephes, saw this as a positive development, and refused to entertain teachers who reflected John's more antiquated perspective (3 John 10). The very name tl1e Elder gives his opponents, "AntiChrists," implies that their vision was attractive to believers (and therefore dangerous to John) because they were preaching "a gospel," a message of "Christ"-albeit not the same message that John preached. In fact, even the term "opponents" should be used cautiously in tl1is discussion, with the understanding that this label may not reflect tl1e AntiChrists' own feelings about their relationship to Jolm. T hey may have viewed their own teachings as a logical extension of John's position. The AntiChrists were apparently a group of Christians who thought of themselves as orthodox and who appealed to other Christians who thought of themselves as orthodox (if the term "orthodox" is at all meaningful for the time period that we are discussing here). And in view of their origin within the
75
One Way Back to Two Places
Joh:mnine community, their image of Jesus was presumably generated in a memory framework very similar to j olm's, and built up from a traditional database similar (or identical) to the one that John was using. It seems, rhen, that the confl ict between John and the AntiChrists is best conceived as an internal dispute between rwo theological positions generated from the same community framework and against the backdrop of the same basic set of experiences. In other words, rather th::m assuming that the AntiChrists were outsiders who developed their theology by importing gnostic, Hellenistic, and/or heterodox Jewish ideas into the true Christian fuith , it will be more fruitful to assume that their views were developed from basically the same substance, and in essentially the same context, as J ohn's views. But if this were the case, buw did tbt AmiCbrim amu to mch a radically diffn-rnr ptn[Wctivt? And on what basis wrn they abfr to uriousfy chaffmgr thr ofdn; tstab/ishrd undf'rftnnding of]mu? The answer to these questions lies in a fuller
• If John and the AntiChrists built their images ofJ esus from the same mditional database, how did they come to such different conclusions, and how could the AntiChrists seriously challenge John's onhodox view?
S:ameMemory
Different
Framework
"Christs"
consideration of how countermemories-images of the past that oppose and compete with mainstream views--develop and function. As noted above, the AntiChrists' vision of j esus might be labeled a countemtemory in the general sense that their thinlcing about j esus was different from John!. thinlcing. But the tenn "countermemory," coined by the French
WhyJohn Wrote a Gospel
'
soci logist A1..ichel Foucault, carries a deeper implication th:n relates more di refcly to the actual circumstances of the conflict. Specifically, in Foucault's con eption a countennemory is not simply a diffe rent idea about the past"yoo say X happened, I say Y happcncd"-but rathe r an alternate means of 1 co rrucring the past, a different way of remembering. Countemtemories do not ecessarily dispute facts abour the past; they reconfigure those facts by real ~gn ing the very frameworks on which memories are built. ucault used the tenn "countennemory" to describe the prod uct o f a Ni hean, "gen e:~logica l " approach to history. NierL.SChe argued th:~t hisro books generally seek to identify a distinct point o f origin for things and ins 'tutions, the moment when "historic" people and C\'ents burst suddenly om the scene of human affairs. A genealogical history, by contrast, would trca all events and social institutions as products of a complex interpla y o f
A true "countcmtemory" reconfigures not onl y the content o( the past, but also the frameworks of the pasL It ma y simply reorganize and repacl.:.age the contents of the mainstream viewsame pieces, different puzzle. soci 1 forces, and would attempt to trace their development (thei r "genealogy by identifying these forces. From this perspective, ma jor social mm•eme ts and figures emerge gradually in the ongoing conflict of power relations and rspeet:ivcs that drive a society. As such, a genealogical approach to histo "will cultivate the details and accidents that accompany every beginning"
~~~ ~~n!:~:~:n: ~~;~:~:i~n:~ ~h:ect~~~;~h~te;~st~na:::i::::; :~~
1
have; value for us. "B Nietzsche referred w this genealogical approach to
:~ ~:~e~;'~:~~ :~~:~~:~~~~~::;;;;;s~tt~~~:h~~t=~t;0~~::: the
mous events, institutions, and people that fill the pages of most history Essential!)', a "history of effects" is not so much concerned with "what hap ned" as with why certain things that hap1>encd have come to be \'iewcd as • istorical moments" o f Sl>ecial impomnce. bvio usly, such an approach is not typical of the V.'cstem historical traditio a fact of which both N ict7Sehe and Foucault were well aware. Foucault not thar a history of effects will SJ>ecifically oppose mainstream ideas about "his ory" at several key points. At each of these IXlints, it is clear that Foucault is thjnki ng of history books as a fonn of cultural memory, a way that societies shade and preserve their image of the past. Thus, his genealogical approach "opJ?OSCS the theme of history as reminiscence or recognition," resisting the
boob.
7i itlca th:lt history books arc simply an:hi\·cs of information that objectively prcscn·c and descri be cvcms for later refere nce :u1d review. It ;t lso "opposes history given as conti nuity or rcprcsemati\·c of a tradition," defying the wa~· that hi ~tory books suggest C\'CIHS namrally occur in logi<.'OSCS '" history as kno ll ledge" by
insisting that historica l inquiry could never produce a purcl ~· objcl·ti\·c memory of the pasr "as it really was." Rcc:IUSC this appro:1ch (liffcrsso mdi<.~llly from most funthtrncntal ;tssumplions abom hi ~to riogr.1phy. Foucault ca lls gcnC:l logica l histo ries a ~coumcr-mcmol)•:' :m entire I}' differe nt w:t y of talking ;Jhout th e p;tst. Specifically, a "history of effects'' .. severs its [hisrory'slmnnection to memo ry [: simple reeall of the past I, its meta physica l and :mthroJ>Ological model, and constmclS a counter-me•norv--J u-:ansfonnation of history into a tor:.lly different fonn of time.»<.~ Essemi~ lly, then, in Foucau lt 's <.'Onc~ption a counren ncmory is not simply ol differen t \'ersion o f the past, hut rather 11 tlif-
Ji'rrm
7!'11J
ofcnaring 11 tll"rrion ofriJI' p11sf.
T his :.spect ofFou<.~nllt's l'onccpt of l'OUntennemory has been en•ph;tsizcd by sociologists such :ts Ann Burlein. In her n.'CCnt study of the rhetoric of the Ku Klu.'C Kl:ln, Uft /ligb 1h1• Cross, Burlein uses :1 coumenncmo ry model to ;ma l~rLC Klan speeches clm appc:tl w trndition:.l rcligiouo; m lucs :.mlthe Hiblc in ser•icc of \\hire suprem:t<.ist politics. Olwiously, the cont·ent of such speeches would <."l':.luse the motjority of peoplediS.1b'Tee with it. In fotct, most of the "e\'idence" thrown from the Klan soapiXIx is drnwn from the d:ttabasc ofb:~sic historic:tl Hf.tctS" that most Americ:ms would ae<.-cpt as t'me, the s:une dam base th:~t supplies m:~tc ri:.l to m:ti nsu·c;lm ways of thinking. T he differen<.-c, then, lies not in the l'Omem of the Klan 's memory, but r.n her in the w:1y tha t their memory of U.S. history is srrueture1l. The Kbn speech bccomcs a true coumermemory at the j)()int where it :tppeals 1'0 "religion as an :~hern:~ti\'e way of remembering history and e1npowcring t>Coplc." 10 By reorg:mizi ng e\·cnts from the <.'O mmon darabase o f the Ameri<.':ln past within a religious frnmework, the Khn is able to prcscm om "altemati1·c history," :1 story th:ll functions :IS a coutHcnncmory not ~imp l ~· lx"l-:ausc most Amerie:HIS diS.1!,'Tee with the Klan S version of the p;lst hut, an1l at :1 1m1eh dee per level, hec:wse th:ll image of the past is built on an enrirely different framework of values. "Such memories are counter-, not lx"<-':l USC they :~re forC i!,'ll w the m:1instream, but be<.";.HISC they draw on m:.i nstre:un currcnb in order w redirl"{;t their llow."' 11 A..., such, l'OUntcnncmorics arc otcru;~ ll y lx-st under;tood as under<.11rrcnt:s within the onhodox way of thinking :JIXIut the p:~st. Foucault's notio n of a eountcnnernory, es peci ;~ll y :.s de,·elope(l hy schob rs such as Bu rlein, echoes A\:l uricc 1 b lbwo1chs's e:~rli e r corn1nents about the ways
78
Why John Wrote a Gospel
groups gradually or suddenly change their collective memories. " \Nhcn society becomes too different from what it had been in the past and from the conditions in which the trad itions had arisen, it will no longer find within itself the elements necessary to reconstruct, consolidate, and repair these traditions." At this point, it will become essential to rethink the past so as to make the events of yesterday comprehensible in the context of present experience. But this process of reimaging memory must be closely regubtcd in order to maintain a sense of continuity between past and present, lest a society lose its sense of heritage and orientation. For this reason, "it is with in the framework of these old notions and under the prcte.n oftr:aditional ideas, that a new order of values would become slowly claboratcd ." 12 In other words, new versions of the past, countcrrnernories, will be most successful when they explicitly bui ld on the older versions of the past that they seck to replace. l-l albwachs illustrates this pri nciple by discussing Christian origins. In general, new religious beliefs arc fonnulated in opposition to old beliefs, and
A "coumermcrnory" is not simply an alternate version of the past; it is an alternate way of bui lding a version of the past. 2. "No, 1said 1would call youat1 1:30."
4. "You do lhat."
Not a "countermcmory" (same ideas about time, nppointmcnL<;, and planners; dispute nbout wbicb time was discussed, the fucts of the case)
One \ \'ay Back to '1\ro Pbl"CS
i9
innovatin: religious thought tends to dernonstn rc the superiority of the new way of thi nking hy evoking old ideas and then s pecific:~lly rejecting them. By bui lding on :tnd/or destroying the old theology, the new rclibrious movement lx:comes comprehensible to society and, indeed, comprehensible to its own memhers through a process of comparison and contrast. Following this rule, the founders of Chrisri:~niry expressed their new religious ide:. Is by opposing them to the older ideals of Judaism, e\"okcd in the form of concepts :tnd prophecies from the ll ehrew Bible. -Through terms borrowed from the Old Tesmment, and through an interpretation of the prophecies th~H the J ews understood on ly in the li!eral sense bm th:tt the new religion permeates with its spi rit, Christi:.nity is defined." P:tul's rc:tding of the Psalms and Prophets was dms '"new" in that it projected Christ backward into the :~ncient text, but Paul's reading was "old" in that it still :~ppealed to the Hebrew Bible to m:tke Jesus sensible to, :md compatible with. cst:lblished patterns of religious thinking. By this means th e early believers forge d a distinctly Christi:m countermemory simply by reconfiguring kc)' clements of Ju
80
VVhy John Wrote :a Gospel
'~>A "countennc mory"« (no dispute ahout wbich time; d ispute about what kind of time- which ti me zone? same data, different framework)
Nor is it clea r that th e AntiChrists developed their vi~ion by importing alien, gnostic elements into the orthodox Johannine framework; certai nly, there is no evidence to suggest that they thought they were doing this or intended to do so. The AntiChrists' position represents a true countcrmemory in the sense that their image of Christ was forged in the same context as J ohn's on the basis of the same traditiona l dam base, yet with the element.<; of that common memory o rganized in a new and different way. Chapters 7 an
One Way Back to Two Places
81
challenged his authority over the community's beliefs. Part 4 will show that John's decision to write a Gospel was a logical response to this challenge.
"[E]very idea ofthe secessionists [AntiChrists] ... can be plausibly explained as deriVlltive from the J ohannine tradition as preserved for us in Gj ohn [the Gospel of j ohn]." - R:.ymond Brown, 1Dt Episrln f[Jolm, 72
7
Jesus Now and Then: John's Dogmatic Memory
John's memory ofj esus was shaped in a framework of perceived dange r. These
dangers included the threat of persecution from outside forces-c:he unbelieving "world" and "the J ews"-and internal doctrinal threats from the AntiChrists. As bad as the world might be, the AntiChrim must have IX'sed the greatest immediate risk to John's ]>OSition. VVhile "the Jews" could do no worse than deny John's claims, the AntiChrists, as (fonn er) members o f Jo hn's own communiry, buih their vision of J esus from the same stuff as John's own
understanding and, like John himself, could insist that their memory was driven and guided by the Holy Spirit. J ohn's decision to write a Gospel was one aspect of a large r response to this threat, and the tactical advantages of a written text are set in bold relief when the conflict is analyzed in tenns of the tension between "dogma" and "mysticism" in re ligious memory.
THE LOOK OF JESUS IN THE LIMINAL ZONE Any consideration of the AntiChrists' theological position must answer t\1-'0 questions: Why did the AntiChrists "run ahead" of the traditional j ohannine way of thinking about J esus? How did the AntiChrists manage to develop a coumennemory of jesus that would ap(>eal to Christians li!.:.e Diotrephes (3 John 9)? Both questions are subheadings under a larger problem that is relevant to any serious discussion of the way that memory works. A theory of memory must explain two phenomena: the persistence of coherent views of the past m·er time and the discontinuity of views of the past over rime. A theory of memory must, in other words, explain both remembering and forgetting, and
83
84
Why John Wrote a Gospel
Two key questions:
~ I. Why did the AntiChrists ~run ahead" of John 's way of thinking
\I
and develop a countennemory of Jesus?
~ 2.1-low did the AntiChrists d~velop a countennemory of Jesus that \ I was appealing to some Chnsri:ms? the facrors that lead an individual or a group to retain some pieces of the past while diSC:Jrding the rest. For the current study, this means that it is necessary to explain how t he AntiChrists, as members ofJohn's religious community, were
able to create a countermemory that reained some elements of the conventional j ohannine perspective while ignoring or forgetting other elements, and also lO explain wby they felt compelled to do this.
Why Reinve nt Jesus? To answer the question, Wby did the AntiChrists develop a countermemory of Jesus? it will be necessary to consider why any religious group would change t he way they think about the past, especiall y the way they think about the founding figures of their movement. This problem is perhaps more complicated than first appears, for the me mory of religious groups is inherently conservative, at least more conservative than the memories of most other gro ups. Religious memory is "conservative" in the sense that it explicitly attempts to explain prcscm social realities in rem1s of the period of origins, maldng the problems of today fit the teachings of the founders of the fa ith. Indeed, "what is peculiar to the memory of religious groups is tha t, while the memories of other groups penneate each o the r murually and tend to correspond, t he memory of religious groups claims to be fixed o nce and fo r all. It (religious me mory] either obliges o thers to adapt themselves to its dominant represenrations, o r it systematically ignores them." Religious groups attempt to remain in close contact with the period of origins through riruals, creeds, tr::lditions, and sacred texts that preserve the image of that past. The founders of the faith are cano nized through this constant rehearsal of their words and deeds, malcing t he memory frameworks of the first generation a defau h value for the thinldng of all b ter believers, one that seems to tr::lnscend the petty concerns of today. 1 One may therefore say that religious memories, the images of the past preserved by members of a religious group, are characterized by an acute sense of the d istance between "now" and "then" and by an attempt to minimize that disunce by interpreting the present through the frameworks of past ways of thinking.!
Jesus Now and Then
85
In the early dars of :1 religious movement, the tension between the periO
""
;lnd develop a coumerrncrnory of J esus? Because they, like J ohn, sensed contempora ry society.
:1
nee
to
J ohn's experiences, or at least perceptions, of persecution and excornJnrrnic;Jtion left him :~nd his churches in :1 v:Jgtre, limin:1l zone between Jmbism and rn;rinstre;Jnr Greco-Rom;rn cult1.rre, forcing him to oper.Jtc within memory frJrneworks quite foreign to those th:rt drove the thinking of J esus. Further,
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\-\'hy John Wrote a Gospel
most scholars today support (often simply for convenience) the traditional theory that thejohanninc literature was written in western Asia Minor (Eph esus), a social contclt obviously very different from Jesus' old stomping grounds in Roman Pal estine. As lhcjohanninc Christians "became distanced from this Ucsus'J milieu, [their] Christian socicry had to establish its dob•mas and cult and contrast these to the beliefs and practices of secular society, which represented another time [the present] and [therefore] obeyed impulses different from " those that animated the tcachinb'!l ofj esus. 4 This situation forced the Johanninc Christians to adopt a new hermeneutical strategy, one that would make traditiona l beliefs comprehensible in their new social context while keeping Christian thought distinct from secula r thought. Renm1ing then to the question, \Vhy did the AntiChrists create a countermemory of Jesus? it seems that they, as members oft.he Johannine community, felt the need to realign their memory of Jesus for the same reasons that John would h::ave felt the need to realign his. Before they "went out" from John's churches (I John 2: 18-19) and probably still afterwards, the AntiChrists presumably experienced the same sense of alienation and persecution from "the world" and "the Jews" that John felt. They, likeJohn, realized the growing distance between the historical Jesus and the world around them, forcing them to reinterpret the master's teaching so that Jesus could speak to contemporary concerns. But for reasons that can not now be known, they were not content with John's reconfiguration of Jesus' memory, perh;lps because they felt that John did not go far enough in updating the tradition. This would expl::ain the Elder's complaint that the AntiChrist.<; have "run ahe::ad" (1Tpo&yw) and not remained in the teaching ::about Ch rist (2 John 9)--likeJohn, the AntiChrists needed to bridge the ga p between the Jesus of yesterday ::and the world of today, but were unwilling to stop where Jolm swpped. The theological differences between John and the AntiChrist.<; should not, then, Lie attributed to different motives for rcimaging Jesus. Rather, the theological differences between these two groups were a byproduct of the fact that they adopted two different strategies in their anempts to make the memory of j esus relevant to the same socia l setting. The AntiChrists were doing the same thing that Joh n was doing and for the same reason, but in a different way :md along a different trajectory.
How to Reinvent j esus? This ren1rns us to the second "key question" that opened this section: Now did the AntiChrists manage to develop a countermemory of Jesus that was appealing to Christians like Diotrephes (3 John 9)? How did their strategy for making Jesus relevant to eontempora l)' society differ from John's strategy? And,
j esus Now and Then
87
ultimately, what aspects of their strategy would make a written Gospel espe· cially helpful to john in his attempts to counter their teaching? Halbwachs argues that a distinctly Christian identity, one that interprets current experience through the lens of the founders of the church, may be con· structed through one of two modes of religious memory, the "dogmatic" mode and the "mystical" mode. Dogmatists "claim to possess and to preserve the meaning and understanding of Christian doctrine because they know how controversial terms, propositions, or symbols have been defined in the past, and also because they possess a general method for defining these today." The dogmatist, in other words, follows an onhodox henneneutical model that allows her to continually reinterpret the ancient rites and teachings of the faith- rites and teachings that are in turn assumed to reflect the beliefs and practices of j esus and the apostles-in ways that speak to contemporary life. Dogmatists are thus responsible fo r the church's academic theological tradi· tion. "This is in contrast to mystics, who try by means of an interior light to recover the meaning of texts and ceremonies. " 5 ln general, the dogmatist meets current needs by reconfiguring J esus' memory on the basis of estab· lished creeds, orthodox traditions, and accepted exegetical methods. The mys· tic, by contrast, meers current needs by appealing to an intensely personal vision of Christ that transcends conventional ways of thinking. Following Halbwachs's paradigm, we can say that the debate between j ohn and the AntiChrists took the fonn of a conflict between the dogmatic and mys· tical approaches to Christian tradition. At a point in time when the church was becoming acutely aware of the distance between j esus' situation and irs own situation, J ohn adopted a dogmatic approach to the memory of J esus, whi le the AntiChrists adopted a mystical approach.
JOHN'S DOGMATIC MEMORY ln a very real sense, Christian faith is obsessed with its own past. lndeed, "the entire substance of Christianity .. . consists in the remembrance of his Uesus'J life and teachings," a claim verified by the fact that almost every component of the church's worship, creeds, confessions, and calendar "is essentially the commemoration of a period or an event of the life of Christ. "6 Vlhile Chris· tian faith is energized by the example of charismatic founders like J esus, Peter, and Paul, this backward focus always threatens ro leave the church unable to address contemporary concerns. How, with its gaze fixed on yes· terday, can the church "present itself as a pem1anent institution. . {whose) tmths can be both historical and etema1 ?" 7 In other words, how can the church claim that things J esus did and said two tho usand years ago are in any
\Vhy john Wrote a Gospel
88
The Liminal Zone of C hristian Memory The Problem: jesus lived a long time ago; now his ideas don't fit too well with how things are today JolmS Frmneworl.·
J esus' Framework
30C.E.
40
50
Solution 1: Tbe Dogmatist sflys ..
60
70
80
90
tOO
Solutio" 2: Tbe Mystic says .
"lakeJesus'wayollhinkingand Ulllhlttoinllrpretlhklgsnow.we hlven,beendoin!IIVIW)'goodjob ollhltiiWY,soGodlllprotlably golngtolllvttolead,outoanew anddelperwtllontogetalthls warkllnesloutollllsdudl.~
way relev:m t to the problems of tod.1y? And especially, how can the church make jesus speak tO today whil e maintaining even basic doctrinal cominuiry with past generations of believers and their own attem p t~ to make j esus speak to contemporary concerns?
Jesus ;-.,'ow and Then
89
llai Owachs ar!,'lleS th:H the church has achiere l:1rgc that their memory frame wo rks can be im]>OSed on cre ry subsc<1uent ge ner:Hion . In ll:t lbw:Jchs's view, then, "dogm:1'' is not so much a body of doctrinal contell\ as ;Hl ongoing )X!rform;tncc tr:ldition, the ahi lity of scholars in each generation to inrcrprct present rc:tlitics through past fr;uncworks. This explains why some doctrines fJde into ohscurity OI"Cf time and why the beliefs held to be orthO
9Q
Why John Wrote a Gospel
making it necessary to reject those earlier constructions. \¥hen this happens, the church " resembles the case of a memory [group] that no longer calls up cerrain of its store of remembrances because the thought of contemporary people no longer has an interest in them. The Church can divert it! atte ntion from cenain of its traditions i f its doctrine remains intact as to its essentials, and if it does not lose too much force o r subst:mce while it gains greater freedom of movement. "9 The church can, in other wo rds, gradually forget or ignore some of its memories to meet current needs, so lo ng as there is still sufficient continuity between new images of the past and previous o rthodo.~ constructions. At fi rst g lance, one might argue that john cannot be la beled a dogm atist in the sense o udined above. The j o hannine Paraclete "anoints" each individual bel iever, helpi ng her to remember things that J esus said and ~,'u i di n g her in the application of those memories to present real ities (I J ohn 2:20-24;J ohn 14:26; 16: 13). H ow could such an existential henneneutic be associated with the church's later scholastic tradition, represented by great scholars like Origen, . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , Augustine, and Thomas Aqui nas? Further, those who believe that Johnl view of the Paraclcte reve~ls just how dogmatic he is: everyone has the
Holy Spirit, but the Spirit :~.lWllyS points bad.·wud to the historic:li j esus and always agrees with what the church has been teaching all along.
John was awa re ofthe Synoptics, or at least the Synoptic j esus tradition, might also point out that John shows an almost complete disre-
fe~!::a~:dn~~s~:~::!nh~:~:: 0
~---------~:~:rs:n~i::i:~ ~~us~ :.~~: coul d one then suggest tha t John felt even slightly constrained w remain consistent with the opinions of earlier generations of believers? A closer examination, however, reveals thatJ ohn's app roach to ti'J dition was thoroughly dogmatic, despite his emphasis on the Spirit's role in Christian experience. ln fact, the dogmatic elements of John's thinking are most obvious in those passages tha t discuss the work of the Paraclcte. For example, when J ohn says that the Spirit will "guide you into all truth" Qohn 16: I 3), he clearly means that the Spirit will guide bel ievers into the common past, back to the histo rical j esus and the orthodox way of thi nking about j esus. Specifically, the Spirit will "remind you of everything that I Ucsusj said to you," "glorifying" Jesus by taking pieces of information from the traditional database of his wo rds and deeds and bringing them to the attention of later believers (John 14:26; 16: 14-15). The Spirit, in other words, can only point back to and affinn what Christians have already been ta ught mr• &t>x"!f;;, "from the beginning," making the Paraclete's work parallel to that of human beings like the Beloved Discip1t: in the preservation of the true witness (see I John 2:7, 24; 3:11; J ohn
Jesus Now and Then
91
15:26-27). For john, the Spirit does not function as a direct interface between Christians and the world, helping believers make sense of their situation. Rather, the Spirit functions as an interface btrwtrn Cbristians and tbt hirturicol Jmu, who himself continues w abide in believers and in whom believers abide and find peace in thei r present circumstances Oohn 14:27; 15: 1- 10). j ohn 's subjection of the charismatic impulse to conservative dogma parallels the odd blend of Spi ri t and creed in the johannine Epistles. The Elder assures belie,•ers that the Paraclete will guide them to a place where they do not need anrone to teach them anything, but also warns them that the Spirit will nc\'er "run ahead" of what they al ready know and have been taught (cf. I j ohn 2:20-.24 and 2John 9). The Elder sees no tension between Spirit and tradition, because, as noted in an earlier chapter, the two are essentially synonymous in his thi nki ng. This theme underlies the enigmatic I J ohn 4:1-6.
1Beloved,
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Why john Wrote a Gospel
In rrue dogmatic f.lshion, thcn,John limits the work of the Spirit to a memory of the founder of the faith, and measure.-; the Spirit's present influence ag:~ins t thc old, orthodox theologica l tradition. A<; a result, John's Parnclete doctrine is not a license for spirin•al freedom, but ra ther a mechanism for doctrinal conform ity. Because the same Spirit of Tmth operates in all believers, John expects the Christian memory of Jesus to be doubl y uniform: first, geographically uniform, in tha t all Christians in all churches should re member Jesus the same way; SC(.Xmd, chronolob..jcally unifonn, in that the image of jesus should not change from one gcner.nion to the next. Because charism:Jtic memory should be gcobrrnphically uniform, the Elder :Jttacks the itiner.mt AntiChrists and the leaders of the individual congreg:Jtions th:usupiXlrt them (3 John 9- 10) for deviations from the majority position. "n1e Spirit would not remind the Elder of one thing about J esus and then tell Diotrephes something else, and since the Elder knows th;lt his memory is tme, Diotrephes' memory must be false. At the same rime, because charismatic memory should be chronologically unifonn, the Elder reminds his readers again :md ag:Jin that every new teaching about. J esus must be consistent with what "you have heard from the beginning" and, consequently, eonsistem with the commu n ity:~ established christological creeds. These creeds can function ;Js doctrin:JI tests because they epitomize the Parnclete's mnemonic work, allowing believers to measure new recollections against old ones and thus briving tradition priority over personal spiritual experience ( I John 2:20-24; 4: 1--6, 13- 15; 5:6- 12; 2 J ohn 7- 10). John , then, responded w the gap between himself and J esus by adopting a conserv:ltive, dogmatic approach to tr:1dition . The Spirit works to point believers back to the foun der of the faith and b'"llidcs them into a dee per application of what they have already been taught. Because this process has been ongoing and uniform since J esus' death- uniform because all believers in all times and places have been guided by the same Spiri t- J ohn fee ls a close continuity between his beliefs and the beliefs of e:1rlier Christians, represented in his community's traditions all(] creeds. As :1 dogmatist, his image of Christ combined recollections of things that Jesus did with previous interpretations to create a fib'1Jre who could speak to John's churches in their unique situation. The AntiChrists opposed John's dogma not by rejcr."ting his claims or adding new infonnarion to his d;l[abasc, but r.1thcr by refocusing the traditional view through the lens of mystical memory, a lens that mab'llified cert:tin facets ofJ esus' image while hlurring other features that lay at the center of John's fiel d of vision. Chapter 8 will explore the means by which they achieved this new focus to answer the second key question that o1>ened this chapter, H ow did the AntiChrists develop a countem1emory of j esus that was apf>ealing to some Christians?
8
Anti C hristian Mystical Memory
i\s I've m cmionc
Sometime in the hue 1980s, the fourulcrofthc Our L:1dyof thc l lo lySpirit Center, one '" Father Smith," trJvclcd w t\ l cdjugorjc-a sma ll 1•ilbgc in Hosni:t- 1\cncgovina 11 here ,\I;Jry has been rc\'ca ling herself to the faithful
Two key {j U CSti o n s:
. . . I. \Vhy did the AntiChrisL~ "run :t hcaJ " of John's way of thinkin g "'
and dc1·clop a coumcnnemory of J esus?
....... 2. 11ow did the AntiChrists develo p a countermcmOIJ' of J esus that '.;.I was :tppcal ing to sorne Christians?
fCb'l.llarly since 198 1- to experience the many mir;Kulous goi ngs-o n there. t\fter this l"isit, one of ;I dozen or so trips that he made w that S;\cred place, he formed a small pr.1yer circle at his church in Northe rn Kcnmcky. which gr.ldu:tll)' grew to include more ;uulmore dc\"otcd Catholics who were interested in thiss;tme type of vision. At some point a lady named Sandy bcc:.unc invol\·cd
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\.Vhy John Wrote a Gospel
in this fellowsh ip. Sandy drove in for the prayer meetings from Batavia, an O hio farmin g tow n just outside the eastern loop of Cincinnati's circle freeway, known main ly for its ch urch camps and large C hcvroler dcale rship. Sometime in the summer of \ 992 the Blessed Virgin appeared to Sandy as "Our Lady of
Light," and this incident began a series of mystical messages through the woman who came to be known, appropriately, as "Visionary Sa1Hiy" and/or "the Batavia Visionary." Mary instructed Sand y to bui ld a grotto on a farm in nearby Falmouth, Kentuc ky, where the faithful were to meet every month for prayer. T his f:mn is now home to a chapel, a healing spring, and several other sacred thi ngs that volumccrs arc glad to point out to visitors. After her initial visitation, the Blessed Lady would appear to Sandy each year on August 31 for a substantial message. T hese meetings attracted large numbers of the faithful, along with a mixed multitude of curious on lookers and re presentatives of the media. The first severa l mass meetings took place at Father Sm ith's church in Cold Springs, Kentucky. But after a while Mary relocated to the campus of the old Mount St. Mary's of the West Seminary across the river in Norwood, Ohio, for her annual appearances, the last of which took place in 1999. Mary's visits made quite a stir in my Catholic hometown, and even today a trip to an y church or bar in Norwood can usually uncover direct testimony from someone who witnessed the amazing events at one of these meetings. Thousands of people would flock with their binocula rs and lawnchairs to the ti ny seminary campus to hea r Visionary Sandy's play-by-play of the words of the Virgi n and to witness the many miracles that confirme d her sacred presence: spots on the sun; silver crucifixes turn ing to gold in the hands of the faithful; shadowy visions of the Madonna in various trees, most of which you may still see standing toda y; mysterious bursts of light, much too bright to be from the flashes of cameras; sudden, inexplicable healings of chronic back pain and many other sore ailments; and so forth. An acquaintance of my wife made pilgrimage to Norwood one year and showed her a most re marka ble photogra ph of two trails of airplane exhaust forming a gia nt cross in the summersl.;y. These and similar manifestations attended the annual advent of the Mother of God in Norwood, Ohio, at least as told to me by those who witnessed them . The local bishops, both in northern Kentucky and Cincinnati, were undersundably hesitant to endo rse these proceedings, but Father Smith maintained his ordination and mass is sti ll served with the bishop's blessing every da y at the O Ll-I S Center. This is the case because the Norwood prophecies, despite the unconventional circumstances of their delivery, actually gave the church hierarchy little c:1use fo r concern . \Vhen interviewed by Short lmrrnational (a noteworthy publication in its own right), Father Sm ith explained that Mary had come simply to "get people back to Christ and Ch risti:m principles.
AntiChristian .\ lystica] ,\lcrnory She sees the OSsible within the group of bcli evers"-speci fi call~·, :1 more intimate contact rh:m cmwention:l l forms of piety will :II low. t\ t v:1rious poims in church history, the cCt, '"we e m, if \le so desire, con tr:lstmrstidsm 11ith dO!,'lllatism as lived rcmen1brance \'l:rsu~ tradition more or less reduce Viewed from this angle, it becomes clear th:ll mysticism, despite it:s emph:l sis on the person:tl e.~ pericnce of the visiona l")' and it:s preference for uncon \'entional ven ues, is in fact a form of countcnnelllOI")', a w:ty of constructing alrernatc images of the past from :1 stock of commo n beliefs. This is C\·irly known, or linlc
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Vlh y john Wrote a Gospel
noticed." Indeed, the great Christian mystics ha\'C genera lly generated their visions through meditations on the Gospels, the sacraments, icons, and various devotional texts that were :~!ready officially endorsed by the church. 4 The mystical insight is thus "new" only in the sense that it ccntrali7.CS things that were previously on the mar~;ins of mainstream lll CillOI)', and is "personal" on ly in the sense that it rcprt:Sents the creative genius of a single individual rnther than the collective wisdom of the academy or the church. The case of the Norwood lll}'Stic follows this pattern. Visionary Sandy, in her private raptures, saw the Virgin Mary, a key figure in the New 'l tstamcm and all subsequent Ch ristian texts and iconograph)'i she did not see some previously unknown mediatory figure. Further, Mary's "new" message-that Americans "need to get back to a Christi:m way oflife"' characterized by "lm·e of God and love of neighbor"--could scarcely be considered innovative. Even her attendant signs and miracles involved objecrs and symbols of the ancient Christian faith: photographs of the Virgin where she appea rs to be Ca ucasian and is dressed in \.Vestern garb, typical of her representation on prayer ca rds and dollar-stare prinrs; transformed crucifixes; healings that resemble the miracles of Christ; crosses in the sky. In these and o ther respccrs, while the mystical countcrmcmory claims to trnnsccnd paraly-Led dogma, it in fact borrows irs visionary grn mmar entirely from the treasury of the church's dogmatic tradition. The new mystica l vision is a "countermernory," not only because it depends on the church's established trnditions, but also because it relics on orthodox dogma to set approp riate bounda ries for the mystical experience. "During his transports and his ecstasies the mystic hence maintains the continuous feeling that his particular experiences take place within a framework of notions that he has nor invented, that have not been revealed to him alone, but that the Church preserves and has taught hin1. "ST he Ch ristia n mystic, in other words, rarely opposes dogma, but rather opposes either the inabi lity of dogma to add ress conrem]>Ornry issues o r, in the opposite instance, the conflation of dogma with conremporary concerns to a point where it becomes difficult to identify a distinctly Christian J>erspccti,·e. Ln this way, Christian mystics remain d istinctly "Christian," no maner how personal their ' 'isions may be. Those who entirely de part from the tn1dirional do&rmatic framework fall imo another category, "heretics," whose memory cannot be imcgratcd into mainline perspectives because it is not bounded by a fami liar ser ofimagcsand ideas. Because of my background, career, and intercsrs, I have had occasion to dialogue with charismatic Catholics, pemecosral evangel icals, and religious people of va rious denominations who claim that the}' have been abducted by aliens who revealed secret information to them. Analyzing such anecdotal dnt<~, I have noted that even the most rad ical mystical visions dearly reveal
AmiChristian Mystical Memory
97
thcir tndirional dogmatic frameworks as soon as they are compared with other visions that o riginated elsewhere. For eumple, the Blessed Virgin appears to Roman Catholic mystics but not to evangelical Pentecostals, who instead hear the voice of God in the fomt of prophecies and unknown tongues. Despite the structural similarity of these e""periences, and despite the fact that both normally involve a call tO repentance and a return w the old Wll.}'$ of the faith, I have yet to meet a pentecostlll Protest:mt who accepts the legitimacy of Marian activity, and have encountered many who would in fact argue that Visionary Sandy was possessed by demons. This is the case because the Pentecostal's personal mystical experience is guided by a dogmatic f:r.lmework quite different from that of the person who might make a pilgrimage w Lourdes, a Protcstllnt framework that discourages any acknowledgment o f Mary's mediatorial or revelatory role. The Pentecostal might even question the charismatic Catholic's basic spiritual integrity: H ow could anybody claim to be a Spirit-filled Christian when they still pray the rosary? To which the Catholic could only reply, How can you claim to be a Spirit-filled Christian when you don't? An analysis of theological differences would, then, effectively plumb the depths to which the pentecostlll Protest:mt and the charismatic Catholic remain married to thei r respective dogmatic traditions, despite their common claim to a unique and intense personal encounter with C hrist. Such an analysis wouJd also reveal points of similarity, areas where the differing dogmatic fra meworks O\'erlap. Benny Hinn (the popular televangelist famous for throw· ing balls of the Holy Spirit at fK.'Ople in his audiences) and Visionary Sandy would immedi:1tely join forces to opJ>OSe the revelations of the UFO enthusi· ast, on the basis that such teachings ha\·e no reference point in the Bible or the church's on:hodox tradition (notwithstanding the fact that many abductees appeal to C hristian theological t-ategories to explain their experiences). Both would also refuse to join the Gnostic Ufologist on a pilgrimage to Roswell, New Mexico, because this location has not been a landmark fo r authentic Christian memories. But they would quickly part ways once again as soon as the discussion turned to the relative health benefits of visits tO Fatima or cl1e Pensacola revival. At the moment when Christ is encountered, the nwstic is alone; yet at every moment the mystic "knows Christ {only] through [Chris· tian] tradition; whenever he thinks about C hrist, he remembers" what he has heard or read in his chun::h library. 6 In this vein, it is relevant to note that Visionary Sandy's venue, the Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Center, was formerly a Roman Catholic seminal)' where priests were trained in the ancient academic and theological dogmas of the orthodox fa ith. A•1ystical memory claims, then, to be personal, but in fact depends entirely on the datllbase and dogmatic boundaries of mainstream religious thinking. It
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Why John Wrote a Gospel
dt:velops a countermemory, not by rejecting elements from the orthodox image of the past, but rather by reconfiguring those elements so that what has been forgotten or ignored is brought to the center of the church's field of vision. This f:act explains the existence of the long-standing C hristian mystical tradition, with dearly defined rules that allow each new visionary to be linked to predecessors who have done the same thing. The somewhat oxymoronic "mystical tradition" results from the fact that, once a new mystical vision has gained a following among Christians, the church will often highlight the points of continuity belWeen this new perspective and old ways of thinking and simply absorb the new light into the developing dogmatic spectrum. The mystic will then be canonized, her biography reconfigured to fit the archetypal story of the heroes of the faith, and her disciples will be reinte· grated into the mainstream community or their own new monastic order. Of course, the members of that order will continue to glamorize their found er by emphasizing his or her "unique" outlook, but the very existence of their group simply proves that this peculiar mystical vision was forged in the framework of what O[her Christian people believe? Halbwachs's ap proach to mystical Christian memory points to the answer to the second key question raised in the previous chapter, HIYW wn-r tbt AntiChrists ahlt to gmtratt 11 convincing rountrrmtmory of]trti.S? The business of revising religious memory need not involve the invention of new tr.J.ditions. Coumermemories often challenge current perspectives simply by reorganiz· ing the mainline perspective to highlight what has been marginalized or over· looked. Viewed from this angle, the AntiChrists appear tO have been "mystics" who generated a countennemory ofjesus by emphasizing some aspects of the j ohanni ne community's traditional database while marginalizing others. Specific:~lly, they seem to have rejected John's dogmatic, creedal approach to the problem of the distance between j esus and the church of today, and instead emphasized the work of the Spirit as the organizing principle for C hristian memory. 10 suppon this mystical vision, they could point to traditional say· ings such as those preserved in john 14:17-18,26 and 16:7, which suggest that jesus' human body was only a temporary abode for the Vlord of God, who now dwells within all believers. Of course, such an ap proach would allow them to significamly expand the database of "authentic sayings of jesus," simply beamse they believed that j esus was still actively speaking to the church on a regular basis. The AntiChrists' mystical approach was particularly dangerous to john because it drew its energy and mandate from acce pted dogma about the work of the Spirit. And because mystical religious memory operates within the con· fines of the chu rch's dogmatic traditions, johann inc C hristians could easily cmhral-e the new AntiChristian vision and integrate that vision into the main·
AntiChristian Mystical Memory
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stream way o f thinking. Second Jo hn and J J o hn suggest that th is process had already begun in the church in Diotrephes' home, where teachers who still advocated John's position were no longe r welcome but whe re the AntiC hrists could find safe haven (2 J ohn 10; 3 Jo hn 7- 10). The AntiC hrists would, in tum, welcome invitations to share their message, lxx:ause they t hought o f t hemselves as C hristians and believed that t heir new vision was based on old informatio n from and abo ut J esus. ln the process, the Paraclete replaced dogma as the mechanism of doctrinal continuity, giving the An tiC hrists' new mystical revelations equal authori ty with the comm unity's orthOOox creeds and the Be loved Disciple's "wimess." Two key questions:
.... 2. H ow d id t he AntiChrists d ev~ l op a counte nnemory of J esus that
\I
was appealing to some C hristians? By refocusi ng the image of Jesus through one small piece of the church's accep ted dogma: the Jo hannine Paraclete d octrine.
Alan Culpepper has ri ghtly (i n my view) charncterized j ohn's debate with the AntiChrists as an expression of "the tension . .. between the conservative principle and the liberal, the need to preserve and the need w a da pt."~~ Both groups were confronted with the problem ofJesus' obsolescence, and both were forced to reconsider how his life and teachings could be re levant to the d ifficult situation of the J o hannine churches. John, as a dogm atist, solved this problem by appealing to trad ition and precedent, interpreting the work of the Spirit through the lens o f communi ty creeds. The AntiChrists, as mystics, found their answer by using the Spirit as an o rganizing principle fo r a new vision of C hrist, one tha t bypassed the creeds and ::allowed Jesus to spe::ak di rectly to the contemporary communi ty ::at the expense of his historical ministry.
DOGMA AND WRITING, JOHN'S BEST PLAN OF ATTACK J ohn wrote a Gospel as o ne ractical move in a broad campaign against the mystical cl::aims of the AntiChrists. Specificall y, he sensed th::at the symbolic value o f a written text could be harnessed to suppress the AntiC hristian countermemory, making his c hurc hes immune to th is threat. As will be seen in p::an 4, a writte n Gospel wo uld be especially usefu l to a dogma tis[ such as j o hn in a
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Why John \A/rotc a Gos]>el
debate with mystics over memory. Before proceeding to that discussion, it will be helpful m brieAy highlight the inherent complexity of J ohn's situation and the options available tO him. As nmcd earlier, thcjoh:mninc memory of j esus was essentia lly personal, a product of the Spirit's work in individual Christians. This view of the Spirit could support both dogmatic and mystical approaches to thc j oh:mninc tradition. From J ohn's dogmatic perspective, the Pa raclcte establ ishes a close connection between the historic:11jcsus and the risen Lord. Since the Paraclele is the presence of J esus in the community, teachings that arc inspired by Lhc Spi rit should closely resemble the teachings of the human j esus; since the Spi rit has been :JCtive ever since jesus' death (John 7:37-39; 20: 19- 22), the beliefs of today should be consistcm with the established creeds of yesterday. J ohn's approach to J esus tradition was thus conservative and minimalist, focused on the past and resisting expansions as d:mgerous innovations leading to error {I J ohn 4:1-6). BUL it seems tha t the AntiChrists interpreted the community's traditional sayings about the Paraclctc in a mystical way, one that allowed them tO take a maxima list approach to dogm:J and tradition. If the resurrected Lord, through the Spirit, continues to speak and act in the church, the life and teachings of the human j esus would be only of historical interest, the beginning of a story that is ongoing in the community's experience. From this perspective, there would be no point to stress that "Jesus [the man] was the [divine] Christ," for every believer possesses the divine C hrist in the form of the Paraclete. As a natural conse<JUCnce, the AntiChrists were more concerned with Christ's immediate presence and guidance than with the community's creeds about jesus, and were also naturally less interested in his "blood" ( I John 5:6)-in the life and teac hings of the historical J esus as a reference poim for current experience. T his mystical outlook would quickly solve the problem of the growing dis tance between J esus' socia l framework and the church's framework- it would, in fact, reduce that distance to z.cro by pulling j esus out of Palestine and into the church's own liminal zone. Viewed from the AntiChrists' angle, J ohn's dogmatic approach would appear not so much wrong as simply obsolete, too rigid in its datab:1se and unable to respond quickly enough to the needs of today. Clearly john could nor ignore this threa t, :1nd his best possible response to the AntiChrists seems obvious: seek and
AmiChriscian t\l~~liL-al
,\!emo ry
101
nu ~mces of the AmiChrisrs' theological position-if the organizing principle is wron~, it goes without Sa}'ing (h:H a Christolob')' built o n th:lt principle must also be wrong. In o ther words, J ohn cou ld ha\"e simpl y an:ackcd the t\ruiChrists' understanding of the Spirit, dism:and ing the fr.unework they ''ere using to reconfib'ltre the J ohann ine tr:.lOrt to thl· AntiChrists' charismatic view (see j o hn 14:26; 15:16--27; 16: 12- 14). \\'hilc it 111:1}' h:~1·e been (he most obvious reS[)OilSY J uhannine Christian s had bclic1·ed "from the beginning~ that their memories of J esus were b'U:trded by the P;ar:~ clcte, :md this belief was suppo rted by the te<>timony of the Bclo,·eOSe it, e1·en if he wanted to. This problem IIOUld be compounded by the f:1 ct th~t theJoh:m nine community's memory w:IS maint;line(lthrough or.1l tr;adition and therefore still sorncwh:ll fluiencfits. As noted earlier, J ohn's memory ofJ esus was shaped under pressure from two sources, the AntiChrists within the church and -the world" and "the J ews" without. \Vh ile the doctrine of pneum:atir memory m:tde John ,·ulncrable to the AntiChrists, it :1lso 1nadc
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Why john Wrote a Gospel
hi m immune to challenges from "the world" and "the jews," J>COple who do not know God :and whose opinions need not be ta ken seriously because they come from the devil ra ther than the Spirit (sec j ohn 8:3 1-56). T he belief tha t the Parad ctc is foundational to an :tccur:n e understa nd ing o f j esus was thus a key weapon in f o hn 's rheto rical arsenal, one th:1 t he could not afford 1'0 lose in his ongoing war with forces ouc:sidc the church . Joh n, then, found himse lf in a d ifficult place, and the <]uickcst way Out was pitted with unavoidable traps and snares. H e could not afford to suppress his
T he O bvious Q uestion
(I .
So, if J ohn wanted lO get rid of these AntiChrists, why d idn't he just attack their found ational belie f that the Spirit guides Christian memory? VVouldn't that be rhc easiest way to dea l with the problem?"
1/ gl)()(/ fJIII'stion; but tht HIIS'"~'I'I' is 110 jo1· twO
IWIJOIIS:
I. Hecausc this belief had long been part of the church's dogmatic tr.ldirion , it would be nearly
~~~::~lc to get rid of it, even if John wished
2. H e didn't wish to do so, because he could usc this doctrine to arbruc that "the world" doesn't know anything about j esus because they don't have the Spiri t. L"Oim nunity's belief that the authentic memory of j esus is preserved b)' the Spirit, but also he could not ignore the fact that the AntiChrists' countermemory was bui lt on th is very doctrine. l-Ie needed to emphasize the Spirit's infl uence while limiti ng the scope of that influence, and found the key to the ptmdc in the production of the Fo urth Gospel. A written text could affi rm the Spirit's role in Christian memory whi le con fi ning that memory tO the boundaries oftnditional christological creeds. Part 4 wil l show why this was the case by comparing and contrasting memories and history books, a comparison that wi ll provide an o bvious answer 10 the question, \-Vhydidjoh n write a Gospel?
PART4
The Answer-Memory and History
lnttT71tission The Medicine of Memory: A Tale of Egypt by Socrates At Naucratis, in Egypt, was one of the ancient gods o f that country, the one whose sacred bird is ca lled the ibis, and the name of the god himself W
9
"Everything That Rises Must Converge": The Private Past in Memory
As I said way back in chapter I, this book is an attempt to answe r the question, Why did john write a Gospel? By now you may be feeling like it's actually a smdy in delayed grnrification, since the question only has six words and I still haven't offered a definitive solution afte r a hundred pages. The three chapters
in this fina l section (especially the last chapter-your patience is appreciated one last rime) will, at last, address the issue directly. Everything we've looked :n so far is· preparatory tO this discussion. H e re's a summary of my argume nt ro thispoint: Must people have assumed that j ohn wrote a Gospel mainly to preserve his community's j esus tr.1dition for pos terity. This rh coryemphas izes the archi1·e functio n of documen ts, the use of wrinen texts to preserve informatio n that might m herwise be forgotten.
• John. however, believed that the Holy Spirit would preserve the memory of j esus indefinitely for his community. This would make a wrincn Gospel unneccs.~ary, in the sense that you wouldn't need one tO avoid forgening thi ngs about j esus.
These fi rst two points just sha rpen my guiding question, or at least highlight it. If ym• live in a culture where most people can't read, and if you believe that you don't need to read books about j esus anyway, because the Spi rit will remind you of everything you need to know about him, what's the point of writingaC-.osJ>el? People don't just \1-Tite books whelp them remember things about the past. In many cultures, including John's culrure, documentS carry a symbolic
105
106
\..Vhy John Wrote a Gospel value that transcends ilieir actual contents. So the \'try fact that j ohn could appeal to a written Gospel would carry a certain rhcwrical force, even if he didn't need one tO help him recall fucts about j esus.
T his point answers the question, Why did j ohn write a Gospel? at the most basic level. E\·en if john didn't need a written Gospel to help people remem ber things aboUljesus, he still might want to appeal to the symbolic force of a written history lx>ok from time to time. But this of course begs another question: Why did j ohn feel the need to appeal to ilie symbolic power of a written 4
history book about j esus? \\'hat could a wriue n Gospel do that a Spiri t-driven
memory of j esus couldn't do? • At the time the Founh Gospel was written,John was faci ng pressure from a heretical C hristian grou p whom he calls "AnriChrists."TheAntiChrists emphasized the Spiri r's role in C hristian memory, makin g the experience of the Spirit the primary organizing principle for thejoha nnine j csus tradition. "(b us they could expand and reconfigure the community's traditional dnabase, reducing the significance of the histo rical Jesus and producing an image of C hrist quite different from the image John advocated. • j o hn could have attacked the AntiCh rists' foundational premise and denied that the Spirit works in this way. But th is would have been impractical, because (a) the idea of charismatic memory had been a part of the Johanni ne trad ition all along, and as a dogmatist John would ge nerally want to preserve the traditional way of thinking, and (b)John needed that doctri ne himself to refute the claims of"the world" and "the j ews," people who can't say anything imelligcm abourj esus because they don't have theSpiritin them. • All this being the case, j ohn needed somehow to maintain the doctrine of charismatic memory while limiting the scope of the Spirit's mne mo nic work. He needed, in other words, to assert that you need the Spirit to have a correct memory of Jesus, but he also needed to make it clear that the Spirit would not say what the AntiChrists say j esus says.
It re mai ns, the n, to explo re the reasons why t he symbolic value of a written Gospel would be especially useful to J o hn in his confl ict wi th t he AntiC hrists. Put a no ther way, I still need to describe how Jivi ng memories and tradi tions are somehow diffe re nt fro m history books in the way that they conceptua lize and packa ge the past, and to show how J oh n could exploit these differences for his own purposes. T hese last t hree chapters (9, 10, and l l ) will attempt to show t ha t a writte n Gospel was the best possible solution to J o hn's problem, the perfect way to freeu the me mory of Jesus in a fo nn that would compleme nt the Spirit's ongoi ng wor k whi le negating the An tiC hrists' claims. This chapter will discuss three key fearures of the past as preserved in memory, features that would characterize the Jo hannine trad ition at the mome nt
IOi '' hcnjolm decided 10 write :1 Gmpd. Each ofthl'SC features of the rcmc1nbcred past could be hamcsscd by the AntiChrists in ~cn•ice of their countcrmcmory, especially when m:lgnified by a my!>tical intcrpret:nion ofthcjoh:mnine Pam· dctedoctrinc. Because the :1\"aibhlcd:lt:l :1rc so limited, the word ''could" shoul m:1y or rnay not have been <:ons<:ious of :my or :1 ll of these features of rnemoq•, and certainly would ha,·e discusse
Th e Pasr in Memory The Re me mbered
P:~s t.
I . is a social comract, not a content
2. c:m be confbtcd for con\"enicnce 3. seeks :1 srmpathctic:m of mcmoq•, aS]:lCCts ofim:1ge!> of the past that \\Cre ripe for the AntiChrists' purpose<;. T he spccifi<: means by which writ· ten history lxx:lks coumcr these aspects of living mcrnoq• will be discussed in ch:1pter 10. Chapter II will then apply these data to rhcjoh:mninc context to provi
THE PAST IS A CONTRACT As noted in an ea rlier ch:1pter, memory is :l social phenomenon. This is true not only of e1·cms that affcl't many [>Caple in a society, but also of the \lays that indi,·iduals rct":lll ~md rcAect upon private c.~peric nccs. I ha1·e done many thing'> that no one else witnessed; ~~s :1 rc!>uh, I and I alone em "remember" these things. Yet even n1y personal recollection of these \'Cry pril':lle :Jets is :1 social phenomenon in two respects: (a) hccause these things occurred in the bro:1der con text of my [):lSI life, ;I life that was alll'S alrc:1dy intertwined with the lives of other people, ami (h) bcc:Juse. as I now think about my private p:1q, I :1111 forced to t:oncepmalizc and express what has h:lp]>Cncd through the fr:~rncwork of terms and values dmwn from Ill)' society of tod:l~'· I was :1 mem· bcr of :1 group when these thing-; hap[lCncd, and I recall them now as a mem· I>Cr of :1 group--other [:teople :1rc alwa~'!> present in my memories, e1·cn 11 hen the~' :~rc not at the forefront of my consciousness.
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VVhy John V/rmc a Gospel
V.'hat sociologis[S call the "collective memory" of a f,'TO up is therefore nor simply the sum tot:! I of all the disc rete memories o f every individ ual in the group, all of my memories plus all of }'OUrs plus all of everyone else's. Rather, a group's "social memory" is the capacity that every member of the group pos·
scsscs to relate stories about the past in :1 me:mingful way, ~mean i ngfu l " because they arc molded by memory fra meworks that other people share. l.n this respect, memory is not a contelll, a fixed body of data about the past, but r:lthcr a social conrract, an :tgrccmcnr about how the past should be conceptualized and discussed. T he social contract of memory is illustrated by A. J. H ill's Under flresmre, the swry of the U.S. submarine S-5. 1 The S-5 sank o n a test voyage in 1920 when a crew member forgot w close one of the exhaust valves before a divea serious faux pas when tr.JVeling in an underwater vessel. Like most books of th is kind, Hill's volume rclls the ralc of the wreck and the heroic rescue of the crew. But Umler Pressun· departs from the standard forma t of naval disaster stories in m any respects. I-I ill writes in an informal, novelistic style, moving suddenly back and forth between the differe nt sections of the ship to narrate simultaneous events involving isolated groups of sailors. Each chapter has several divisions that describe wh~lt was happening at the s:une moment in various submerged comp:1rtmems, refl ecting the varying perspectives of the trapped sea men . This makes for a very interesting read, and at the end of the book the author expla ins that this unique format was possible because twe nty of the sun•ivors wrote personal testi moni es shortly afte r thei r rescue. Under Pressm·e is thus a composite image of the S-5 disaster as seen through the eyes of these sun•ivors, a mosaic of the recollections of twenty wimesses. In one sense, H ill 's book might be ca lled a "collective memory" of the S-5 submarine rescue. By breaking from a conventiona l linear narrative, by changing scenes and perspectives, by giving character sketches and biobrraphical flashbacks to comextualize individ uals and their actions, by telling the story through the eyes of many people at once- in these and other ways, H ill draws the reader into the presence of the crew of the S-5, allowi ng her to share vicariously their image of the past. U1f(/er Fhssurc might therefore be thought of as a "collective memory" in the sense that it weaves together many recollections of a common experience into a master narrative . This composite narrative tells the story as remembered by the whole group, :l story that includes the experiences ami reflections of each individual crew member but ultimately tra nscends the personal recollections of ~ny one of them. But at a dee per level- the level :It whid1 the social dime nsion of memory becomes helpful for acnmlly understanding wha t people do with the past- it becomes dear thar twenty eyewitness accounts of a submarine wreck, even when conveniently sorted and colbtcd into a single story, do nm consti nJte a
-E\'erything Th:u Rises ,\ lust Comocrge"'
109
"collecti\'e memorv" of th ~!! event. As llalbwachs notes, ''the collectin; memory !of;t grou p] . :encompasses the individu;tllnemorics while J'emainingJis-
The Past in M emory TI1e Re me mbe red Past. I. is a social contr:1ct, not a cont e nt 2. can he conR:ucd for com·eniencc 3. seeks a sympathetic audience tinct from them," and in rhe process ··any indi\'idu:1l rcmembr:mces that may penetrate arc tr:msfonne(l with in :1 toulity h:tving no pcrson:tl t·ons<.·iousness.''1 In other words, group memories arc not "collecti\'e" in the sense that they include many tiny pieces of the brger puzzle of the tot';tl p:t~t; memories :trc -eollecti\'e"' in the sense that the people remembering usc :1 common framework to recre:He the past. In rn:nhemati<.·al terms, the memory e<]Ucned. Returning 10 !Jill ~ hook: the "collective memory" of the crew members of the ill -fated S-5 submarine would represent everythin g th;lt would rem:~in if the specific recollections of the individu:tl s;tilors were subtracted from the text of U11drr Pnsmrr. The result would be zero in terms of specific content, but a rich possibility of creating nu·mor)' texts al>out the dis:tStcr over beers :n the \'ererans' Club ten ye;trs hner. The collective memory would be the intangible, the equarion itself r:tthcr than the sum. Hence, there is no subsu mialloss of collective memory in the f:~ct that on I}' twelll)' crew members, rather th:m thirry, left ~ccounL~ of the tragedy. The number of testimonies docs not alter the C<]ll:Jtion or exp:~nd the fr:tmework, even though 1nore cyewitncss reports might m:~kc U11drr Prumn· a longer lx>ok and pcrh:~ps more historic:~lly:~ccurate.
The remernbcrc(l past is :1 potential r:~ther than a fixed content, the potential to cre:~re images of yesterday th:n :1rc relc\':lnt to current ~oci:~ l realiti<.--s. Transbting this principle into the j:1rgon ofhiblic:~l schol:trShip, it is reb'ant 10 distinguish bct\\'Cen the co11W11 of :1 tr:tdition and the tmditioll itsdf, the
110
Vlh y J ohn Wrote a Gospel
The Memory Equation
Case Study: The S-S Submarine Disaster
--Alltherecollectionsofalltheiodividualsinvolved.
"trndirion" being the capacity m rehearse the content of the past in ways that are relevant and meaningful ro the group today. In fuct, a tr:adirion is noth ing more than a community's ability ro ralk aOO ur the p:~ s r in a common idiom, and all traditions are collccti\'C in the sense that all members ofrhc group may join
"E\·erything That Rises Must Converge"
Il l
in this conversation. Specifically here, the Johannine Jesus tradition, representing the sum total of the Johannine community's memories of j esus, was not so much a body o f data as a perfonnance tradition, a social contract among the members o f John's churches that speci fied how stories alxlut the founder of the fai th should be told. And because any member ofJ ohn's churches could tell such stories as needed for teaching, evangelism, or personal refl ection, one might refer to the Johannine Jesus tradition as a collective memory, a totality of recollections that transcended individual experiences and functioned as the community's common property.
Defining the Social Contract of Memory Case in Point: Jewish Collective Memory "The collective memories of the j ewish people were a function of the shared faith, cohesiveness, and will of the group itself, transmitting and recreating its past through an entire complex of interlocking social and religious institutions that functioned organically to achieve this. The decline ofjewish collective memory in modern times is only a symptom of the unraveling of that common network of belief and praxis through whose mechanisms . . the past was once made present." -\~rush~lmi .
Zdbor. ]nrisb HiniNJ •oul]nriU. M .....,. 94
The social dimension of memory-the fact that a tradition is a social contract abo ut how sto ries of the past should be told-would complicate John's situation by facilitatin g the AntiChrists' agenda. Because memory is a potential rather than a content, the database of memory cannot be dosed and fixed; "it is stable, rather, [only) at the level of shared meanings and remembered images.",. New things can be added so long as they fit the fonnula; old things can be forgotten or, just as significantly, rearranged into new patterns. Since the remembered past exists only at the moment that people taU: about it, the content of that past is always subject to the needs of the present. This aspect of memory would be magnified in John's social context, where the memory of J esus was seen as an ongoing operation of the Spirit. A sense of the Paraclete's presence would give the AntiChrists almost unlimited freedom to expand and reconfigure the database of the community's J esus tradition. Rensberger's quote on this point, cited earlier, bears repeating: " If the IEider'slj ohn'sJ opponents claimed that their ideas were inspired by the Spi rit ... they would not hesitate to offer llt'W concepts buih up from their basic interpretation of the tradition."S So long as the AntiChrists' new revelations followed the basic tenns of the memory contract, it would be extremely difficult for j ohn to definiti\·ely counter their claims.
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Why John Wrote a Gospel
THE BLUR FACTOR: THE ORGANIZED PAST IN MEMORY The remembered past is "social" in the sense that all members of a group must express their thoughts about what has happened in common terms. As such, collective memory is not so much the total content of what people think has happened as the potential to tell stories about what has happened. This leaves the database of memory somewhat u11stable, at least when compared to images of the past encoded, say, in photographs, DVDs, or history books-a living memory can be rearranged much more easily than words on a printed page. John's situation was characterized by an attempt to rearrange the memory of Jesus, and he needed a solution that would fix and freeze his community's memory once and for all. To highlight how a written Gospel might do this, it will be helpful to consider a key aspect of the memory contract: the means by which memory groups organize and order the past.
The Order of the Past On December 29, 1890, about 350 men, women, and children of the Miniconjou and Hunkpapa Sioux (Lakota) Native American tribes were killed at Wounded Knee Creek in the Badlands of southwestern South Dakota. Chief Bigfoot and his people were overtaken by the U.S. Seventh Cavalry while fleeing to asylwn at the Pine Ridge Reservation, and were forced to stop by the frozen stream for interrogation due to their suspected involvement in the millenarian Ghost Dance movement. The soldiers surrow1ded the Sioux tents, and as they were attempting to disarm their captives, a shot was fired somewhere in the camp-possibly the accidental discharge of a weapon as it was forcibly taken from a deaf man who could not understand instructions. The Americans responded by pouring gunfire- including payload from four Hotchkiss cannons, each capable of firing 100 explosive shells per minuteinto the crowd. Many women and children were shot in the back as they fled up the bed of the small creek. After the "battle," as it was then called, the soldiers withdrew to tend to their wounded, leaving the injured Sioux to starve among the corpses in freezing temperatures and blowing snow. The U.S. government responded by awarding members of the Seventh Cavalry- incidentally (though perhaps not coincidentally) the regiment earlier led by General George Custer into Little Bighorn-an unprecedented nwnber of Congressional Medals of Honor. My wife Becky and I visited Wounded Knee several years ago, and since then I have investigated the circumstances surrounding the massacre in some detail. My initial researches were informal, motivated by a desire to learn more
"£,·erythin gThat Rises ,\lust ConYerge"
113
a hour this remarkable place and the tragedy that happened there. Later, however, I made a much more thorough study wh ile writing an article for JAAR o n a pocalyptic rhetoric, which included a section on the 1890 Ghost Dance of the American Plains Indians. In the course of this research, I read all the a\'ailable contempor ary accounts of the massacre and also a number of secondary sources on U.S.-Sioux relations in that time period. Yet even after this extensive study, I still encounter an obstacle whenever I try to remember what happened at v\Tounclccl Knee: Tfind it impossible to relate the massacre accurately to othe r events in American history. Specifically, even though I am at this moment conscious that the massacre occurred on D ecember 29, 1890, my memory wants to push the incident backward ro a much earlier point in time, generally somewher e in the 1820s or 1830s, at least half a cenn.ry before it actually happened. My memory, in other words, sn.bbornly resists what 1 know to be the historic;l l chronolog y of the event. \tVhy is this the case? In his sn.dy of commemo rative rin.als, /low Societies Remember, Paul Connerton notes the s pecial challenges of field resea rch in oral histo1·y. \Nhen gathering srories, field workers often meet :111 impasse when they ask their subjects for a chronologi cal narration of personal experience . Connerton argues that this happens because such an appro:1ch "imports into the material [the individual's memory] :1 type of narrative shape, and with that a pattern of rem embering, that is alien lO that materia l." In fact, "when or:1 l histOrians listen carefully to what their info rmants h<we ro say they discover a perception of time that is not line:1r but cyclical. The life of the interviewe e is not a curriculum vitae bur a series of cycles" re\·oh·ing around the recurring events of days, weeks, months, se:Jsons, years, and generation s.6 At first glance, \ \'esterners might agree that Connenon 's remarks are probably true of the way people think in o ral traditional culrures, but believe that they do not apply to our modern literate societies- societies where people prcsumably think in a more logical and linear Fashion. But the universal applicability of his observatio ns has been confirmed by an extensive 199-+ telephone survey that sought to identify popular uses of memory in the United States. In the introductio n to the published results, the leaders of the survey team note that responden ts' accounts of the personal past did not follow "conventio n:1l historical narratives and fm meworks," in the sense that people seldom oriented their memories around the major public eve nL~ that typically attract the attention of journalists and historians. Instead, the responden ts "assembled isolated experience s into panerns," patterns that did not necessarily take the form of fixed plotS with "inevitable endings.'' The survey also highlighte d the utility of memory: people evoke these patterns of asc;ociation not to preserve the past for its own sake but to "project what might h:1ppen next," allowing them to discriminate among the mnn y choices they encou nter in daily experience .7
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\Vhy Joh;, Wrote a Gospel
A'> these results illustrate, the o rganization of the past in memory "is not necessa rily linear, logical, or rational."~ This is not to say that memories arc orb;ams). Instead, memory o rders images of the past through a con-
ti nual process of comparison and contr.~s t , analy1jng events and people in terms of their sim ila rities to, and differences from, both other past events and present conditions. This mental sorting and sifting makes it possible to assign memories to categories within the group's worldview and, in the process, to attribute socially appropriate meaning and value to them .ll) The ordering of memories is, in other words, one aspect of the broader social contract that b'llides the way members of a group think and talk about the past. The fact that my memory is organized according to an order of values and a set of categories derived from my broader culmre explains my difficulty in locating the VVounded Knee Massacre on the ch ronological timeline of American history. VVounded Knee is more than an event that occurred on December 29, 1890; Wounded Knee is symbol, a sort of summary statement, of U.S.- lndian relations. ln my thinking, this symbolic event fu lls into the broader category of uminority relations," the way that European Americans have interacted with all minority groups and people. As such, whenever I think about VVoundcd Knee, I conceptualize that event through the framework of my thinking about the experiences of all American minority groups, a set of values about the history of my country that I have derived from my society of to&1y. This memory category reflects rhe social contract of modern Arneric.m memory (at least one such social contract), the way that stories about the minority experience are sup]>osed to be told. And my inability to situate the \Vounded Knee Massacre chronologically reflects the fact that the actual historical date of that incident violates the terms of this social contract. In my mental organization of the past, cert.1in events stand out as significant moments in the history of U.S . minority relations. \.Vounded Knee is one such event; the Civil \Var, including Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation, is another; the women's suffi"Jge movement is another; Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s March on Washington is another. Many Americans, including myself, tend to picmre the Civil \Varas a major turning point in U.S. minority relations, a moment in time when our nation resolved thal minority groups cannot be denied certain inalienable rights. Of course, this impression is not entirely accurate- any history book wi lllell you that d1c causes of the American Civil War were much more compl icated than the benevolent desire of
" E.\'crything That Rises 1\ lust Converge··
115
Nonheru white people to free sbves. I am referring here, howe\"er, to popu];~r conceptions of the Civil H 1ar th~lt associolte th:n conflict with more recent evems like the civil right.~ mo\"cment, associations that make the popular 1960s folk song "Abr:1h:un, Martin, and John" sensi ble to modern Amcrie;ms even though \\·e know th:Jt it was not historic1lly possible for Abrahnm Lincoln, 1\ b rtin Luther King Jr., :1ml J ohn E Kennedy to take ol walk over o1 hill together. So while I c.m, as a member of the :Jcadcmic community, distin!,'l.lish as necessary between historical f:1c t :md popular myth, I com also, o1s a person raised in a white, lower-ci:ISS, Americm neighborhood in the 19i 0s, relate very well tO the way that most Americans think about the Civil H 'ar as a sort of precursor to the civil rights crusade, and also to their surprise and disappointrm•nt whenever they discover thou it really was not. Abraham Lincoln resolved at Ge~rysb urg th:ll "these de:1d shall not holl'e died in vain," :md populo1r Americm memory rakes this w me:\11 that the lives lost in the Civil \\'ar to establish "liberty and justice for :Ill" were not wasted. But the blood of these men docs seem to h:we been wo1sted if, in fact, the \Vounded Knee 1\lassacre took place twcmy-se,·en years after Lincoln spoke these words, for it is hnrd to identify :1 more fl:1gr:mt single :act of injustice :against :a minority group in all of American history. According to 111}' socioll comract of memory, the massacre at \Voundcd Knee conrrasts with the spirit of the Civil \ Var so sh:1rpl~· that the two cannot be held together in the same c:ncgory-the problem tholt \\'ounded Knee represents must have been resolved long before 1890. My mcmor? therefore tends to shift \ \'oundcd Knee backw:ml into ;Hl e:1rlier time perio
\.Vhy John V/rote a C-.os]>el
11 6
Tom's Memory Versus the Actual P ast Case Study: T he Wou nded Knee Massacre In the actual past, the following events relating to U.S.-minority relations occurred in this chronologica l sequence: 1662
1865
1890
Uncoln's
EndofGiYiiWar
Wounded
19th
King'sMarch
Emancipation PI'Oclamation
andthe13th Amendment (slavery outlawed)
Knee
Amendment (Women's
onWashioglon ("IHaV11
Vote)
aOream ")
1920
1963
But in Tom's memory, which is organized around a socia l framework of contempora ry values about minority relations, the H'oundcd Knee Massacre cannot h~we occurred between the Civil \.Var and women 's suffrage. By comp:1rison with other cvcn rs in the same mental category, it must have happened in an ea rlier, darker era. 18<)7
ca.1830
1862
Brifish Abolition o!Siave
Wounded
Emancipation Proclamation
Massacre
"""
1865
,.
""'
1003
March on Washington
'""' You m
"Everything That Rises Must Converge"
11 7
political action, whi le Dr. King is the one who endorsed peaceful resistance. My progress narrative about minority relations le;Jds me to think that violent solutions eventua lly give way to peaceful solutions, so it makes me fee l good tO think that D r. King's superior vision won out. If I were writing a history book, I would need to be much more precise than that, but my memory contrasts these two men and orders d1eir ca reers in a way that makes the chronological relationship null. Because memory organizes informatio n around systems of values, d1ings that contrast more sharply with present experience are often felt to be more chronologically remote, while d1ings that are more fami liar feel more recent. The \1\Tounded Knee Massacre occurred more than two dec
The Past in Memory The Remembered P ast ... 1. is a socia I contract, not a content
2. can be conflated for convenience
3. seeks a sympathetic audience accurate understanding of d1e
118
\Nhy John Wrote a Gos]x:l
well versed in the history of life on th is planet, secretly enjoy reruns of The Fli11fstones in the privacy of their homes, and chuckle when Dino jumps on Fred and knocks him down as he comes through the door with his stone lunch-
box. Memory docs not necessarily deny the actual ch ronology of history; it simply does not depend on that chronology and therefore does not always o rder itself aroun
T he Blur Factor: Memory Squeeze Once a group labels memories, assigns them to ideological categories, and orders the m, the items in e:~ch category rend to melt into larger con!lated images that duster around people, events, or situations that arc deemed particularly significam.1 3 Mau rice 1-ialbwachs, who d iscussed th is phenom enon extensively, refers to these significant images as "landmarh" (poims de rep(re) of memory. T he Wounded Knee Massacre functions as a landmark in my memory of U.S.-minority rebtions, a symbolic event that g:Jthcrs other similar incidents into itself and stands for all of them at once. " In collective memory," 1-lalbwachs says, there arc in general particula r figmcs, dates, and J>eriods of time that acquire an extraordinary sa lience. These attract to themselves other events and fibeak, in one year, just as a series of actions and events, about which one has forgotten its varying actors and diverse conditions, irJthers together in one man and is attributed to him alone. I ~ T he con!lation of distinct people :md events im o archetypal landmarks is facilitated by a mental process that Fentress and Vl1ickham call the "conceptualization of memory," "a tendency towards simpl ification and schematizarion" in recollections of the p:tst. 15 This aspect of memory turns specific incidents and individua ls inro "generalizable markers about suffering, joy, com mi tment, and endurance. " 16 Simplified schematic images arc easier to remem ber and to org:Jnize, but neccss:lrily make individual persons and events from the past appear less d isti nct. A'> a result, in ma ll}' cases what seem to be discrete memories arc actually composite images. Elements of several unique events crysmllizc like rock candy around the memory of a specific moment, and the traits exhi bited by an individual over a period of time arc brm1ght together in a unified portrait of that person's ch
''Everything Ttm Rises ,\ lust Coll\·erge~
119
case when 'imilar e\·ents recur rn:nw rimes with little vari:ltion o r when we encounter the sa me people regular! }; in the course of typical activities. If, for example, we rode the same lms w school every l. And so long as memory exists o;olcly in the form of o r:tl trotditions :md personal recollections, it is almost inl l)()Ssible 1'0 control this process--c\·e n t:tgged C\'Cnts ean be lost o r put in the wrong order si mply hy removing the tags an
120
\-Vhy j ohn \.Vrote a Gospel
LISTENER SUPPORTED, MEMORY'S SYMPATHETIC EAR Memory orb':lniz.es the past according to social contracts, in ways peculiar to the specific memory group that generates rhem. \Vhen individuals share recollections with other members of the mernOI)' group, they generally assume that the audience has some foreknowledge of the events under consideration, or at least that the audience could predict the outcome by appealing to the common frameworks by which that version of the past has been meaningfully arranged . If, for example, I am talking to my brother about a remarkable event that happened at the family dinner table in our house on Vlarren Aven ue in 1979, I may assume that he will either recall the specific incident under consideration or will at least remember enough about family dinners in general to reconstruct the backdrop and cast of the scene quickly. 1 also assume that he will not challenge my memory to any significant degree, and that if he does challenge me, it will only be to enrich and deepen my portrait of the past. Fentress and \.\'ickham cite this phenomenon to explain some of the peculiar features of traditional folk stories. For example, it has long been noted that oral epics evidence a paratactic plot structure, with images and scenes strung together in rough sequences, one isobted event followi ng another without strict narrative connections. \Vhile such stories often appear pedantic and awkward to literate audiences, and while their lob
MEvcrythinglltat Riscs ,\lust Com·crge"
Ill
st:tyed close to the origin:~\ J amaiC"Jn folk t:tlc, many of Anansi's uncthic:JI behaviors were b:tffling to us :md became sensible only when key inform:Hion about his ch:tracter was n:\·e:tled on the hlst page. ~\Vh y is he stealing all those bananas?" ;\:Iron kept :~sking. "A spider can't eat bananas.'' No, I concurrl·d, he would more likely want to li\·c in them. r\aron then pointed out that Anansi alrc:uly had a large house, a~ illustrated on SC\'era l pages. For my son, who comes from a narr-Jtin! tr-Jd ition where the main character in the story is almost alw:tys the good guy, the notion that the hero would be :1 conniving thief who steals from his own friends was hcyoml dtc range of comprehension. But I assume th:u :1 child from j:unaic:t o r Gh:m:t who is famili:t r with this :ttuVor simibr traditional stories :tbout Anansi would not need to ask such <1ucstions, because she ,,·ould already understand the nuances of his char;Jcter :tnd w h~· he :Jets the ll':t}' he does. 1\h:mory, then, is :t priv:tte phenomenon ("private" to the members of the memory group) th:H seeks :t sym p:uhetic ca r, which is also to s:ty th:H memory is ultimately subjective :md inwardly focused. Even when things that [ remember could be objccti"c\}' documented, I gener.llly do not feel :1 need to 1•erify them and would probably he offended if you :tsL:ed me to do so. \\'e tend to brj\'e memory the benefit of the doubt, or at least we negotiate truth claims that arc based on memory on di fferem terms from other kinds of rnnh claims-sa~' the truth claims in an :u.::tdcmic textbook. l ienee, if I say that Fentress and \•Vickh:tm s:1id X o r Y :t hou! tradition:~\ foil.: rales on pages 55-57 of their hook, you know th:tt ~·ou could test my claim hy looking up the reference, :t nd you further assume rh:1t, because I \.:now that vou know this, I h:we been c:1 reful to reflect their views :Jccur-Jtcl)'. In other 11~rds, m~' cit:ttion of that source Oj>er:ltcs wilitin a soci:1l contract th:tl requires me 10 be C"Jreful :1bout wh:~t I s:ty, bcctuse you c;ln easi ly test the veracity of my st atements. But when [ s:ty th:tt I remember a time when A;n·on :md I rc:1d ;t swry about Anansi the Spider, you tetHI to :1grec with me just bcGnJst it would be so h:trd (:tnd so pointless) to prO\'C or disprove my cbims. The S}'T Hpath('[ic, subject ive dimension of memory mabrr1ilies the first two :tspects of memory d<.'SCril>cd abo,·c. \\'hen telling a story from memory, we tend to assume that people ''ill agree with wh:H we're sayi ng, and cen:tinly :tssurne th:n they cou ld challenge us only by citing other information from their own memories that we could, in rurn, t·ounter :tml reject. As such, the data we select from the p:tSt :md the way we pacbge and present that data arc negoti:tble in the context of a turn·crs:ttion, :H le:tst much more negotiable th:m d:tta "c might read in a hook on the same subject. This is not to say, again, rhat memory is disimerestcd in the past or dt:lt we accepr e,·e':·rhing th:tt people tell us from memory. Hut the social comr.tct of memory becomes somcwh:H 1·ague when it comes to the historicity cb use, simply because memory :tsks 10
122
Why Joh n Wrote a Gospel
The Past in Memory l11c Remembered Pasr , , . I . is a soci:ll contract, not :1 content
2. ca n be t:onfbtcd for convenience 3. seeks a sym padJctic audience be accepted wi thout commcm and because it is hard w disprove J>COplc's claims :1bom the pasr wirhmu documcmation. This di mension of memory would :l!,r:Jin be magnified in J ohn's situation, where recall was viewed as an opcr:1t:ion of the Spirit. j o hn and the AntiChrists agree th:lt Christ comes to t.he church in the form of the Spirit and helps C hristia ns remember things about j esus. The AntiCh rists say that jesus is reminding them of things that J ohn has forgotten, is revea ling new things to them, and is showi ng them new ways to thi nk about things that the j ohanninc community has known :~II along. As a result of this lll)'Stical outlook, they have developed a \'ision of J esus that differs significantly from J ohn's view. Some C hristians su pport J ohn, while o thers, like Diotrcphes, turn a sympathetic ear to the AntiChrisrs and do not require t.hcm to measure their new outlook :1g:1inst previous orthodox tcachi nbrs. Also because he is symp:1thctic to this new vision, Diotrcphcs docs not apply strenuous criteria of historicity to the AntiChrisrs' statements and seems to
"E\wythingTh~lt
Rises Must Converge ..
113
Obviously, any new ren::btions thnt the AntiChrists might generate would nor he "historically :Kt·uratc," in the sense that they did not originate with the historical J esus. But whether or not specific pieces of information from John 's dat:1base originated with the hisrorit-.JlJesus is beside the point here. So long :lS they c.~ist only in the tOrm ofli\·ing memory nml oral tradition, a thousand bits of authentic historic.1l dat:t will still hl' subject to compression, suppression, contlation, and rl'ordcring if the terms of the social memory comract change. Such historical facts, :mel pnsr understJndings of such facts, will to some degree limit the extent of their own reconfigurarion, bur very little movement is require
T he Past in Memo ry: John's Dilemma The Remembered Past. I. Is a social contract, not :1 content me:ming that it bui lds its image of the p:1st not on the basis of "wh:1t hnppcned," but rather on the basis of the group's order of v:tl ues. This is the c:lse whether or not the content of a memory h:1ppcns to be historic:1lly true. 2. C:m be confhted for CO!l\'C!liem:c rne:1ning that items in memory arc a1T:1ngcd bycomp3rison :md contrast against the backdrop of the issues and v:tlucs of tO
3. Seeks a sympathetic audience me:ming that memory is subjecti\'C, expecting the all(lience :lccept irs cla ims without extensive verification.
to
I + 2 + 3 +John 14:26 +John 16:13 = big trouble for John
All these feamres of memor~'. m:1gnified and complicated by the docrrine of ch:1rism:ttic recall, would characterize theJohannine Jesus rradition up to the moment in time when John decided to write a Gospel
124
Why John Wrote a Gospel
claims; he was faced widt the need to disprove another memory of Jesus that was very ap]>ealing to some Christians in his churches. \Vhilcjohn could have adopted a number of different strategies to deal with
this problem, a written Gospel would be the ideal res ponse tO the AntiChrists' mystical countermcmory. Every liabi lity of the remembered past discussed in this chapter would be elim inated hy appeal to a hiswry book aiJout j esus. This is the case because hisrory books conceptualize and order the past in ways very
different from living memory and oral traditions. Several of the most significant differences will be discussed in the next chapter.
10
Beyond the Scope of the Present Study: The Public Past in History Books
The production of the Fourth Gospel represented a conscious shift: from a liv~ ing memory of Jesus preserved in community tradition to a history of j esus preserved on paper. Of course, history books are themselves a fonn of collective memory, o ne way that groups preserve images of the past. But history books differ significantly from living memory for two reasons: because they are bistrwiu and because they are books. In other words, history books di verge from collective memory in their concepwalization and presentation of the past, and then magnify t hese differences by committing the historical past m writi ng. These differences would make the composition of a WTitten Gospel particularly appealing to Jo hn in his struggles with the AntiChrists.
The Past in History Books The Written Past • .. I. is universal and un itary 2. is broken into permanent periods 3. loves ignorance
125
126
W'hy John Wrote a Gospel
THE TOTAL OBJECTIVE PAST Memories arc generated for private audiences, either for personal reAection or for consideration by others who arc members of the same memory group. 1-! isrory books, by contrast, arc public documents, and as such they treat the past as an objective, universoll phenomenon open to any reader's scrutiny. 1 This basic distinction-that memories treat the past as subjective private experiences whi le histories treat the past as objective public events- generates significant differences in the way that memories and history books conceptua lize, organize, :md present the past to their respective audiences. Specifically here, history books treat the past as an additi\'e equation and require their readers/audiences to view the whole of the past and all of its parts from a thirdperson perspective. In the process, they establish themselves as the final authori ty in all discussions of "what has happened." In mathematical terms, historiography- the business of writing history lx>oks and all the rules and rq,rulations that guide that business-operates on an addition equation. Every individual moment of the past is rreated as a single, distinct item, and all these items coulok is simply a subset of that larger whole and borrows its contents from the greater mass; "the historical world," Halbwachs observes, "is like an ocean fed by the many partial histories." One could therefore, if so inclined, scan all the history ix>oks that have ever been written and [>Ostclteir texts on a mo1ssive \Veb site, "the universal memory of the human spccies[ .com),"l complete wiclt a search engine that would allow anyone anywhere to discover anything that has ever happened, even if such infonnation is of no immediate relevance to any living person or memory group. Of course, reviews of this \-\feb site would irmncdiatcly point out that the database is incomplete, because iris irn]>OSsiblc to record everything. But while this fact is a great comfort to students who arc cramming for history exams, historians view it as a significant loss. In the universe of history, all people and events from the past are esscnti:tlly equal and worthy of record, and items are excl uded fro m a particular study not because they arc nor worth remembering but simply because time, space, and money-hungry publishers (who for some reason snrbbornly refuse to print books that people will not read) do not permit them to receive the attention they deserve.~ Memory and history lx>oks, then, both try to preserve the past, but they do so in ways that reAcct very different sets of priorities. For example, I noted earlier that A. J. HillS lx>ok Undt'T Pressure, when \1ewed as the collective memory of the crew members of the S- 5 submarine disaster, docs not suffer from the fact that only twenty sun·ivors left ac(."Ounts of the event, rather than thirty. This is the case because collective memory is not so much a content as a conrract, a way
Beyond the Scope of the Prescm Study
127
of thinkin g about the past that would enable Jll of the survivors tO talk ahoutthe wreck in a meaningful way whenever they wished. As :1 socia l contr.Kt, this memory fr:11nework would specify which [Jet~ could he forgotten an
from Halbwttcbs's Dictimuny of Memory his•ror 'i•ca l (-1 -k:i.l) o b'jcc·tiv 'i· ty (;lb'jCk·t1v·i·ti)//. I. the content of the p:tst as libcr:tted from the memories of living groups. adj. 2. :1 <j uality of rcpresent:Hions of the past th:n claim to :tchievc #I , such as history books. 11. 3. the rhetoric:1l poswre of amhors, especia ll y historians, who cbim that their works possess #2. -total o bjccti\•ity 11. the fiction that #2 is a11.ainable in :m :1bsolure sense.
Why John Wrote a Gospel
128
The Memory Recipe: Same Ingredients, Different Flavors A<:mrding to FDA guidelines, all items cb ssifie(l an
ory drinks" must exhibit the following chemical composition: lvlemory
"'
socitll frmneworks
contellf
(group VtJ!ues)
(imffges oftbe past)
Living Memory Cola
History Book Blast
("The Fbvor of 10day")
("The l Otstc You Can Trusr")
Coia;
Coia;
Ingredients:
Ingredients:
(content by weight)
(content by weight)
framcworks-90%
frameworks----10% content-90%
oomenr- 10% •mayconrainu.,.~
•jndudesartifici:o~l
of peanuts
lbw>nandcoloring
books generate what Roland Barthcs would call "degree zero" images of the past, texts where memories are det:ached from people and carry no in herem meaning o r value. Barthcs developed the concept of "writing degree zero" in a dis<:ussion of contemporary art forms like surrealist painting and stream-of-consciousness novels, genres where the audience's perception of a piece is not guided by a strong sense of the author's inrended meaning. The authors and artists of such texts claim that thei r work docs not ancmpt to communicate a single, distinct "1mint" or message: the images in the p:1inting and lhe words o n the page are simply thrown our for the viewer's contemplation, disatt:Jched from anyone's personal agenda. A-. a result, such texts achieve "a state which is possible on ly in the dictionary or poetry-places where the noun ca n live without its arti -
lkyond the Scope of the Present Smdy
129
de-and !are! reduced roa sonofzerodegrce, prq,'Tlam with all p:m and future specific:uions."S "Zero degree" is t.hus a measure of the author or artist's control m·cr the rne:mingof :l piece- they h:u·e no control over the rne:mi ng at all, so th:tt the words and images arc left to stand completely on their own he fore the audience's scrutiny. It is important to stress here th:ll lbrthes is not referring to a postmodern, rc:1der-oriemcd interpretive posture, Out rather to the type of text produced Oy an author who claims th:n J>ersonal interests h:ll'e not !,'ltidcd her work. The surre:tlist [Xtimers :llld JXX:lS of the early twemicth cennH)' tmdc such :1 claim; so do all histOrians. 'l'his is true not only of JX>Siti\'istic historians who assume :1 simple corrcbtion l>etwecn their texlS :md ''\\hat hapJ>ened," but also, and equally, true of autobiographical and idcologic1l hiswrians, who must cr:tm their material into ri,!.rid genres of schol:trly discourse that arc sha]lCd hy the rules of the :K';lderny and the house style sheet·s of uni\'er~ity presses r.tthcr th:tn by contmcts ofli vingmcrno ry. Because historians imply that their prcsenmtions arc controlled b~' abstract laws of objectivity or the principles of a theoretical mOed Oy the terms and \'alues of the social groups in which we participate. Then, earlier in this vc~' chapter, I said that "history books :Ire themsckcs a form of L-ollct_·ti\·e memory, one way that groups presen·e images of the past." Now I :1 111 saying that hiswry books opcr:ne in :l degree-zero etwironmcn t where the content of memO!'}' c:tn exist· apart from the soci:1l fr:unewo rks of anyone's memory. I low can all of these claims he true :tt once? In 01her words, if rc:tding history hooks is a form of ret_~tll, and if history books c:tllthcir readers to view the p:t~t from a degree-zero pcrspet:ti\·e, then history hooks must represem :1 SJlCCi:tl form of memory in \\hich images of the p:1st :1re not shaped by anyone's social fr;,meworks. This being the t_';lse, it is possible to think of an objective speci<..., of memory, one that is not shaJ>ed by soci:tl frnmcworks and values. Thi ~ is the specific sense in which historiJns would claim th:tt their work is "ohjccri\·e": their books :1re neutrnlzones of memory. :l pl:tce where the p:tst roams free and unencumbered by the \'a lues and prejudices of popular society. But if ~uch :1 neutral zone e.lists, then it musr be them·ctically possilllc for memorie~ to e .~iq and function free offr:1meworks, right? This line of thinking would, indeed, threaten my m·er.JII argument, if it did not O\'erlook one ke~· f:tct. \Vhile histo~' books do extr:tct the contents of the p:tst from the living fr.1mcworksof memory groups and prcscrve th
Why j ohn Wrote a Gospel
130
of mrol(}ry with tbrontlva. The hiswry book becomes, in other words, a surro-gate memo ry framework, asking the reade r to evaluate the past from the per·
spective of its own internal order of values. As such, the history book does not den y that the past must be framed in order to be meaningful; it simply insists that everyone must view the past through its own myopic frame. The same would be true of other technologies that inscribe the past in order to preserve it- photographs, films, COs, DVDs, and so forth. All these media remove images of the past from the living minds o f people and preserve them in a mechanical fom1at, turning organic memories into a series of inkspots o r codified electrical impulses. In the process, the inscribed text itself- the book, the phmo, the tape, the film-becomes a surrogate memory group for those who wish to review these data later on, always under the conditio n th::at all reviewers must operate on the text's own terms. It is fair to say, then, that the technology of writing- the ~book " part of history books-m agnifies the notion of "historicaVmethodological objectivity" to a point where it takes the shape of nonnegotiability, to a point where any
The Past in History Books The Written Past . I . is universal and unitary
2. is broken into pennancnt periods 3. loves ignorance dialogue about what ma y o r may not have happened has to fo llow the rules of the history game. The past in history books is "public," not because it belongs to everyone but because it belongs to no one, and as a result it is accountable to no one's memory. So while the re membered past is negotiable within the social contract that guides the dialogue of individuals in a memory group, the inscribed past of history books is nor negotiable on any te m1s. Readers can only agree or disagree, accept or reject; it either happened the way book says, or it didn't. Tbis being the case, it is also important to stress what historical docuillCnts-books, photos, paintings, and so fonh-do not do: they do not ~·oke images of the past from living memory. Instead, such texts insert strucrured images of the past into their audience's present social context, and these new strucrures immediately become the organizing principle for the images in living memory. For el:ample, in my mind righr now, I a mange my childhood mem-
lkyond lhe Sco]>C of the Pres.::m Smd}'
Il l
ories of the huge pbyground at Lunkcn Airport on the basis of the way that the place looks today and occasional discu~sions with my wife (who also played there) about how it used w look. 1\ ly memory of tha t phu:e is therefore fluid and negotiable. But if Becky and I \I ere to look at a broch ure for the Lun kcn Ai q >Ort Playlicld wri n cn in, S:l}'• 1977, our memories wou ld 1x: immcdi;Hcly
Memo
and " 'ritin '=T he Order of th e Past
In my living memory of the pbyb>Tound at Lunken Airport, imagl'S of the past arc arranged on the basis of the way the pbce looks n0\1 and discussions with lk·dy ahom how it used to look ~The
train used
"ftmusthave
tobeovet"bythattree,
been, because
right? To the leftofthetree?"
""""'"' howlt ..
"Oh,,.... _ _ ~Hmmm.
Well,
..........
this says there two !noes."
hOwlwasthinklnglhatyou usedtogopastlheooetree togettothe boat? •••~
~
~
The l unkenExpress (1977) Justpasttheslide,littleengineers discoverthelunkenExpress, Shaded by ancient elms.
132
Why John Wro1e a Gospel
rearranged and fixed on the basis of the images and descriptions in that document. The inscribed past is potent simply because it forces readers/viewers to
think on its own terms, and this is the vety reason why we appeal to picrures and books when we feel our memories failing and in need of support. Historical documents, then, do not help us to remember; they make it unnecessary for us to remember. This aspect of the inscribed past-its ability to function as a surrogate memory bmework-is enhanced in culrures where writing possesses an inherendy symbolic qualiry. In societies such as the one I live in and the one John the enngelist lived in, the social contract of memory gives written versions of the past a special authority, one that elevates the value of their organizing principles. The image of the past in history books rises to a point where it stands in judgment of all living memories and threatens w label as "false" every scheme that does not comply with its terms. In these cultures, one scrap of paper can override the testimony of a dozen witnesses, and the organizing principles of a sacred ten condemn to damnation every memory that does not foUow their lead. Written texts do nor acquire symbolic rhetorical force because a society views their contents as neeessarily superior to the contents of living memory and oraJ traditions. Indeed, documents simply preserve in written form the same facts and figures that once inhabited, and in most cases still inhabit, someoneS living memory. lnstead, written texts carry symbolic rhetorical force when members of a society agree that documents organize and frame the past in an inherently superior fashion.
PERMANENT PERIODS, FROZEN TIME Eviatar Zerubavel notes that it is impossible to think about the past~r, for that matter, lO think about anything-without the aid of a guiding organizational scheme. There are simply tOO many things in the world to think about, aod we can concentrate on individual items only by distinguishing them from the larger backdrop of things that are not getting our attention right now. "It is the fact that it is differentiated from other entities that provides an entity with a distinctive m=ing as well as with a distinctive identity that sets it a pan from everything else." 6 Things acquire value as we son them into mental categories, and in the process they are defined both in terms of what they are and what they are not. Bananas are fruits, which means that they are not vegetables; vegetables are food items, which means that they are nor a means of transportation; cars are a means of transportation, which means that they are not to be eaten but are useful for driving to the store to get more bananas. The meaning of things is thus "alw:~ys a function of the particular mental com-
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lJJ
partment in which we place them." 7 Applied to a theory of memory, this means that images of the past are comprehensible only when they are discriminated, sorted, and arranged into meaningful patterns. As noted in chapter 9, living memory organizes the past by sorting recollections into categories and patterns that reflect the group's value system, and fo r this reason the remembered past follows an internal logic that may not make sense ro outsiders. Further, ~usc they are dependent on group values, the frameworks of memory shift whenever these values shift, leading a group continually to reorganize its memories to reflect current realities. ln the process, some clear images are blurred, some blurred images become clearer, composite pictures are broken apart, and broken pieces melt together. Continuity in memory is maintained not neeessari ly at the level of content, but rather through the persistence of the social contract that allows all members of the society to speak about the past in a meaningful way at any given History books, however, organiz.e the past in ways very different from living memory, and then stare their version of what happened in nonnegotiable terms. To highlight these differences, it will be helpful here to consider both the means by which history books order the past and the effect of writing on that organizational scheme.
Narrative Logic Memories are comprehensible only when they are sorted and arranged in meaningful patterns. The most basic, yet perhaps most significant, means by which both memory and history books o rde r the past involves the insertion of conceptual breaks into the mathematical flow o f time, a process sometimes referred to as "periodiz.ation." "Periods" are distinct blocks of time that are bracketed by "watershed" mo ments, events and/or individuals whose appearance marks the beginning or end of an era. E,<Jatar Zerubavcl, who has discussed this phenomenon extensively, notes that watersheds are significant because "they are collectively perceived as having in•·o\ved significant identity transfonnations," moments when the life of the individual or group under consideration "took a rurn" and began to move in a different direction. Once events and people are bracketed by watersheds and grouped together in a distinct period, it is generally assumed that they share certain characteristics that refl ect the "spirit of the age." This spirit, of course, differs from the spirits that drove other eras (eras in the life of an indh'idual or eras in the larger life of a society), a fact that helps us remember the relevant characteristics of people who lived at that time and understand the reasons they did the things that they did.
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ln the case of living memory, w:ncrshcds parallel the mental boundaries in a group's value system and function alongside those boundaries. The mental gaps between categories of concepts are superimposed onto the flow of time to project b:Jckward into the past the origin of these discontinuities, and ofth e group's overall w:~y ofthinlcing. 8 For example, \Vestemers typically see 1789, the opening year of the French Revolutio n, as a major ruming point in world history, and treat that event as a watershed moment dividing two disti nct eras. This menrnl move is possible beouse Westerners believe that the culture and values of post-Revolution France are irreconcilable with those of the monarchy, so that the France of 1788 and the France of 1790cannot fit into the same ment:Jl category. In the same way, my tendency to situate the \1\'ounded Knee Massacre in 1830, rnther than the true date of 1890, reflects the fact that I view the C ivil \.Yar as a ruming point, or a watershed moment, in U.S.· minority relations, and under my parndigm Wounded Knee fi ts better with the spirit of the earlier age. My memory, in other words, arr::mges images of the past in ways that reAect my personal order of values, breaking time into distinct peri· ods that refl ect the way I interpret the things that happened in each ern. But as noted above, history books claim to transcend all value ~ystems under the guise of objectivity, and therefore presume that events and people from the past are inherently neutral entities. Even contemporn ry, posnnodern histori· ans--feminists and post·colonialists, for example-who are acutely awa re of the value systems inherent in all interpretations of the past, treat the acrual eve nts o f the past as inert objects that can be \'iewed and reviewed from a \'ari· cry of different angles. As a result, while living memory picks watersheds that refl ect and reinforce the group's current system of beliefs, histories carve out periods oftime on the basis of "the state ofthe [academic] field, the coherence of the argument, ]and] the structure of the presentation. "9 In the Western tra· dition of historiography-the trndition whose conventions regulated John's production of a wrinen Gos pel- the "structure of the prese ntation" generally takes the fonn of a chronological narrative. H istorical narratives organize the past by weaving the chaotic fabri c of time into a coherent tapestry of causes and effects, creating a story that leads from a fixed beginning to a definitive end. The past is manageable in history narratives because effects arc linked to causes in such a way that the relationshi p between the two cannot be negoti· ated- if things didn't happen this way, we can't get from the first page of the book to the lasr. 10 Other historians who disagree might suggest different causes or point out multiple side effects, but critical review of this kind only replaces one narrative with another and thereby affi nns the ove rall logic of historiography, even when specific facts are debated. Of course, one can write a chronological narrative only from a va ntage point where the causes and effects come d early into focus. The historian
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must rherefore situate herself beyond the conclusion of the story, outside the plot rather than within it, so that she may view the past "as a whole from af.u." For this reason, "hindsight as well as anachronism shapes historical intervre· tations." 11 Specifically, historians work backward, viewing every moment of the past through the lens of the end of the story and shaping every event to make it fit neatly between its precipitating causes and subsequent conse· quences-consequences that people livi ng in the time period under consid· erntion might have guessed but could not have known. Neither John F. Kennedy nor the mass of people gathered at Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas, on the morning of November 22, 1963, knew that the president would be dead by I :00 p.m., but every biographer of Ke nnedy must know this in for· marion and must write the story of a li fe that could have ended at that fixed point. " ln short, historical explanation surpasses any understanding available while events are still occurring. The past we reconstruct is more coherent than the past was when it happened." 1' ln order to squeeze the past into tight chronological sequences with clear beginnings and logical conclusions, historians must set precise OOundaries for their data pools. Here again, periodi:r.ation plays a key role. " ln the process of transforming history into a story, the decision of where to begin and end the story defines what constitutes the relevant event and determines its mean· ing."ll Eviatar Zerubavel refers to this phenomenon as "mnemonic decapita· tion" and notes rhat history narrnrives always operate on an~ nihilo principle, pretending that the story was preceded by a sort of historical void during which nothing really relevant was going on .14 On the flip side, decapitation creates the impression that the events and people that fall \\irhin a history book's narrative OOundaries must be important to the topic under considera· tion; otherwise, they wouldn't be included. IS
The Digital Past History books organ ize the past by removing people and events from living frameworks of memory and threading them together in <.-ausc·effect sequences with fixed beginnings and endings. Of course, memO!}' often does the same thing. lf I were to rell you rome tales from my camping rrip to the Rocky Mountains over a cup of coffee at Starbucks, all of them, though evoked from my memory and srrucrured by my memory framewo rks, would make my life experiences look like a string of causes and effects leading up w a punchline. But if we were ta lking in this way, you could ask me questions or make comments that would influence my presentation; my narrative would rhus be guided by our contract of memory, ro rhat your presence would add romething unique to the shape of my stories. O n the other hand, if I were to
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write these stories up in an autobiography, they would follow the rules of that literary genre and you would have no effect on them. We could discuss what I had written, and you might even influence my subsequent thinking about those events, but this would in no way change the words on the printed page. This is the case because history books, after they break the past into periods and arrange specific memories into sequences within those periods, fix their ~gements of the past in a mechanical medium that does not listen to argUIDents. This point-the fact that history books do not invite dialogue the way that memories do-must be stressed, because it is critical to my understanding of the reasons why John (and probably Mark, Matthew, Luke, and Thomas as
The Past in History Books The Written Past .•• 1. is universal and unitary
2. is broken into permanent periods
3. loves ignorance well) wrote a Gospel. Both memories and history books break up the past and arrange it into narratives, but once a historical narrative is committed to writing, its periodization system and overall scheme of arrangement obviously cannot change. Memory can gradually (or suddenly) readjust the boundaries of temporal periods to reflect evolving values and perspectives, forgetting some watersheds and elevating things that once seemed insignificant to the level of major turning points. But a history book can't do that; it sits unchanged on the shelf forever, proposing a specific division of time to every subsequent reader in every generation, even when its view of the past is radically obsolete from the perspective of current values. For this very reason, Plato tells us, wise Socrates warned Phaedrus not to write anything down: "So it is with written words; you might think they spoke as if they had intelligence, but if you question them, wishing to know about their sayings, they always say only one and the same thing."16 An illustr:ition of this attribute of history books may be taken from Yael Zerubavel's excellent discussion of modem Israeli social memory. In Recovered Roats, Zerubavel describes changing Israeli perspectives on the deadly shootout between jewish settlers and Palestinian Arabs at Tel Hai in March 1920.1n the decades following the engagement, Zionist Hebrews viewed the
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events at Tel Hai as a major ruming point in their group identity, a watershed mome nt in the struggle to reclaim the land of their ancient ancestors. 10day, however, Tel Hai has lost much of its social significance and is in fa ct a frequent object of parody and satire. Zerullavel explains cllis shift in tenns of a variety of social changes since the establis hment of the state of Israel in 1948, and particularly since the debates over the settlemem of occupied te rritories in the late 1970s. The diminished commemorative value of lCI Hai has resulted from diverse facto rs, ranging from shifting sentiments on Arab- Israeli relations to the simple fact that the site is too far away from major population centers for modem H e brews to conve nientl y visit there on a regular basis.!' For cllese and other reasons, fi e engagement at Tel H::~i has gradu::~ll y become a less significant watershed in popular national histo ry. Such has been the fate of Tel Hai in the shifting sands of Israeli social memory. Yet anyone who happened to pick up a H ebrew history book written in 19; I would quickly discover that fiat text still dares to affirm the commemorative values attributed to Tel Hai in the late 1940s. Further, such a book will continue to proclaim irs obsolete version of the past until its pages dissolve into dust, just as astronomy books written in the early 1920s continue to assert tha t eight planets orbit our sun, and geography books written in 197 1 still speak of countries called East Germany and Rhodesia, places that seem as old as Atlantis to people who never lived in such a world-people who might also assume that CCCP must be a new Internet domain. The old book on Tel Hai thus functions as a mnemonic time machine, bringing its readers into contact with the values and memories of sixty years ago, values and memories that ma y now appear alie n and grotesque. And these values and this memory can be erased only by ignoring the book or destroying it, for the text is deaf to all protests and competing claims and refuses to rearrange the words on the page, even at its own author's request. The au thor might, of course, adjust the story to fit current values by releasing a second, revised edition. But iliis new edi· tion is a new book, and the old one will still spew its story on anyone who haplessly picks up a decommissioned copy on the library's sale table. \~'h en compared to living memories and oral traditions, history books exhibit what Eviatar Zerubavel calls a "digital" mode of thought. Zerubavel's analogy refers to the way that digital clocks, as opposed to analog clocks (i.e., docks that have faces with hands that move in circles), present moments of time. A digital d ock can display only one distinct moment at once because it tells time in the form of a written text-you see 8:08, then 8:09, then 8: I 0, one number after another with sharp breaks between them, breaks that are actually a little startling if you're stari ng at the clock intently and waiting for the minute to change. A digital clock can't show 8:08 and 12:27 at once, in con· trast to an analog d ock, where you can always see all fie numbers even when
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the hands are not pointing to them. For this reason, there can be no debate about the time on a digital clock, unlike analog clocks, whose min ute marks may blur together when viewed from a disr:mce-" Does that say 8:26? Or is it 8:18? You can hardly tell fi-om here." Digital clocks do :a good job of making each individual minute d ear and easy to see, but they create this clari ty by hiding every other minute that might have been displayed. 18 In a similar way, wriuen history books present the past in a digital mode, one that displays every moment of rime in distinction from every other moment and hides all those othe r momcni'S to focus anention on what is happening right now in anticip:u ion of what will happen next. From the viewpoint of the digital clock, when it's 5:35 you need robe looking at the numbers 5, 3, 5 in that sequence, and you should be getting ready to see a 6; your eye should not be wandering over to the 10. Similarly, from the viewpoint of a history book, you should be looking at the event that is under discussion right now and thin king about how that event fo llowed from the last one and will lead into the next one; you should not be asking for more background details or infor marion about facts that lie outside the scope of the present stud y. The pennancm periodiz.ation of the past in history books affects not only the reade rs of history books. Sometimes written history books influence the ways memory groups organize and divide the past by interacting with their living frameworks of memory. The very existence of a book can, in other words, sometimes rewrite the tem1s of the social contract of memory. At least two such influences are relevant lO our discussion of John and the AntiChrists. First, as noted above, the written past is "definitively closed." Because the contents of history books are pcnnanent, their images of the past can be changed onl y by conscious acts of revision or destruction, giving them an "immunity to correction ."l 9 Unless the author of a history book chooses to revise the text, effectively creating a new volume, that text will forever pro claim a fixed vision of the pasr and its di\1sions. For this very reason, while his tory books cannot prevem the ongoing evolution of the past in collective memory, they can and sometimes do subvert popular ideas by preserving images of the past that are inconsistent with the latest version of memory. In this sense historians are often "the guardians of awkward fa cts, the skeletons in the cupboard of the social memory," preserving infonnation that challenges current views of reality bc<:ause it was not shaped in the context of today's per spt:ctives.!O There are many people from my high school days, and many things I did in that season of life, that I would prefer to forget, but the year book simply won't let me. Second, while both history books and memories introduce artificial water sheds and periods into the natural Aow o f rime, hisrory books, unlike memo-ries, can themseh·es function as watershed moments by distinguishing the 4
4
4
4
4
4
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period before thei r publication from the period after. The ~p rehistoric" or "aboriginal" ern of any society's history refers to every facet of its existence before the moment when the members of the group began to document the past. Similarl y, even people (like myself) who are una ware of the specific contents of the Magna Carta perceive that \:Vestem civilization rurned a com er at the moment that document was produced, and understand that the publication of "l110mas Paine's Cummon Snm marked the emergence in the colonies of a new spirit that wo uld ev-enrually lead to the American Rev-olution. One prominent theorist has even suggested that the very notion ofhistorical periodization is supponed by the technology of writing. "Indeed, it is our ability to envision the historical equi valents of the blank spaces we conventionally leave between the different chapters of a book o r at the beginning of a new paragraph that enhances the perceived separateness of such (historical] 'periods.' "! 1 W ri tten documents can impact the social contract of mem ory in at least two ways: By preserving obsolete facts and arrangements of the past that challenge contemporary v.-ays of thinking because they do not reAcct the frameworks of today's values;
By functioning as v.-atershed moments that mark significant steps in a society's evolution.
Of course, ancient books such as the Gospel of John did not utili:r.e paragraphs, punctuation, or other modern publishing techniques. But the appearance of the Fourth Gospel in a community that had previously preserved Jesus' memory only by oral tradition-a community immersed in a culture where written documents carried high symbolic v·a lue even though most people could not read them- would signal a significant change in the way the past could be managed and discussed. This change would be obvious even to people who could not read John's book and who therefore did not know what it actually said.
THE VIRTUES O F VAGUENESS Up ro this point, you ma y have agreed with some of what I have been saying about the ways thai history books arrange and frcere the past. But perhaps your mind has wandered bad: to earlier chapters, leading you to refl ect once
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ag:~in on my claims that the v:ast majority of people in john's society could not read. What difference does a history book make to people who can 't read history books? This question threatens ro make everything I have said in this chapter irrelcvam. If the j ohannine C hristians were largely illiterate, their charismatic memories would be insulated from the effects of writing, and rhe AntiChrists would be not so much threatened by John's Gospel as simply disinterested in it. Even if the Founh Gospel, as a history book, bears all the characteristics of fixed memory ouclined above, what difference would that make to Diotrephes or anyone else who couldn't read it, anyway? These are good questions, but they reflect an assumption about the role of history books that I have already shown to be inapplicable to the Johannine context. Specifically, the fact that most j ohannine C hristians could not read
The Past in History Books The Written Past • . I . is universal and unita ry
1. is broken into pennancnt periods 3. loves ignorance would be a problem here only if history books are viewed as archives of remembrance, as storage bins for information about the past. Obviously, an illite rate person is not going to look at a history book to help he r remember something, and such a person would therefore be imm une to the book's attempt to correct her thinking. Books can't jump off the shelf and make people re:~ d them, and people who can't read them wouldn't get much information out of the m if they did. For this very reason, my own living memories of St. P:~trick are blissfully immune tO any facts about him contained in a seventhcentll ry G~elic tome-the book can 't hurt me because I can 't understand what it's sayi ng. But even though I can't read that text, if some colleague fro m the history department were to tell me that it in fact proves defin itively that Saint Patrick never drove any snakes out of Ireland, my cherished memories o f that individual would be seriously threatened. This is the case because I live in a society whe re writi ng can perform a rhetorical fu nction that transce nds the value of its actual contents, and this funt:tion works just as well with illiterate people. M embers of my society gene rall y agree that debates about the past are scttJed when scholars state the facts on the basis of source documents, even source documents that we have never seen or heard of and could not read if
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we did.2Z So, while illiteracy does nullify the archivt value of history books, it has no effect at all on the symbolit force of history books. In fact, histuricnl rl«umtnts an oftro most tjfrrtivt Ill manipulating mnnory whtn proplt bnvt no idta what thty acttwlly wy. Because this point is critical, I will elaborate on its implications a bit fu rther. As nored earlier, history books view the past as a neutral phenomenon from a degree-zero perspective. As such, they claim to rranscend the values and ideals of specific memory groups. "History tells all who will listen what has happened and how things came to be as they are," and fearlessly invites every reader to review and challenge its daims.H This gives history books the appearance of objectiviry, but it also makes it impossible for them to appeal to the clauses in the social contract of memory that call for the audience's sympathy. Instead, historians must anticipate an audience that is broad and possibly skeptical, and cannot assume the reader's foreknowledge of the events unde r consideration. Of course, in many cases the reader of a history narrative is aware of the ultimate outcome-the modem Ameriam who reads a biography of Abraham Lincoln at least knows that the subject is dead, and is probably also aware that Lincoln was president during the Civil War and was assassinated. The narrator of history, however, may not assume this knowledge, and certainly cannot assume that the reader could predict the logic of the book's plot as it ties the selected events of Lincoln's life together and explains why this life ended in violent tragedy. Because they arc public rnther than private, histories must appeal to the lowest common denominator of audience awareness. Yet at the same time, because they do not rely on the reader's fore knowledge and sympathy, the rhetorical impact of written texts may be magnified by a phenomenon that David Lowenthal calls "the virtues of vagueness and ignornnce." The past often provides a more effective foundation for group solidariry when less is known about it, and vague allusions to a general past that is accepted as true but rnrely investigated carry no less weight on radio talk shows than quotations from academic experts. Through this strange loophole in the contract of memory, historical documents are sometimes more inl1uential when people are less familiar with what they actually say. Lowenthal notes as an example that Americans regularly appeal to the U.S. Constitution when discussing their rights and national idemiry, even though many ha\'e never read it, or at least can't say when they did-probably sometime back in high school or college, two stages of life that many of us are trying to forget altogether.u This phenomenon is especially striking when popular memory misunderstands the actual contents of the text in question, for example, the belief held by most Americans that the U.S. Constitution calls for a strict "separation o f church and state." In debates where the majoriry hold this view, the fact
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that such a phrase never acnmlly appears in that document docs not diminish the rhetorical fo rce of arguments that appeal to this principle.
The P ast in History Books: John's Solution The Written Past. I. Is universal and unitary meaning that it transcends every individual representation of the past b}' swallowing all of them up into itself. ln the process, clte written text becomes a surrogate memory group for its reader, and replaces the reader's na!llral frameworks of memory wiclt its own. History books th us become the ultimate aucltoriry and oq,ranizing principle in collective memory. 2. Is broke n into pcnnancnt periods meaning clt:H it.<; \'ersion of thinbrs can only be accepted or rejected, never negotiated or reconfi!,,rured. The division and arrangement of the past is frozen in history books, and cltey continue to express their original vision even after iris long obsolete from the pcrs1x'Ctive of contcmpor:Jry problems and values. For this reason, history books sometimes challenge current notions and ideals simply by reminding people that cltey don't have to think the way cltat they do. 3. Loves ignorance meaning th:n appeals to hiswry books tend to be more powerful when people know less about their acmal contents. This is cspcciall}' tmc in societies th:lt ha\'e low literac:y rates blll attribute a high level of symbolic value W documents. In such a culture, the persuasive power of appeals tO "what the book says" is enhanced by clte fact cltat most people can't check clte book to challenge clteseclaims.
2. <3.
+
+J ohn's illiterate culture +high symbolic value of documents in J ohn's culture clte :1nswcr w j ohn's AntiChrist problem
=
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As the suroey abcwe has suggested, memory and history books sh:tpe :md present the past in disti nct ways . .\l cmo ries o rder the priv:u c past according to the social :tnd ietting in whit:h the Founh Gospel w;ts pru
11
Why John Wrote a Gospel
\Vhy did john 11ritc a Gospel? Answers to this <]UCstion will rcilcct one's 1•icw of the re:1sons why :m~·onc 110111d conunit :mything ro writing. If writing is l'icwcd primarily as an archi\'c of speech. the Fourth Gospel was produced :ts :111 ai1l to memory, :1 sror.1gc bin for J ohn's Jesus tradition. Under thi s 1nodcl, John did not conccplllali zc :111 c~semial diffe rence between his own prc:aching :md publit· rc;lCiings from his hook. Bm while the Gospel of John h:1s ccrt:ain ly functioned as an :trchive ofJ oh:~nninc tr:tdition in the history of the church, the oHithor's J:K:culiar 1·icw of Christian memory m:~kcs it unlikel y tha t th is w:as his primary rn uti1·c for writing :1 GospeL ln stc:~d, it o1ppca rs th:u John wishc{l to e 1pit:llizc on the rhetoric:!I V:l luc of writing- by <:orwening the nuid memory of J cs u~ to a fi.~ed hi~tO~' ]X)()k, :1 rno\·c th:n would at once preserve his unique vision of J csu~. frcc:.r.e that \·ision in a 1x:rpetually nonnegotiable medium, and assert the special authority of th:n vi~ion ag·a in~t competing claim ... At lc:\St live reb ted :lspe<:ts of the shift frorn gmup memory \\) history book would ha\·c rmHic the produnion of the Fourth Gospel cspe<:ia lly suit:lhlc to J ohn's puqmscs. By ap1>e:1l to a written story about J esus that most people could not read, J ohn could effe<:tivcly change the terms of his debate with the r\ ntiChrists in a way that would acknowledge the Spiri r's ongoing intlue•r<·c, while effecti vely dcn~1 ing their clai ms.
REASON #I ,j ESUS IN PUBLIC I know that I wors rrot present at Rive rfront St:Hiium when Don Culleu hit a home run in the 1975 \\'orld Series. but l\e always believed that] was. / know
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that I saw him hit a horne nm , and that this was very remarkable, because Don Cullen was the Cincinnati Reds' star pitcher. But I don't really know whether it was the \ ·Vorld Series or just a regular-season baseball g:~mc, or whether it was 1975 or 1976 or 1977-1 propose these dates because I think I was about ten years old at the time. None of those dcn1il s really nmncrs, however, so long as I choose LO keep my memory private o r sha re it only withi n a circle of close friends who rniglu also cherish it but wi ll not challenge it. Of course, this approach would be entirely inadcqu:nc if f wanted lO write a biography of Don Gullett, because in th:lt C"JSC my memory wou ld ha\'C tO stand the test of public scrutiny, of other people's memories and other records of the past. My reco llection of Don Gullett's home nm thus illustrates the key difference between memory and history: melllOf)' treats the p:tst :as ]>ersonal experiences, while history books treat the past as public events. The fact that memory rends to tre;lt the past as ]>ersonal experiences would be especia lly true in John's eontext, for his community viewed d1e memory of J esus as :a work of the l loly Spirit. As such, every J>Crson who possesses Lhe Spirit c:m claim to be a remembrancer, able m recall J esus and guided by the Paraclete in her interpretations of that memory. \·Vhile the amhor of I John could appeal to this belief ad hom inem to posture the Spirit/tradition as a special "anointing~ that prot ccL~ true Christians from the heretical teachings of the AntiChrists ( I j ohn 1:10-27), Joh n's cha rismatic approach to memory would :also make it ultimatcl}' impossible for him to refute the AntiChrists' claims. As private spiritua l exJ>erience, the AntiChrists' coumermemory of Jesus would not be subject to historical inquiry and would not demand the objectivity that makes it ]>assible for historians to proclaim their versions of the past "true." As inspired recollection, 1..hey could claim that t.heir memories of J esus were just as good as John's. But j ohn could counter the AntiChrists with a hismry book, one t.hat would posture J esus :ts a public fib•urc and thus make all claims about his :activity potentially subject to investig:ttion. John points this out himself in texts such as john 19:35 and 1 1:24, wh ich apJ>eal to eyewitness testimony in the coun of t..he reader's scrutiny. IJy moving J esus into the public past, John creates an image that claims to transcend private faith experience in the same way that a biography of Don Gullett would transcend rn y private rncrnoryofhis remarkable home run and treat that even t as fact o r fiction rather than nostalgia. Of course, this does not mean that J ohn sought to eradicate the influence of the Spiri t. \.Vere J ohn thoroughly amicharismacic, passages such as John 14:26 and 16:13 would not have been included in his Gos1>el. h seems more likely that J ohn wished m balance and supplement the P;lraclctc's "a nointing" with a written text that could wmplcment and define that ongoing spiritual CXJ>erience. Bclie'"ers could now refer to the text of the Fourth Gos]>el as a
Why John Wrote a Gospel
147
muchstone for pneumatic memory in the same way that they could "test the spirits" by appealing to the community's established christologie2l creeds (see I John 4:1-6). Text and memory would henceforth work together to support John's witness to J esus.
REASON 12, TRAPPED TIME Meeting new people and sharing life stories with them is one of the major perks (and occupational ha2.:1rds) of my job as a seminary professor. M:my of my students are entering ministry as a second career, forcing them to signifiC2ndy reconfigure the plot of thei r personal and professional aumbiographies w explain how they came to this poim in their lives. As they look for guideposts and precedents, they often interrogate me as to where my own path began. "\Nhen did you deeide to become a professor?" they ask over a ham burger. "Did you always want to do this?" And the worst question, "So, do you think you're going to keep doing this, or will you end up doing something else?" Depending on the circumstances, people generally get one of two versions of my life history, the story of"Professor Tom" or the story of"Pastor Tom," both of which I have included on the next page in abbreviated fonn . Obviously, a quick perusal of these two smries reveals a number of key differences, differences that might lead to charges of dishonesty. Yet each of these narratives is true in the sense that I could document all of the specific facts to which they refer. T his being the case, I can, in good conscience, tell people whichever story supports the way I am feel ing at any given moment about how my life will ultimately resolve itself. Because memory's image of the past is always shaped by the fram ework of our immediate values, memories change whenever these values change. In the process, new watersheds rise and are eventually replaced to continually break the Row of time into manageable periods, periods that in turn characterize the events and individuals who inhabit them. Experience demonstrates how quickly and how often we can reconfigure our memories to fit the rhetorical needs of the moment. But such liberties, on which memory so often depends, do not extend to history books. If, for example, I were to write an autobiography, the written version of my life could not tolcrnte such contradictions, and would need to suppress, for sake of clarity and space limitations, those details that were not immediately relevanl to, and supporti\·e of, the story I chose to publish. l.n my written autobiography I would be Professor Tom or Pastor Tom- not one on one page and the other on the next-quite unlike the way that I can tell one story today and another tomorrow. Readers who happened to hear me telling someone the alternate version might even challenge the ethic of my presentation,
Life of Tom Version 1: "Professor Tom.,
Life ofTom Version 2: "Pastor Tom.,
When I first ])e(_":l.me a Christian in high school, I didn't know anything about the Bible. I wasn't really !';lised
\Vhen I finished high school, I felt c:tllcd to some type of ministry, and wanted to attend a Bible college and start working in a church pan rime. Butmyparentsobjectedbeawse l had a full- ri de scholarship to the University of Cincinnati.! went there fora yen butreallyneverfcltcomfomble, and transferred to finish a degree in ministry. l decided l wantedaMaster of Divinity, so I went on to seminary while my wife finishe
inchurch ,:md onlybec:.~meintercsted
in religion !:hrough my girlfrien d's youth group. I was a very inquisiti,·e person, always wanting to learn more about everything, so I tried to study the Bible and md theology books as much as I could. When 1 g!';lduated from high school, I recch•ed a full- ride scholarship to the University of Cincinnati, and wen t there to study Classics. Bm after a year at U.C., I switched to a Bible college to major in bi blical studies. By then I knew I wanted to teach at the college le,·el, because the study of Scripture had always been so import:lnt to my own faithCJ:;pcrienceand I want:edtohclp other people develop their knowledge. When I finished my college degree I was ma rried and my wife was still in schooL We were dirt poor and used to living in !:he inner city by then, anyway, so I decided to just go ahead and get a seminary degree. During that rime, people encouraged me to pursue a doctorate, so when I graduated I st:~ rted ~ PhD and w:~s able to teachsomeclasscsasan adjunctwhile my wife was working full time as a school teache r. About the time I finished that degree, m y fanner semin~ry adviser went through a serious personalcrisis and resigm:
bc:doing i n6ve)·~rs.
Why John Wrme a Gospel
149
questioning why I had suppressed so much key infom1ation about my experiences and motives, and even the most lenient reviewers would have to recommend my inconsistent memoirs to obscurity. Simply put, memories can change, books cannot. So long as the Johannine Jesus tradition was a mdition, it would maintain the fluid characteristics of a living memory. As such, the mdit:ional story of Jesus and the image of his life and teaching could be revised and reworked indefinitely. But by producing a wriuen Gospel, John could freeze one particular image of Jesus in the plot of a historical narrative on the physical surf.lce of the inscribed page. T his written text, and its organizational scheme, would endure over rime, making it more difficult for opponents to reconfigure the elements of J esus' memory, and also preventing the suppression and conflation of infom1ation stored within each category and period. Regardless of the Paraclete's ongoing influence, within the text of the Founh Gospel every moment of Jesus' life-every saying and sign-is forever distinct and discrete, shaped to fit the events that preceded it in the plot and those that will follow. These recorded events and sayings would remain valuable for teaching and meditative reflection, but would always derive their def.tult meaning from the literary context rather than frum private spiritual experience. As time has shown, a wriuen version of J ohn's memory of Jesus would preserve that portmit intact even when his image of Christ did not fit neat.ly into the church's evolving interests and social context.
REASON #3, A SHALLOW DATA POOL \¥hen I was in sinh grade, my friend Ste\·e Horsley and I wrute a nwnber of songs in anticipation of a glamorous recording career. We 1>erfom1ed these dit· ties frequently on the playground at Norwood View School, generally to rave reviews. Our rrademark ballad, "Funky 1-fonkey," was quite popular, along with the crowd f.tvorites "You Is Ugly" and "Up Side the Head." We supplemented this musical repenoire with parodies of television commercials and brief comedy ski ts, most of which were reserved for underground vcnues(thealleybehind Pepc's Pizza; the playground beside the reception hall of the Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Center) due to their exrremely prof.tne contem. I preserved a number of these songs and skits on a Radio Shack cassette recorder with a built-in microphone, and now on those rare occasions when I am alone at the house I sometimes pull out these tapes and review the "Tom and Steven corpus. The Tom and Steve tapes, and the memories that they C\'Oke, nom1ally leave me in a state of bittersweet melancholy. As I listen, the sound of my own childish voice transports me back ro days of school carnivals and playground
! 50
Why John Wrote a Gospel
baseball games and vin yl records and very primitive Atari video games. T h ese clear images are pleasant to gaze upon but are alway5 accompanied by a vast
entourage of blurry ghosts that dance in and out of my peri pheral vision. The consum presence o f these shadowy figures confronts me with twO d isturbing realities. First, while t hese tapes are genuine artifacts of my childhood, they are not t he whole puzzle, o r eve n a small percentage of its pieces. Most of my childhood was unrecorded and therefore doomed to be forgon e n. Second, and much more disconcerting, I realize that the few records o n which my memory must rel y actually wo rk to o bliterate everything tha t does not fall within lhcir scope. I know, for example, that Steve and I wrote many mo re songs and jo kes than what these tapes contain, but all the o nes that were not recorded have dis-
apJ>eared behind these relics and been erased by diem, fo llowing the principle that "when the perfect comes, the partial is dis placed." Thus, rhe very data base o f memoirs that makes it possible for me to rebui ld a vivid image of a small portion of my past ~ !so underscores the impossibility of recalling an y sig nificam percentage of m y life, and in fact tends to take away my will to try. Over rime, what was recorded is remembered, and what was not ceases w exist. Following this principle, a written Gospel would preserve certain memo ries of jesus in vivid color while at the same rime erasing everything that lay outside its boundaries. The Jews, the AntiC hrists, and other perceived op~ nents might challenge John's understanding of Jesus and might ban his Gospel from their synagogues and churches, but they could never expand or contract the database from which that image was built. All history books imply that what has been omitted from their data base is irrelevant, and j ohn in particu lar states this principle explicitly. Much to the dismay of modem scholars,J ohn 20:30 and 1 1:15 both note, in a mne that is strikingly casual, that much more infonnation could have been included in the story. John, however, has sorted through this bulk of data and has preserved everything necessary to produce and maintain genuine fai th in J esus, obviating the need for new revelations or further historical investigation. And if a quantitatively significant amount of J esus tradition was thereby relegated to oblivion, j ohn seems to feel no regret, but instead takes pride in knowing that such extraneous infom1arion will not confuse people in the future. 1 ln this sense, the Gospel ofJohn represents per haps the earliest attempt to canonize a particular lxxly of Christian teaching, to limit theological speculation to discussions o f a written text. 4
4
4
4
4
REASON *4' THE LIVING WATERSHED History books create the illusion of a fixed database and a fix ed flow o f rime. Historians choose some events from the mass o f the past and ignore others,
\ Vhy John \\'rotc a Gospel
15 1
shape those they h:tl'e selected to fit tight n:trr.tti1·e fr:tmeworks with delineate(] ternJlOr:tl periods, :mel remove this :tctivity fro m the realm of negotiation by committing the results of their labors to writing. But as the p:tst becomes more remote, later gener:ttions will ha,·t· :tccess to it only through these highly contri1•ed rexts, a fact th:H rn:tkes it ]>Ossihle 1"0 think of history books :ts themselves watershed moments in group Oint to the Fourth Gospel and say, "V\'e arc no longer mlking about whether Jesus di
REASON #5, FAITH WITHOUT READING As noted earlier, popular uses of memory frequently c:lpitalizc on 1hc vi rtues of v:lb'l.ICncss, the f.Kt th:n beliefs :tbom the p:tsl thai arc widely held bur seldom inn:stig.ned tend to be just as rhetorically effective :ts ci t;Jtions from welldocumented historical treatises. In modern lirerate culn1res, writing eliminates vagueness b~· presenting a publ ic image of the past with claims that arc subject to criticism an
!52
Why John Wrote a Gospel
woman (apparently a srudenr) and rwo older women (presumably facu lty members) walk through during a break from class. O ne of the professors, making the small talk typical of such awkward occasions, says thar she recently spoke to a 1963 graduate of the school, who "popped her head into my office" and said that, "Back in those days, if you wanted to date a boy from Xavier, you had to write a \ener of request to the academic dean. " Obviously, this recollection is intended to contrast the ancient world of 1963 with the world of today, a world where female college students typically and frequently explore a wide range of sexual experiences (not all of which involve boys). As such, it is dear that the reacher has invested less in the historical accuracy of this comment than in irs rhetorical force. She was not, in other words, mahng a defin~ itive statement about the history of Catholic colleges in Cincinnati, but was instead simply trying to amuse her srudent friend. It's a memory pacL:aged as a joke; recognizing this, the srudent chuckles politely as the three move on down the hall and out of my range of hearing. Bur after they leave, I find myself compelled to ponder the strange and exotic land of 1963 h-om which this memory emerged. Like the young coed, l have never lived in such a place, and therefore can neither confinn nor dis~ prove this testimony. Could such a world have elt"isted, and in the same phys~ icallocation that I now inhabit? Despite my many doubts, in the end I decide to believe this claim and to concede that female Mount students in 1963 probably did need special permission to da te boys from other colleges. Of cour5e, I could presumably pursue the matter further by seeking out the source pe r~ son for interview and/or by checking the Mounr's student records, a relatively easy task because the memory reAects a time recently past, with many living witnesses and extant documents ready to hand. But I find no compulsion to do this, and I also find that the absence of hard evidence does not diminish my awe over the world of \963. Whether the claim is true or not, I find it remark~ able, and it feeds my imagination for several moments the same way that any passage from Lord of tbt Rings might. The memory challenges my thinking, but it is a negotiable challenge, negotiable because the reporter is not making an absolute historical claim but just trying to be funny and because I, her eavesdropping audience, am seeking an amusing diversion rather than hard facts. The memory works, in other words, simply because we leave it vague. But of cour5e, I would not be so gracious if I encountered this same piece of infom1ation in a history of the College of Mt. St. j oseph, which would repay my critial posture by clarifying all the details and leaving me no option to doubt whether the date were 1963 or whether we are talking about Xavier High School or Xavier University. The history book would, in other words, limit my interpretive options, even if I found the facts difficult to reconcile with the world in which I live. I could challenge its claims only by a more labo~
Why John Wrote a Gospel
153
rious reference to other history books and/or their sources, generally written texts as well. ln this respect, the history book would, to paraphrase Foucault, close off "the space of freedom that I still enjoy"-freedom to negotiate the content and meaning of the past so long as the finis hed product satisfies the needs of the moment.l Memories capitalize on vagueness and allude to the past for a variery of rhetorical purposes; history books, by contrast, ostensibly function to preserve the past and capitalize on speci fici ry, hiding the historian's agenda behind a mask of objectivity. By producing a history book, j ohn could eliminate and counter the vagueness of charismatic memory, challenging the AntiChrists' allusions to tradition and revelation by appeal to a written document. The claims of the history book would be less negotiable than those of memory, closing the range of interpretive options. Further, a written Gospel would he especially advantageous in John's context because it could exploit at tbt 11mu tffltr both the illusion of objectivity inherent in history books and the virtues of vagueness inherent in memory. As public documents, history books make special claims that require special tools of objective analysis. Those who read history books enjoy the right to challenge these claims, but all challenges will, in rum, be subject to further scrutin y and review. The disgruntled historian may even retaliate with fun:her documentation, new arguments, and a review o f the review. This aspeet of historiography ironically undennines history's attempt to create a public past, for most people are not qualified to conduct historiographic research, a fact that makes history texts immune to casual criticism. O bviously, even the most rudimentary inquiry into the veracity of a history book's claims would require a minimal fam iliarity with the specific contents ofthar document. In the case of the Foun:h Gospel, this would mean that potential critics would need to srndy the text and raise coumerarguments. Yrt most proplt in John's rulturt rouJd not rrad, a fact tha r would mal.:e it impossible for them even to discuss the acrual contents of John's Gospel, much less to challenge its claims. For this reason, john and his allies could exploit the virtues of vagueness inherent in memory even when usi ng their written Gospel to counter opposing claims about j esus. The rhetorical force of vagueness would be obvious to any ancient J ew due to the pervasive presence and influence of the Torah, a document that Jews viewed as essential to their identity and heritage, even though most of them could not read it. In a similar way, John musr have been aware that most Christians and, indeed, the vast majority of the human race, were nol sufficientl y literate to read a documenr such as the Fourth Gospelfurthe r evidence that he did not view his project as an archive of memory. The fact that most C hristians could not read would, however, make the contents and interpretation of the text even less negotiable, as few would be in a position to
!54
VVhy John \.\/rotc a Gospel
challenge irs vision. J ohn's history book could thus capita lize on the mystique of a vague past without resolvi ng that vagueness. For all five of the reasons 1 have discussed here-and perhaps many more that would be obvious to a person immersed in an oral culture-a written Gospel would be the ideal weapon inJohn's conflict with the AntiChrisrs. Both John and the AntiChrisrs could appeal to the Spi rit tO validate their memories of Jesus, butjohn cou ld now also appeal to the presti ge of a book about J esus, a book that further cbimcd to be based on eyewitness testimony. Such a book would become a touchstone fo r charismatic memory, limiting and controlli ng
Memory-+ History
Tradition-+Gospcl Wh y John \\'rotc a Gospel
Memory
History Hooks
r.·rreatsthcpast assubtL>t:ti>·c.priv:uccxpericnce.
1. Treat as the past asobj~>t:tive,publicf.Kts.
2.0rg:mi resthe JY.ISt aroundb'TOUJ>>'alncsand shi ftswhcnthose•'3 lucs shift
2.0rg:mir.c thCJY.IStaround ...... J>onraito fJesuso nnot atixcd histotit'3lnarrdti>·c . . . ehangcorsh ift ovcrti tn c, tnakingi tilllmun etoeurrent and (.";; nnot change, ~"·en wh cnobsoktc val u cs ~nd u perienecs
J. Uses afluid databaseto oonstntctan:k'\"dnt imagcofthepast.
3.
~~~::::~~~~:~~~~~g oursidct llcse<JJICOfthc story.
4. Allowsdcbatcbotho•·cr "wha t happened" and how to interpret what happen~"<:)
5. Ao;surnestheaudiCIK'I.''s ~)"npath}' and foreknowiC(I b~
4.Enddcbateo•·cr"what hap1w:n~'tl" anti limit llisL'llSSiontn t hcintcl']>rl:t.ltionofwhathapiiCnctl.
.... Claims abot~tJ esus ~ rc sub.... jcct toscruuny,\lcbatc,~nd documentation.
, ~:::~~~~~a;~;o~~;/;:~u~~:-
taincdinrhetext;ncwn:vclationsfmmthcSpiriton bcignorcdifim:lc•'3nt
3 ~\:;::~~~~:~;r ::~;~:us did or SJ id cc nainthings; t'3nonlydiscussthcoorrcct intCI']>rctationofthedatain the tnt
5. Assmnc the audicn~-,'s ""''rt. Mosii>I!Oj>le_onnotchalignoraneeandskc111icism. .... lengethecbunsofthe FounhGospc l. orjohn's daimsbasedonaJ>pealsto that tc~t. si rn11l y bet:ause thcyoouldnotreacli t
\ Vh}' John \ Vrorc :1 Gospel
155
hoth the growth of the J ohanni nc tr.Hlition and its intcrprer:nion. And since most people wou ld be un:1hlc 10 re:1d such a book, it would be impossible for most people to ch:1llenge iL.;; cl~ims, or even to ch:1llcngc argllrncnts b:1sed on vague appeals to th:H text. lf "gcncral history starts only when m1di tion ends :md the soci:1l memory is fading or hrc:1king up," it ma}' be s:1id th:njohn wrote 1 :1 Gospel to cr:1se his own memory.
Postscript
The Original Quest for a Historical Jesus
Rcntrning to the guiding question of thi<; book, I m:1y now :1sscrt th:u John wrote a Gospel not to preserve ali
stance with something more solitl.John did not, in other words, write :1 Gos[>el to help people n:mcmhcr information :JIJourJcsus, lJutr:lthcr to ensure th:1t they rcmcmbcrcdJc~us
in :1 spcciti<: w:Jy, a w:~ycuns i stcnr with hisow n 1hinkingahout
ChrisL Vc11• specifically, he sought
to
prevent the AntiChrists (or others like
them) from expanding and rcconfiguring the memory of j esus, :mel he :Jchicvcd this obJeCtive by clll.:oding: th:n memory in :1 wriucn text, a text that would become :1 tOuchstone for genuim· experience of t he Spirir. Bu t in the course of this book, our discussion has ro1ised many issues thou go far beyond an :mswer to the question, \ Vhy did j ohn write ol Gospel? The implic:nions of J ohn's shift from li1'ing memory in the form of tratlition to frozen memory in :• written text arc f:lr- rc:•ching, :uulwhile 1 tlon't have time ta explore them in detail here, I woun to outline at least three that seem fruit~ ful fo r furtherdist·ussi o n.
EVANG EL OR APOLOGY? Even casu:~ I Stll(lems of the Bible m:1y l"k' somewhat awo1re of the long-stomding debate over the implic:nions of the "puq)()se statement" of the Fourth Gospel, j ohn 20:30-31. After the resurrected Jesus exposes his blOO
157
Posrscript
158
wn tten so that you may b~Jirv~ {either 'ITu:rrtiKrrtT( (past tense) or 1ru:rrt\rrjn (present tense), depending on which ancient manuscripts you prefer! that jesus is the Christ the Son of God, and so that by believing you may have life in his name." C learly,John wants his reader to come to a correct belief about jesus. But what does he presuppose about this reader's current state of belief? Is John thi nking of an unbelieving reader, a person of"the world" or a "J ew" who does not accept Jesus as the Christ and who therefore needs to repent so as to "have life"? O r does he presume that his readers are already C hristians, yet C hristians who need clariry about Christ's identity in view of the confusion caused by the Jews and the AntiChrists? The question is often stated in terms of the nature of the Gospel of j ohn. Is this book an rvang~linic document aimed at converti ng nonbelievers? Or is this book an afX!Iog~tic document, one that seeks to justify and confirm the orthodox faith of people who arc already members of John's churches? O r fo r those who do not wish to argue, is the Fourth Gospel /!Qrh an evangelistic document and an apology, a cure-all for anyone who isn't entirely sure what to think about Jesus? 1 My discussion here has not addressed this question directly, but it would certainly tip the scales in favor of the view that the Gospel of John is an apologetic text. T he backdrop of the Fourth Gospel's production-a debate between two C hristian groups over the corre<:t memory of Jesus--strongly
J ohn, Memory. and H istory: Implications I. The Founh Gospel is an apologetic treatise, not an evangelis-
tic tract. suggests that John wrote a Gospel primarily to combat the influence of the AntiChrists, who were leading believers away from the orthodox fai th and thereby "destroying what we worked for" (2 John 8). ln my view, the Fourth Gospel makes more sense when John 20:3 1 is interpreted alongside Luke I : 1-4, making the wrinen text a reaffinnation o f things that believers have been taught "from the beginning," at a point in time when their image of C hrist was becoming blurred. As such, I would see the Gospel of}ohn as a document ai med at Christian people with no specific evangelistic purpose, despite the ongoing usefulness o f John 3: 16 in bringing people to C hrist. But by saying this, I do not wish to suggest that J ohn believed that most people in his churches would acrually read his book. As I've said over and over, the evidence strongly suggests that only a small percentage of them would have been able to read anything at all. In fact, I do not know whether I could prove that J ohn thought anyon~ in his churches would ever read his book about
Postscript
159
J esus. I suspect that he did not. Bm whether they ever re:td his book or not, and whether the~· could even read at all, J ohn could expect most people in his churches to respect the authority of wri uen texts, and coul([ :tlso expect them to sec the obvious differences between the claims of the AntiChrists and the way that his own allies interpreted his written Gospel. "f he Fourth Gospd was a rhetorical fulcrum, a le,•cr:tging dc1'icc for usc by people like Demetrius (3 J ohn 11), "the brothers" (3 John 5-8), :md the "Elect Lady" (2 John l), something they cou ld point ro in their delutes witb people like Diotrephes (3 J ohn 9) :IS the final word on what J esus did or did nor do. As such, m~· arb'ltment here would support Robcn Kys:tr's description of the Gospel of John as "an intr.t-church document .. a Gospel interule1l for the family~ - provided, of course, dt:H we recognize that John's family was dysfunction:tP
T HE SECOND, THIRD, FOURTH, O R FIFTH FOURTH GOSPEL? A century from now, some doctoral srudcnr at V.trulcrbilt or Aberdeen will be writing :t chapter in her dissert:ttion that surnm:t rizes the rn:tjor concerns of Joh:mninc schobrship in the twentieth crntury (by the way, if you arc thott smdent :mel you :tre re:tding this book: Greetings to you fro m the past, and rh:mks for remembering me). Such a history of rese:trch, even if onl }' a few pages long, wi ll hai'C to dedicone :It least a p:1ragraph or two to the "developmental :lpproach" to the Fourth Gospel, becotuse this issue has been o ne of the brgest blips on the radar screen of Joh:tnninc studies- in f:tct, of biblic:tl studies in gcner:tl- inreccnttirnes. For about forty ~'C:trs now, schola rs hal'e been debating whether the Gospel of J ohn that we h:ll"e in ou r Bibles is :1 "first ed ition" or the lin01lvolurnc in :1 series of revisions. Acconling to the l:ttter theory, some J ohannine Christi~m wrote :1 book :1bout Jesus in, sa~•, 55 CE. Th:1t book w:ts revised ~tn d exp:tnde(l
J o hn , Memory, and Hi story:
lm ~ti ons
I. T he Fourth Gospe l is an :tpolog-etic treatise, uot om ev:mgelistic tract. 2. The Fourth Gospel that we have today is most likely the firs t, o r ott most t he second, e d ition of that book. in , s:t}', 71 CE; the revised version was then re1•iscd :tg:tin in 87 C E; :1 founh edition was prO
160
Postscript
produce the text of the Fourth Gospel as it exists today. Advocates of this theory explain these revisions in terms simi lar to our earlier discussion of living memory. Over time, the J ohannin c Christians faced new challenges or encountered new religious ideas in the world around them, making it necessary w reconsider and reconfigure traditional ways of th inking about j esus and his teaching. Each time they cncou rncrcd a major obstacle, they found it necessary to revise their book about j esus in order t'O make it relevant to the new way of thinki ng. This theory is ca lled "the developmental appro:Kh" because it aq,,rttcs that the Gospel of Jo hn as we have it today is the end product of this series of theological develo pments and revisions. The more conservative versions of the devclopment:Jl approach ;Jrgue that our Gospel of J oh n is a second edition, with ch:1pter 2 1 added to the end of an earlier book that was already complete. Evidence for this conclusion may be drawn from the facts that (a) the Gospel of J ohn comes to a logical end with the purpose statement at 20:30- 3 1, (b) 21:25 seems to csscnti:J I!y repeat what 20:30 has already S;Jid, and (c) chapter 21 seems gc ner.~ll y more interested in Lhc fates of Peter and the Beloved Disciple than in J esus (sec 21 :22- 24). So it looks as if this chapter may have been added later, probably to expla in why J esus did not come back before the Beloved Disciple died. If this is the case, there must have been an ea rl ier version of the Gospel of John that did not indU(lc chapter 2 1. But if chapter 2 1 represents a revised edition of the Gospel of John , could it be that there were other, earlier editions of the ten that pn·dtlttd the edition to which chapter 2 1 was added ? Many scholars think so, and argue that the Fourth Gospel may have gone through several revisions, some fairly thorough, before the final cd itlon that we have w day was relcased.J \Vhile many things might be said about the relative merits and li;Jbi litics of the developmental approach, I will limit my remarks here tO the observation that what I h:we said in this book probably works bener if there were fewer cd itiom of the Gospel of J ohn, and works very wel l if there was only one. If John wrote a Gospe l not to preserve the memory of J esus but r.~ther to replace it, and if his views of tr.~dition and writing were fairl y typical of the W:l}' S that other Johannine Christians thought about those same issues, it seems unlikely that thc J oha nnine community woul(l feel a need to produce a new version of the text every time they had some new insight or experience. This is not the place to discuss the issue in det:1il, but I will briefly note three :1rguments that point to this conclusion. First, it seems odd to me that anyone wou ld go to the trouble of revising a book that very few people could read, especially in view of the cost of producing a written document in Jo hn's time. \Vhen I reflect on the more complicated developmental theories- especially those that involve more than, say, three editions of the Fourth Gospel- ! am led to wonder how many books in to
Post.'iCJ'ipt
16 1
the history of the world h :JI"C ever gone through more than two editions. And I woule or fo ur edit ions of the Gospel of John, then 11e need ro answer the guiding que:.tion of this book three or four times: \Vhy did c:1ch of these four I>Coplt> write/ re1·i~c a GosJk'l? In :m or.11 culmre. the tr:msition from tradition to wrinen text is a major social shift, and like :11! o ther motjor social shifts it requires a pn.~ci p it:1ting crisis. I h:we argued here that John wrme a Gospel under the precipitating crisis of the AmiChrists' cbims, and that he reSI}(mded to this crisi~ hy writing a text bcc;Juse ol wrincn GO"])(!] was uniquely suited to the specitic challenges of fluid chari~m:1tie memory. But if John was on I~· one of three, four, or li1·c lkople who 11 rotc or re1•ised :t J esus book for the J ohanninc churches, it is nttcssary w c.~pbin the precipitating crisis that led e:1ch of them individually to feel tha t a new edition of a written te~t would he more effect in:~ th:m the smn of their charismatic 111 e1110ry of Jesus, plus their current version ofLhe Gospel of John.
162
Postscript
or course, advoc:ates of the developmental approach major in precipitating crises, discussing in great detai l the various experiences o fthc johanninc community that led these Christians to change their theolob'Y again and again: J ohn 1 and 3 reflect their struggle tO convert d isciples o f j o hn dlC lbptist;j ohn 4 reveals th:ll' a number of Sa mari tans joi ned the church at some point; john
9 shows that some j oha nn inc Christians were excommunicated from the synagobruc; and so forth. As I noted way back in chapter I, this approach builds on C ulpepper's maxim that " theological developments are often precipitated b)' social criscs.n~ But I also no ted in chapter I th:H this m:JXi m does not adequa[Ciy expla in the existence of any written document, such as the Gospel of John o r a Signs Gospel. In tenns of the present srudy, C ulpCpJ>Cr's maxim, as applied by advOCites of the developmental appro:.ch, accurntel)' expla ins tre nds in the evolution of joh:mnine memory, beca.use memory always an cmpts to shape its image of the past to m eet the needs of the prcsem . So if, for exa mple, a bunch ofS:unari t:1ns decided to join one of J ohn 's chu rc hes, we could call that event a pr<.-cipitating crisis fo r a rcconfigur.nion of the group's memory-they would now need tO rethi nk J esus' ministry and reaching in light of this new dc,•elopmcm. But this new development is not a preci pit:Jting crisis for litrrnry: there's no reason why you have to write, or rewrite, a Gospel beca.use some Sama ritans join you r church. To claim that this event was a precipit:lting crisis for literacy, we would have to show that writing or revising a Gos[>el w:lS somehow a logic-J I response to tha t siruation, and I am not aware that advocates of the developmenta l approach have do ne that. Many C hristians in J ohn's time f:1ccd chall enges th:11 force d them seriously lO rethin k j esus; C hristians tod ay f:1ce m:my o f those s:1 me challenges. In the who le history of t.he fir:a -cenwry church, we know for certain that four people responded to these challenges by writing GosJ>els: Manhew, Mark, Luke, and john (assuming the Fo urth Gospel was written before the yea r 100). The e'•idence suggests that t.here cou ld h:1ve been six o r seven mo re, depending on what you t.hi nk abom Q, L, Nl, the Signs Gospel, and possible early editions of the Gorptl ofTbomllr and the Gosptl of Ptter. T his takes us up to a !Jour ten earl y Gospels; for s:1ke of discussion, let's So o ut o f all the e:.rly Christians who f.1ceer of them who responded 1'0 thei r situation by writing a Gospel was statistically insignificant. Fu rther, in rhe j ohannine <.'Ommunity specifica.lly, the Elder who wrote the
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epistles dealt with his theological crisis, the AntiChrists, by WTiting leuers that emphasized older community traditions and creeds; the Beloved Disciple (if not the same person as the Elder) apparently dealt with challenges by appealing to his 0 \\'11 "witness," his claimed association with the historicaljcsus. j ohn is the only j ohannine C hristian who we know for certain wrote a book about jesus. So even if the j ohannine churches were a relatively small community of, say, I ,500 people (20 percent of Stark's estimated 7,500), John's decisio n to write a Gospel in response to his challenging situation would be statistically insignificant even within his own immediate group. Because of this statistical insignificance, it is only with great difficulty that I have been able w explain, in the last eleven chapters, why J ohn responded to his challenges by WTiting a Gospel. I have argued that the unique challenge of the AntiChrists' charismatic memory-or at least J ohn's anticipation of the emergence of such a group--could be logically answered by a book about Jesus, and that john wrote his book because he was aware of the advantages of writing in such a dispute. Similarly, advocates of the developmental approach and proponents of the Signs Gospel need to explain why the hypothetical authors/editors who worked before John felt that a written Gospel was the logical way w respond to their situation, or why and how a new edition would be inherently better than the current one. They need, in other words, to answer the question, Why did all these people {re]write a Gospel? if they wish to get past the current impasse. T hird, I noted in an earlier chapter that history hooks continue to promote a rigid vision of the past, long after that vision has become obsolete and irrelevant. This attribute is 1>erhaps the most signi ficant difference between history books and living memories; living memory can change to meet the needs of new situations, but history books cannot. The history book will continue to proclaim irs version of things forever, even when its comenrs challenge current perspectives. Societies acknowledge this fa ct tacitly or explicitly through "book burnings," violent attempts to erase certain memories and ideas by destroying the texts that preseiVe them. An)' developmental theory must explain not only why and how multiple editions of the Gospel of John were produced, but also how each new editor (if there were more than one) rysumntically dtstroytd rotry copy ofprroious tditions so that tbtst tar/in- tditions could not challt ngt tbt ntw vUion. In my view, the effort requi red to produce a revision of a written document
in the first century would imply that the editor in question felt very, very strongly that the ideas promoted in the extant text were deficient. If the text was judged slightly deficient, it would be much easier to simply correct or paraphrase it in oral recitations-or, in extreme cases, to make written notes in the margin at key points-than to bother producing a new one. But if this
164
Postscript
new way of thinlcing was so different from earlier beliefs, and if the differences were so important as to justify a whole new edition of the sacred text, it is hard for me w imagine that an editor would be content to know that twenty copies of the old edition were sitting out in church libraries somewhere ready to challenge the new perspective. So long as these old copies existed, anyone with access to one of them could simply point out that "my Bible doesn't say that" or argue that the old way of thinlcing, still preserved with all its elements in ~:act, was better. Memory can replace the old way of thinking simpl y by ignoring it and saying something else, under the principle that the val ues of today reshape the image of the past in a way that makes it hard ro remember what the group wants ro forger. But new versions of a history book can't do that- the old edition still proclaims its view of things loud and clear. Once writing enters the tradition equation, it becomes necessary w explain exactly how the old way of thinking could be eliminared, which means explaining how someone in the Johannine community could destroy every copy of the version of the text that he sought to replace. This aspect of the problem relates to the interface between memory and community infrastrucrure, the question of who has the authoriry to change the way that a group thinKs about the past. At the time that the Johannine Epistles were written, the infrastrucrure of the Johannine chu rches had broken down to a point where the Elder, mustering all his authority, could not get Diotrephes to give his representatives a glass of water. This being the case, I wonder how he could persuade Diotrephes to hand over his obsolete edition of the Gospel of J ohn so that "the brothers" could burn it in his backyard? Of course, things may have been different at an earlier time, before the days of the AntiC hrist crisis, when the Johannine network was tighter and worked more smoothly. I leave it to those who advocate developmental theories to show that this was the case, and to describe theJohannine infrastrucru re at the point in time when the revisions they propose were introduced and the old versions destroyed. Again, I do not offer these points as a definitive refutation of rhe developmental approach, but only as observations about its limitations when viewed in the light of the interface between memory and writing in J ohn's situation.
JOHN AND JESUS Since the earliest days of the church, scholars have tended w view the Gospel of John as a christological treatise, admirable for its theological and liternry depth but less concerned with the Jesus of history than Matthew, Mark, or Luke. Thus Clement of Alexandria (fl. I90s CE) argued that J ohn, "knowing
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that the outward things had been set down in the [Synoptic! gospels . moved by the Spirit to create a spiritual gospel" (&d. flirt. 6. 14.7), and Suitmann assened in 1958 that "the Gospel o f j ohn cannot be taken into account at all as a source fo r the teaching of Jesus."6 Even John A. ' f. Robinson, who dedicated much of his career to the thesis that the Fourth Gospel "could take us as far back to source (: Jesus himself) as any other [Gospel]," admitted that John's presentation of his subject remains "the most [theologically] mature. " 1 But whether or not the Founh Gospel portrays the j esus of history accurately, John betrays a greater interest in a "historical j esus" than any other primitive Christian author. The Gospel of John was born out of a desire to
john, Memory, and History: Implications I. The Founh Gospel is an apologetic treatise, not an evangelistic tract.
2. The Fourth C'-.ospel that we have 10d ay is most likely the first, or at most the second, edition of that book. 3. John shows more interest in a "historical Jesus" than Matthew, Mark, Luke, or anyone else in his time period. portray j esus as a figure from the past and to keep him locked in that past, to draw a bold line between present C hristian experience and the L>vents of "the beginning," to suppress the living memory of j esus and replace that memory with a fixed image of a person who lived and died decades earlier. Tbe Jesus of the Fourth Gospel is an intentionally historical figure, one whose image is explicitly conftated with Christian faith and the jewish Scriptures, but whose memory is no longer solely dependent on the work of the Spirit and no longer subject to the vicissitudes of tradition and the needs of the moment. There is today, in Be::~consfield, England (some twenty-five miles northwest of London), a building made from wood supposedly taken from the MayfifJWrr, the ship thai carried the Pilgrims to the Uniled States and that plays such a prominent role in American lore about the first Th::~nksgiving. Legend has it th:lt the MttyjiiJWrr, a mean cargo vessel before and after its famous voyage, returned to England and was offered at auction in 1624 after the death of its master and pan owner, C hristopher Jones. The ship, in a state of ncar ruin, sold for a fraction of its potential v::~lue, and was broken \lp, sawn apan, and incorporated into a barn. Considerable debate surrounds this story, but the skepticism of historians has not diminished the thriving tourist trade around the Mayflower Barn (now a reception hall) on the site of the historicjordans Quaker community.
166
Postseript
Assuming for a moment that the legends are true (or C\'Ctl if they are not), one may imagine that an enterprising American might purchase this barn, dismantle it, and bring the resultant pile oflumbcr back to Boston. He could then point ro th is pile with pride and say, "That used to be the Mttyjluwrr." But the Pilgrims didn 't sail across the Atlantic Ocean on a pile of wood, and tourists wouldn't pay much to sec one. This same entrepreneur might therefore hire historians to recreate the original plans of the lvlayjlowrr and then rebuild the ship from those materials, re placing the boards that couldn't be found or were too rotten w usc and, of course, installing electric lighting and other conveniences essential to the tourist tra
M11yjlow(r. The A1nyflowo·was a product of its time, an inseparahle combination of raw materials and the ski ll and toil of the early-seventeenth-century British shipbuilders. \·Vhile the wood remains, the work and wisdom that gave that wood meaningful fo rm was lost four centuries :1go; it would, in
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tract early Christian interpretation and faith from the extant sources might produce a small pile of facto ids, it must be understood that any image ofj esus buih from those pieces would not be a "re-creation" but rnther an entirely new Jesus-a third phase, Frnnkenstein j esus, a j esus who might speak meaningfully to modem spi ritual tourists but who should not be confused with the person who lived in Galilee in the early first century. The Gospels, especially John's Gospel, will be most helpful in this restora· tion project when they are viewed as artifacts and relics rather than databases for a fo rensic memoryofJesus that never actually existed. john S Gospel invites us to lay our hand on the wa ll and meditate on the fact that some other per· son, twenty centuries ago, touched that same page; some person who lived not very long after j esus died and knew people who claimed to have known him; some person whose memory of J esus was, li ke ours, shaped w meet the needs of a personal crisis. And this person invites us now to remember jesus just the way he did, to see the object of our common interest through his own eyes. Thus, every time we read, john welcomes us back to our old table at that small cafe in Ephesus, and in that moment and in that way the Gospel of john becomes both memory and history. . this building has become the subject and the scene of many wi ld and extraordinary traditions. "One of them I have been enabled, by a personal acquaintance with an eye-wimess of the event.<>, w trace to irs origin; "and yet "it is hard to say whether the events which I am about to record appear more strange or improbable as seen through the diswrting medium of tradition, or in the appalling dimness of uncerta inty which surrounds the reality." - J. Sherid~n LeFanu, 'IN PurrrU P11pnr, IS
Abbreviations
AB IF:} JAAR
Anchor Bible lmul Expluration Joumal Journal of tb~ AmrriCJm Acadnny of Rt ligion
JS]
Journal for tbt Study ofJudaism in tht Pmian, Hdlrnistic, nnd R(ff!lan Prriodl
LCL N!Ci'.TT NIGTC
Loeb Classical Library New International Commentary on the New Testament New lmemarional G reek Testament Commentary Nn» Ttstamrnt Studiu Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Tcxte und Srudien zum Antikenjudentum Word Biblical Commentary
/VIS
SBLDS SBLMS TSAJ
WBC
169
Notes
l' rcscri)>t Gr:tham Sumon, "Form Critici~m Rc,·isitcd.w in lflbur tlf'l'llll rb~ .\'n;.· Ttsutmmr? I!.MIIJS 111 No11ollr ufChri1topbrr El'IIIIJ (London: SC\1 Pn.:ss, 197 5), I 6. l Ernst Kihcrnann, Tbr Trmunmr of]mlf: .4 St111~y of!IJr Gospd of]Qhn inthr Light ofChrspli'l' / 1, tr:tns. Gc rh;IT(] Krodd ( Phil~dclphia: Fortn."s, 1C)68), l l 3. Sec, for example, Leon r\ 14Jrris, Tbr Gosprltrccordinp; ro]oh11: Tbr fnghsh '/(xr ;::irh lnmNlrtCiirm. E.tpositiOII i/1111 .\'otrs, NICNT (Gr:md R:rpids: Ecrdmans, 1971). 8-30, H-40; D. A. C:mon. Tbr Gwpr/n(('fffJ/,groJob/1 (G rJn
Chapter I : \Vh}' Did J oh n Write a Gospel? I. T he n:tme ';John" will be usetlthroughmu this st udy to refer w th:n indil'idual 11 ho 1\JS 11rim3rily reS])QII)ihlc for the puhlication of the Fourth Cospcl 3S it exists toda). The term is synonymous here "ith the dt:!>i!(llJtton -the Fourth E••angdi~~.~ The m:Jsndine pronoun -he- •rill be used tu refer to dtis :unhor in agreement with the gender of the Engli~h n:nnc J ohn. 1. R. Abn Culpepper. Tb,• Gosprl111ul Lnrrr1 of]obn, Interpreting Bibli(.~tl ' IC .~ t ~ (Naslwillc: Abingtlon. 1998), 14. 3. Cul]>epper. 43-44. 4. Culjx:ppcr.H. 5. Culjx:pper,88-89. 6. CulflCI'Ix:r,58. 7. Culpcp]>er,58.
171
Notes
172
C hapter 2: Writi ng :u Archive I. David Lowenthal, Tbr Punlsal'orrign Country(Cambridgc: Cambridge Univcrsity Pn.-ss, 1985),252 . 2. Augustine, Thr ConjrJSiom 10.8.12, 10.9.16, in Thr Wor.b of St. Augtutinr: A Translatio11 frJr tbr 21st Crmury, tr.ms. Maria Boulding (New York: New City Press, 1997), 245, 247. Allb'llstinc 's L'0111p lctc discussion of memory covers Con[ti$irms 10.8.12- 10.19.28. 3. Augustine, 10.14.22, in lf'OrksofSt. Augustinr, 251. 4. Quote from Barbie Zelizcr, ~Reading the Pastabo:~inst the Grain: The Shape of h \emory Studies." Criti(o/ Smdirs in 1\lass Communirntirm 12 (1995): 218. 5. Paul Connerton, Hu:.~ Sodrtits Rrmrmfxr, Themes in the Soci~l Scicnco (Cambridge: Cambridge Unh·crsity Press, \989), l'!.. 6. Quote from James Fcutrcss ~nd Chris \Vickham, S«iul Mmt()ly, New Perspccth•es on the Past (Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1991), 8-9. 7. Zelizcr, 118. 8. Quote fmm David Lowcmhal, Prusrmd lry tbr Past: Tbr 1-/rritstgt Cnwtdr nml tbr SpoilsofHistGry (New York: Free Press, 1996), 107. 9. Plato, Pbtwlms 174-75. All citations of Pb11rdms arc from 1'/aro ;, '/Wrlvr VoiIIIIUS, tr.lns. Haroltl North Fowler, LCL (Carnhridgc,MA: Harvard Unil'ersity Press, 1982). Note that Fowler translates the phnse j.U>"l\l.TJ<; 4hflfJ.CIKOV as "elixir of memory." 10. Schnackenburg assens th~t Mno other can he intended" th an the Uclo\·ed Disciple, b~sed on both the immediate context ~ nd the simil~r reference ~~john 11:20-14 (Tbt GMptlurronli11g to St. ]oh11, trans. Kevin Smyth INcw York: Crossroad. 19871, 3.190). See also RudolfBultm~nn , Thr Gosptlof]ob11:A Commmtllry, trans. G. R. neasley·Murn y, R. \V. N. Hoore, and J. K. Riches (Phi ladelphia: \Vcsuninster, 197 1), 677-79: C. K. B~rren, TbrGospdummling to St. ]ob11: Alllntrodurriolll!."ith Commmwry and Nom on tbr Gruk Tfxt, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1978), 557-58; F. F. Bruce, Tbr Gosprl of John: lmrrNlllction, &:posirion,111111Nores(Gr.md Rapids: Ecrdmans, 1983), 376-77; D. A. Carson, The Gospel /lcronliiiK to Jolm (Gr.md Rapids: Ecrdmans, 1991), 615. II. C. 1-1. Dodd, Historilal 7i·adition i11 rbr Founb Gosprl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 14. See also Barrett, 557-58: Schn~ckcnburg, 3.190-9 1; Raymond E. Brown, Tbr Gosprl urrording to ]oh11: A Nro11 Trumlatirm v:itb lntrod1rnio11 1111d Crmmtrfllli'J, AB (Ga rden City, NY: Doublcd:1y, 1966, 19i0), 1.936-37. I 1. Carson, 616; see also Leon t\ I orris, who is more cautious in his CV3luation, Tbt GMptlllc«mming tiJ ]oh11: Tbt E11glisb 7i:.t"t n:ith llltrodllction, 1-:t"f!Olitiolt nnd Notrs, N ICNT (Gr.md Ra11ids: Eerdmans, 1971), 810-Zl. 13. Or, in terms of Carson's reading:~/ saw this happen, and now I am pulling the images of what I s:1w out of 111) br:1in and showing them to you.'' Still here, "memory" is underswod as rec-JI!, and the tcxr of the Fo urth Gospel is treated as a surrobrate mcmoryofemJliricalcxp-cricncc. 14. Brown, 1.1113. 15 . See discussion of the c:Jusal l'iew in Brown, 1. 1113, and Schnackenburg,
3.J7Z-H 16. Brttce, 376; Carson, 681-81; Morris, 880-8 1. Carson cxplai11S 11. Z3 by suggl:sting that "the circulating rtunor is making the rounds while the helo\·ed disciple is stillali\•e, but ath•:mcing in rears. and he is determined to stifle it ~swell ~she can for fcarofthe
17) n·turn'' (682). lf thi~ i~ the c:a~c. the" riltcn text "ould h:t•·c functioned :ts :t(Mf-
alld memory alnnf,"'idc the li"in!' mc t JHH')' of the Bclo•·cd Dis.cipk, the two form~ of 11 itnc'~ tllutuall)• supponing one :11101hcr. l i. Bmlln,l.lllCJ. 18. Schnad,;cnhurft'. 3.371. 19. Bulunnnn. 717. 10. lhrrcn. 583-84. *It i~ tube undcrsmud.w S!.:hnacl.:enburg: arb'IIC~. Mthat rhccdi\Ors [" ho :uldcd the com ment at 1-ihJ 11 am to draw upon hi~ [the Helm cd Di~ ciplc's] :tlllhorit) fur the "rittcn >~orl :ts 11cll, into which his or:tl tr:ulition :tnd testimonies h:ti'C l~t:~:n [lUI- (3 . .1i3). Buhmann :tlso argues dwtthc ctlitor who ad{blll :HU '>Ought "to 'ct the prc.>cm ["ri n cn] GOSJK:lundcr the authority ofthcoMcst "itncs,''wjcsu.>(716).
C hapt er 3: T he Pcrsis1cncc of J o hn's 1\ lemory I. See D. A. C:aNJn. Thr GMpd urrt1rdi11K ttJ ]111m ((;r.~nd Rapid ~: Ecrdmam, 199 1), I R1-83; Leon ,\ lorri~. Thr Gt~rprl tlmmlinK lfl Jt~bll: Thr E11K,IiJh '!txt ;;·lfh IIIWOtl!mioll, l!..t'(HJflliQIIII!IdXotn, NIC:"\'T(CrJnd Rapids: Ecrdtu:Ul~, 197 1),101-5. 1. In lb rreu·~ 11unl~, "During the rnini,try !of jesus) the clisciplc~, in ']lite ofdH:ir call ami their bcliefinJcsu~ ... under:.tuo:~tl hi~ words little more th:tn hb arl\'a~aries~ ('/Ju Gru{M'/ 11mmling to St. John: An lmnxlnction ;;·itb Comm,•mttry mul ,\'omrmtbt Gruk 71-:rt, 1nd ed. )Philadelphia: \\'l-stminstcr, 1978),101). \\'hilc John paniall~ ~lle•·iates this confu)ion at 16:19-30. l~arrett') l'Ornrnent ccrtainlyap]Jlieswthetlowofthc n:trrJti•catJohnl. 3. ,\ ]orris explain' that "they !the cro\\CI] thou!!ht of I lim a~ King in 3 wrong ~nse )at the time of the e•·ent]. After the glorification the tlisciple~ thou)!ht of I lim a~ King in :t right sense~ under the guiding in•ight uf the P:tr:tdetc (587-88).
4 .
{~:;;,:~~~·,!~ :~~~~~i;:~i:~ ;:~:~~;~r~~~~;:_:t <:;t~!P~~~~r~~t,:~i~~~~o~t~~~::·~i~~
IJCc-JUSC of hb l'Otlcern for God') hou-.c. Brown and Xhnackenburg hod1 rJisc this possihility hneAy hut do nnt gin~ 11 scriousconsiderJtion, nnd Barrcul-:alls it as "~ \CT}' str:tmctl interpret-ation~ hcc:tusc the cit:ttinn in ' '· I 7 seems tntcmled 111 e~phtinjc,us' ~7cgllizcd a~ domin:ttll themes in the Fourth G()'i;]k:l:.. Christology. For exte tl(lcil discussion~ of th ese motif< from •·arying methodologic:tl ]JCr~po.'Cttle<. sec llc rbcrt Le Roy, Rmsd mu/ .1/iss;•rrrtlftubw: F.m /Jr~tmg -;;.ur 1-'ormgrrthirbtr drs JQblwllm'l.'lllt/f.rlilfllll (Bonn: Peter I b nstein. I %11): R. Abn Culpe]lJ>Cr. AnllttJm_r of tbr Hmnb Gf.ISprl: .·/ Sllu~yin l.ucr11ry /)nign (Phihtdelphi:t: Fonress, 1983): G:1il R. O'Dar, Rrn-111tion iu tht• /<'Qnrtb Gosprl: N11mttiu ,\(Q(/r tmd Tb<"Oiogiml Cl111111 {Philadelphia Fonr(-ss. 1986): ' l(un Thatcher. Tht RuM/rsofJrsns in John:. I Swt~Y 111 '/hulillotl tmd r:olklt~IT. SBL.\IS (r\tbnta: Socict1 of BiiJlic:~l Liter.nure. 1000). (,, ,\nhu~ J. De11q•, ~The Ew"itnc~s of llt in the Founh G
174
Notes Spirit," in 71x Dirriom,yoj]ml.flllld thr CrOf/Kls. cd.jocl B. Gl'\:en, Scot McK ni ght,
and I. 1-!oy,-ard r\larshall (Downers GIU\·e, IL: lnterYarsity Press, 199Z), H l-5 1. 8. Is J ohn referring to j esus' return from the dead, or to J C$us' second coming, or docs he mean that J esus willlumc to his disciples in the fonn of the Spi rit? Brown equates the indwelling J>aradctc with j t:sus himself and transbtcs j ohn 14:1 8 as hi shall not leave you as orph:ms: I [as the Par.Jclcu.:J am co rning back to yo u," insisting that "not two presences but the same ]lrcscncc is involved~ (1.63 7, 640, 644-46; see also Rudolf Bulunarm, Thr Gosprl of] ohn: A Crmmtrtt1111], mms. G. R. Beasley-Murray, R. \V, N. lloarc,andj. K. Ri chc..-s [Philadelphia: \Vcsrminster, 197 1), 6 17- 18). Cuson, howe\·er, argues that "it is not at all dea r that J ohn e•·er spe~l.:s of th e coming of J esus in the Spirit.~ and conduiles en terre sa ime: Erudc de mCmoirccolkctive, 1941 edition] .
Cha pte r 4: \ Vritin g as Rh etoric I. Rosalind Thomas, Lirrrary and Orality i11 i lltrim t Gnrrr (Ca mbrid ge: Camhri{l ge Un i•·ersity Press, 1992). 74. 2. All citations of llerodorus ~re from the Loeb edition, tr:lns. A. D. GOOlcv . (Ca mbridge, MA: Han':lrd Un iversity Press, 1960). 3. The emergence of this trent! was highlighted in J ohn A T Ro binso n's landrii;Jrk 1957 paper, ~Tiie New Look on John~ (now pages 9+- 106 in Robinso n's 'IV:rlvr Nrw Tenammt Srmlirt [Lo ndon: SCM Press, 1962]), and it h3S re ma ined lhcrn:r.jorityviewevcr sinee. 4. \·Vil!i:r.m V. Ha rris, Anrimt l.irrmry (C~ rnbridge , MA: H al'\'ard University Press, 1989), 24; on urbani1.alion and literacy, 17; on ~'"::i l:r.bility of written materials. 14; on writin g an d eco nomicsplterns, 18- 19. 5. 1/arris, II , 15- 17, quote 15. 6. I brris, 13, 12. H :~rris notes that "nowhere, und er the Roman Em pire, was there ~ny elabor::r.tc network of schools" ( 17). Sec also Ann Ellis I !anson, ,.Ancicllt lllitCT:IC)'," in Litml(y itt tbt Rqma11 W9rld, ed. J . H . H umphrey, J ourn:JI of Rom :~n Arch:~cology Supplernent:ny Series (Ann Arbor: Uni•·crsity of 1\ l ichig:m , 1991 ), 159-98.
175 7. .\leir lhr- lbn, Mlllit<:r:l(:y in the Land oflsr:~d in the First Centuries C.E.. Min l!.ssHys 111 thr Social !Ximnfir Sr111lr o[Jmlamn tmtl Jr.::ish S«irry•, l'r:•l :treas, howc ..cr. litcrJl")' rates would be bduw 1 llCfl"C!II, and it is possible th:tt in some t<>"ns not one person could rcague Archacolo!>'}'," in Strrml R~tllm: ·l"hr Eumgmrr ofrhr SJIIIIfl,IJf!,llr in rbr .·l11rirnt I! Or/d, ed. Steven Fine j~e\1 \Ork: Oxford Unin~rsiry Prc~s. 1996[, 131). 9. All citations of Josephus's Agmnst Ap1011 arc from lhc Loch c1lition, trJn~. II . St.). ThackcrJy(Camhridgc, ,\ lA: llan·a rd Uni\"Crsi[)' Press. !9Mi). 10. Sec complete text with tr:msl:mon ~nd notes in Eric ,\ I. ,\\eyers, MAncicm Synagob•ue~: An Archa(-ologil~ll Introduction, in St,nT,f RMim: Tbr lf:tllt"'!(.riiU of tbr SJIIIIgtJgllt' 111 tbt" Anrimr II Orld.l). II. ;\II cit:nions of Philo) EmlwJSY ro G11ms arc from the Loeb edition, tl":ln~ . E 1I. Colson (Cambridge, 1\IA: 1i.1n·anl Uni•er.ity Press, 197 1). All cit':ltions of P hilo'~ Ufrof,\loJuarc from the Lation~ an1l assemble to li~tcn to the L:m and obtain a thorough and al-curltC knowledge of it"' (AJ(IIinst AptoJt 1.175). 13. All ("it.nions of Joscphus\]o-.:.·ifb If in· arc from the Loch edition, tl":lll). 11. St. J. Th~ ck<'l":l)' (C~m hridgc, o\\,\: l lan.1rd Uni•·crsity Press, 1961 ). 14. Sec the tc.ns of the letters ami critical notes in ""Jew) ofP~lc~tinc in the Zenon Papyri," in Co1pus l'ttpyrorum Jmlmmrtml, cd. Victnr Tchcriko•·cr ;md i\k~an dcr Fuks (Cambridge, o\lt\: l IJn·anl Uni.-cNity Pres:., 1957). 15 . '~1pcl Yadin, MThe J;:.~ llCdition tothcjudcan Desert, l96U: J;:.~j)Cdition D,"" II:.] 11 (1%1):-J0-50. lfi. ' igacl Yadin, ~The Exj>cditiun to thcJU(Ican Dl'SCft, 1961: l!..~ j)Cdition D,M ll:] 11 (1962): 131-35. critil'.ll edition of the l:hbatha Archhe ~Jl1lCa~ in Tin l>orru11mts fivm tbr /Jttr 1\o~·blw l'rl"lod 111 thr Cin•r of l..rttrrs; Grrr~· l',tpyri, .·tmm11ir mul Ntll'lltf/111 Sigmttrn"ts uml Sui'W"iptioiiS, cd. Naphmli Le\\ i~ (lcrusalcm: ll cbre\\ Uni.-cn.ity, 191-I'J). M
w
·nlC
176
Notes
17. Sec Yadin 1961,248-57. 18. The ancient jews' awareness of the social power of written texts is also evident in their attitudes toward public archives, official rqlOSitorics of sibrnilicant d<X:+ urnents. It seems that la te Second ' ICmplc Jcws, literate and illiterate, rcali7.cd that written texts filed in public archi\'CS were critical for leg-.1! protection and C\·cn, in some cases, for establishing personal identi ty and srarus. For discussion and documentation, sec Tom Th:uchcr, ~Litcn~cy, ' ICxtual Communities, and J ose phus' J=·isb IVttr,~ JSJ 29 (1998): 113-4! . 19. Mary Beard, "\Vriting ami Religion: Anciem Literacy and the Function of the \Vritten \Vord in Roman Religion," in Litrrncy in th~ Rr11111111 IVorld, 39. 10. See the balanced discussion in Joseph Fitzmeyer, Tbr Grupd tlctortling to Ltd·r, 2nd ed., All (G~rden City, NY: Doubleday, 198 1), 1.292. Luke app:1rendy means to give this impression even if he docs not thereby intend to disp:u'agc his preden:ssors. If, as Marshall and others have suggested, Luke acmallysccks to affirm the vali dity of these othe r authors, his l."Omrne ll lS would still fi.mC[ion to give his own :Jccoum a higher status: ~theirs was good, mine is better~ (sec I. Howanl M:1rshall, Tbe Gospel of Lukr: A Commemary 011 thr Gruk Trxt, NlGTC !Gr.~.nd Rapids: Ew.lmans, 1978], 40-43).
C ha]ltCr 5:John's Memory Framework 1. Maurice Halbwachs, Thr Collrcrivr !1'/rmory, trans. Fr:1ncisj. Ditter Jr. and Vi da Yazdi Ditter (New York: Ha rper & Row, 1980), 52. This transladon is based on the 1950 French edition of La mimoirr collmivr (Paris: Presses Uni,·ersitairesde France). 2. Maurice Halbwachs, On Collrrtivr Mrmory, cd . and tr:1ns. Lewis Coser (Chicago: U11ivcr:siryofChieJgo Press, 1992), 45. Pages4 1- 189 ofthisvolurnc arc selected translations from Thr S«itll Prlllllt"U'Orl:s of ll'fnll()l] !Les cadres sociaux de Ia mCmoire, 1952 c{lidon]; pages 193- 235 arc a t.T:l.nsbtion of the fina l challler of Thr Ll'gmd11ry '!Opogf"(lpby of tbr Holy Lttnd: A Study in f:ollrrtivr Mnnory ]La topographic ICgcndairc des Cv:~ ngil cs en terre saint e: Etude de mCmoire collective, 1941 edition). 3. Jlalbwachs 1980,56 4. Halbwachs 1992,60 5. l-lalhwachs 1992,38. 6. Halhwachs 1992,45. 7. Evi3tar Zcrub:1Vcl, Time Map;: Col/utive Mt'"lnwy tmd the S«ial Sh11pe oftbr Part (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 15- 25 . 8. lren~cus,AgninH Nerrsics 3.3.4; Eusebius, !!Ad. Hist. 3. 1.1 , 3.23 .3--J., 3.39.6. Sec discuss ion in Martin H engel, The Johtmnillt Qumion, tr:1ns. J ohn Bowden (Philadelphia: Ti-inity Press, 1989), 30-3 1. 9. O:IVid Rensberger, I John, 2 Jolm, 3 JQbn, Abingdon New Test"amcnt Comrnent"arics (Nashvi lle: Abingdon, 1997), 78. 10. See R~ymond Brown's c~hausti ve survey of possible backgrounds for the concept in Thr EpiHiesof]Qhn, AB (Garden City, NY: Doubleda y, 1982), 332- 36. II John Paimcr, "The Farewell Discourso.:s and the History of J ohann inc Christianity,~ "NTS 17 ( 1981): 53 1, 540--41.
Chapter 6: One Way Hack to Two Jllaccs I. David Rensberger, I ]Qhll. 2 John. 3 ]oh11, Abi ngdon New Testament Commentaries (Nashvil!o.:: Abingdon, 1997), 24. Sec also Ra ymond Brown, 7be
C()lltlllllllity of thr IJdovrd Disdplr: Thl' Ufr, l.oves, 11nd Hate$ of an Individual
177 Cb11rrh m,\'r.;· 'f(sttmtFtlt llmu(i':c" York: l'aulist Press. 1979), IJ!!-4.?; Gal"\' Burge, Tin A11oimrd Crmtmmmr: Tbr Jloly Spirit in thr ]obamu11r 'lhtditi~J;t (Grand 1-l.apids: EerJrn:ms, l9H7). .?lS-19.
!. Eric J[,,bshawm, ''Introduction: l1wcmingTraditions.~ in Tlu lmwlflollo['lhtditiull, cd. Eril· I lohsbaurn aml -li:rcncc lbngw. c~nto Edition (Cunbridgc: C:nnhrillgc University Prc5s, 1992), 1-2 . 1. N111c ,\Liri:mnc ,\k rc Thomp,nni. cautious appraisal, which rcncct.~ the current trend :111"3)' from the Gnn~til'S a' :m easy answer to the ;\ntiChrist t[uc~ tinn: ~] \V]hilc striking p:lrJIIcb can he 3ddu ccd between carl~· knmrn heresies .md the epistles of J ohn, none of thc'oC heresies pcrfl"(;tlr mirrors the fllse teachings of l and ! john~ (1- i ]ob11. 1\ 'P New '!Cst:unem Comment:try [Dm1neP.o Grove, IL: hu er\':mn~, 1991], 18; -.cc also Rensbergcr.ll- H ). 4. The term "countcnucrnon·~ 1~ den1cd from .\lkhel Fom.:auh. MZ'\' iert..sche, Gcncalo~.'r. :md ll istory.~ i~ LliiiJ(IIIIJ!,~. Coumrr.llrmory.l'mwrr, cd. Donal1l F. l!.ouchar1l. trans. Don:tld F. Bouchard and Shcrn• Simon (Ithaca, NY: Cnrncll Univcrsi t}' Pn..-ss. 19i7), 160. · 5. Rmlulf Schnackcnhurg, n,~ ]ob111mmr F.pistlrs: lntrwlurtion 11111/ Commrntmy. tr:tm. l
rn~ l'ic", I John 4:5 tluc~ nm cmnrJdictthis condusion. Spcdfil':llly. l t:lkc the statement, MTher [the AntiChrists] arc from the world: for this rca"'.m the}' 'peak from the 110rld and the "orld hc:1rs them"to be~ qualir:~tii'C c,·alu:nion of the current 'latus of the t\nuChri't' and their follo"ers, nl) .h oth er nonhclic,·ers. meml,ersof"lhe "urltl."
i. In
!:i:~~:;~~'~',,~~~~i~:'~/~~~~\~~~:;~1!~ r ~~~,;ee;l:~:::~l t~~~~i~~~~:i~~;~ls;~;l~ :~u~~~ii~:; 11
!!. 'J.
I 0. 11. 12.
13.
0
1
rcrnnrks:IIJOutlhciroriginsnl 2:19. FouL':lult.lirsttjUOtc 1-I+-45. :K."cnntl ,\1/'mQI'J [La IO]M>gmphie ICgerulaire de~ C1·angile, en terre s~ inte: Eturlc de mCmoire C
Chapter 7:Jcsus Now a nd T h e n I. ,\burice llalbwnehs. Q, Coll«m•r .lfrmorv, e Pre", IWi), 90-IJl, I]UOtc IJl. Pagt."'i 41 - IR9 of this 1olurnc :trc sclcned tf:lfl)Lttlum from Thr Stxud 1-'mmn:·orl.:s of.llrmoty
Notes
178
2.
3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.
(Lcs cadres sociau~ de Ia mCmoire, 1952 edition); pages 193-135 arc a transbtion of the final chapter of The trgendary 'foJWgrnpby ofthr Holy l.mtd: A Sr11dy i!' Co/lutivr Mmi(Jry (La topographic ICgcndairc 1lcs Cvangiles en terre sainte: Etude de mCrnoirc collective, \941 edition). l-lalbwachs's discussion of religious memory focuses almost exclusively on European church history and alludes to othe r faith systems only to contr-.JSt or highlight aspens of Christian thought. As such, while his remarks arc appropriate to the diocussion here, they may not entirely characterize the memory fnmcworks of other religions. 1-lalbwachs 1992,93- 100. 1-bli.Jwachs 1992,112- \3. H alUw:tchs 1992, 10(). All quotes 1-ialhw:tchs 1992,88. 1-lalhwachs 1992,88. 1-lalbwachs 1992, 103. H albw~chs 1992,1 15.
C hapter 8: AntiC hristian Mystk·al Me mory l. Sec the Our L1dy of the 1-lolr Spirit Center's Web site, www.olhsc.org. 2. Momc Leach, "Miracle at Cold Spring" (ShalT fnunwtiona/[1992]); cited here from the Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Center \ ·Veb site, www.olhsc.org. 3. All qumes Ahurice Halbwachs, On Collective /He111ory, ed. and trans. Lewis Coser (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 104, 106, 107. Pages -J.I - 189 of this volume arc selected tnu1slations from Tbr Srxinf FriWII'/}.)Qrks of Me111ory [Les cadres sociaux deb mCmoire, 1952 edition[; pages 193-235 are a translation of the final~.:hapter of Tht L.:p;mdtlry Topography of thr Holy Land: A Swdy in Collmivt Memol"y [La topographic lCgcndairc des Cvangilcs en terre sainte: Etude de mCrnoirc collectiH, 19-J.l edition]. -1- Halhwachs IW2, 106-7. 5. 1-lalbwachs IW1, 105, 11 0-ll. 6. l-lalbwachs 1992,105. 7. ]-]albwachs 1992, 111 - 12. 8. R. Alan Culpe pper, I John, 2 Jolm. 3 John, Kno.'i Prea~.:hing Guides (Atlanta: John Knm, 1985), 52 . 9. B:1rry Schwart·.-., ~social Change and CollcctiH Memory: The Democratization of George "\'ashington," AmrriwnSrKiologiwf Rroiew 56( 1991): 232. This theme permeates much of Schwartz's work. Sec also M ichael Schudson, "The Present in the Past Versus the P:1st in the P resent,~ Co-mm1wicarion 11 (1989): 107,1 12. C h apter 9: ''Evcrytl1 ing That Rises Must Converge" I. A.j. Hill, Under Pl"tSS/IIT: The Finlll Vo)'ilgeoftbrSulmlflrinr S-5 (New York: Free Press, 2002). Hill's very interesting book is not a study in social memory, ~nd my review here is not intended ~s a neb-ativc critique of his presentation. 2. Maurice Halbwachs, Thr Colfective Mmloty, trans. Francisj. Ditter Jr. and Vida Yazdi Ditter (New York: H arpe r & Row, 1980), 51. J. David Lowenthal, Possessrdlrytbe P11st: Tbr NrrilflgtCniSiuletwdtbeSpoilsofHirtory(Ncw York: Free Press, 1996), 120. -t. Lowentha11996, 120. 5. David Rensberger, I John, 2 Jobn, 3 John, Abingdon New 'l"Cstam ent Commentaries (Nashville: Abingdon, 1997), 2-J..
Notes 6.
8. 9. 10. 1I
12. 13.
14.
15 16. li.
179
1'~1ul Conncnon, 1/uw S()(irtier Rrnl<"lllbo•t·, T hemes in the Social Sciences (Cambridge: Cuubridgc Unil"crcsity Press, 1989), 19-20. Roy Rosenzweig and Da,•id Thelen. 7br Prrrmrroftbr P11st: / 'opul11r UurofllirIIJry in rlmeriran Ltfr (New York: Columbia Unin:rsity Press, 1998), 8-22. 68. lhrbic Zclizcr, " Rc:1ding the Pasl :1gains1 1hc G n1in: The Sh:1pc of t\l cmmy Studi..:s,"Cririra!Srurlioin ,\ ltmCommunirmion 12 (1995): Z!l Da,•id l .owcnthal. Tbr P11st ls 11 Fol"l'ign Coumry {Cambridge: C:unUridge Uni,·crsitl' Press. 1985). 208. ll:l lb~"'l<.:hs 1980, 86-8i. Eviat:lr Zcruban:l, Time tl lttpr: Cof/r(lirr t\ lrmo•Y unrl tbo· S()(illl Sb11pr oft he l'mt {Chic:tgo: Unil"crsityofC:hicago Press. 2003), 14--1;. Lowenthal 1985, 128-29. Sec discussion in Eviat:lr Zcruban·l. Tbr Fine Unt: M11hng Distinctions iu Em)'dlly l.ifr {Chicago: Un i,·ersiry of Chicago Press. 1')1)3), 2i-3l 1\ h uricc I blbw:~t·hs . On Collatirr ,\lrmot)', cd. and 11'.\nS. Lewis Coscr {Chkago: Universi1y of Chic:1go Press, 1')1).2), 212- 23. P:1ges -+ l-189 of this \"Oiume :Ire sclccte(] tr.msbtions from Tho· Sodttl fl"llmt'"1:•orks of !llemory [Lcs cadres SO<:i:lu.x de Ia mCmoirc. 1951 edition!; p:1ges 193-235 arc a translation of the fin:d ch:1pter of'IIJr Lrgmd11ry TOpow·,tpl~y cftbf Ho6• Lt111d: A Swdy it! Collarh·r t\!rnwl)' {Lltopogr.lphie ICgembirc
C hapter 10: Ue yo nd the Scope of the P rese nt Study I
Roy Rosenzweig and O:J,·id T helen. Tbr Prrrrnrr o/tbo• Pmt: Popular UJ<"J ofl lisrmyinAmerimn/.tfr(New York: Columbia Uni,·ers iry Press. 1998), 37-38. Yoscf I layim Yaushalmi, 7.Jt1·bor: Jo~.:·isb llistmy 11nd ]rJ·isb ,\ frmorv (New York:
' Sd10ckcn Books, 1989), 95 3. First quote ,\ Ia urice 1 b lhwaehs, Tb,·Col/nth•r .- llmtOI)', trans. Fr:mcis J . Di ner Jr. ami Vid:1 Y;rt.di Ditter (New York: l l:irpcr & Row, 1980), 84; secmHl quote David Lowcnthal, Possrsml f')·tbr Purr: Tbr I il"rir11gr Cnmulr 11111ltbe Spoilsofl-lisrmy(New York: Free Press, 1996). 11. 4. 1-lalbwKhs 1980,83; Yerush:dmi 9-l-95, 11-+. Roland lhrthes, ll 'riring Dcwrr Zt:ro, trans. Anncne L:wcrs :md Cui in Smith {London: J onath:m Cap•:. 196i), ;4. 6. Eviatar Zcrub:l\"cl, Tbr Pinr Lim': .lluking Distinrrionsiu E<•tt)"dt~\' Ltfi"(Chicago· UnivenityofChic:lgo Press, 1993 ), I. i. E. Zcn,lu"cl1993 . 3 8. Evht:lr Ze rub3,·el, Timr ,\Jups: Collrrtin ,\lrmory tmd rbr Socittl Sbttpe of tbr P11st (Chic:1go: Un i"ersity of Chicago Press, 2003), !H--85; sec also Yacl Zerub:l\'cl. Ruorrrrd Roots: Cof/rail"r ,\ /rmory 111ultbr .\ l11king of lsnuli NtuioJI{t/ 'flmlition
(Chic:1go: Un i\'ersiryofChicago Press, 1995), 8. 9. YcnJsh:Jimi, 11. 10. Sec discussion in Da,·id Lowenthal, Tbt l'tlSt Is 11 Fordg11 Co1mt•y (C:Jmbridgc: Cambridge Unil"crsity Press, 1985), 218; S1cph~n Owen, Rrmmdmmrcs: Tbr El·prrimrroftbe l'mt in Cltmiml Cbiu,•s•·l.it<'rlllltn" (Cnnbridgc, 1\IA: ll arv:~rd
II.
~~,:~:~~:~1;·1 1;;~';: ~;~:{':.3-54.
103-4
No res
ISO 12 Lowcnthal1985, 134. 13. Y. Zerubavcl,221
H
E. Zcrubavcl 2003, 93- 97.
15. Sec E. ZcruU:wcll99J, 12- \3; Y. Zcruhavcl, 221. 16. Pbw, f>h11edr11s 275. All cimtions of Pbaedrus arc from /'faro in Tu.•elve Volumes, tr;ms. Harold North Fowler, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Han•ard University Prcss,l982). 17. Y.Zcrubavcl,84-95, 147-77. 18. E. Zcrubavcl 2003, 34. Zcrulnvcl uses this an alogy to describe a " rib.-jd" mode of thinking bm
C hapter II: Why John Wrote a Gospel 1. If the comment at J ohn 2 1:25 was added by a later editor (i.e. , a person other d1a n john), this would sim ply illusuate the extent to which john 's disciples continued to tlepcnd on the notion of a limited data pool in their ongoing debates over j esus' identity. 2. Rux Martin, ~Truth, Power, Self: An Inte rview with Michel Foucault (October 25, 1982)," in 'lhbllologiesoftbr Self, e{l. Luther 1-1. Martin, H uck Gu tman, and Patrick 1-1. H utton (Amherst , MA: Uni1•ersiry of Massachusetts Press. 1988), II.
J. 1\burice 1-l albwachs, Tbr Collrctivr Mrmory, trans. Francis). Diner Jr. and Vida Yazdi D itter (New York: 1-larper & Row, 1980), 78.
Postscript 1. For the view that the Fourth Gospel is primarily an evangelistic document. sec C. H. Dodd, Tbr fmrrprrtation of tbr Fourrh Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni\"ersity Press, 1953), 9; Leon J'v lorris, Thr Go1pelaaordiug to John: Thr English "fi:.\ ·tu:ith /ntrodt•ction, Exposition (llld Nom (Gr:.~nd Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), 39-40. For the 1•icw that the Fourth Gospel is primarily an apologetic document, sec Robert Kysar,](l/)11: Tbr 1'l-hrvn"irk Gospel (Atlanta: J ohn Knox, 1976), 17; RmlolfS..:hnackenburg, Tbr Gospel (l{((m/ing to St.John, trans. Kevin Smyth (l\1ew York: Crossroad, 1987), 3.338-39. For the view that the Fourth G ospel was intended to se rve both Cl'angdistic and apologetic purposes, sec C. K. Barrett, T br Gospel 11rrording to St. John: lin lmrodurrionv:ith Crmmrmt11ry ruu/ Notes on tllf Grrrk "lh-1, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: \-\'estminster, 1978), 26, 575; Rudolf Bultmann , The Gorpdo!Jolm: A Cummnl/il'), tmns. G. R. Bea5ley- Murray, R. W. N. Hoare, and J. K. Riches (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971), 698- 99. 2. Kys~r, 17. 3. Milestone studies in the evolution of the developmental :1pproach include J. Louis MHtyn's 1-listOt)' ami Tbrology in tbr Founb Gospt'l (1968; 2nd ed.,
;'\'otcs
181
Nashville: Ahingdon, I'Ji9); R. Alan CultM:III"H.:ri. Tbr Jobmmmr Srbool: 1111
fwlrwtiou of tbr Jobrnmiur-Scbool l/yp01brris ll11ml
011 1111
/u ~·••ftigmiou
of tb•·
M1111rr of:'llldc/11 Srbools, SllLDS (,\li~wula, ,\IT: Schobr~ Press, 1975): Raymond Brown's Tbr Community of tbr llrlol"td Disriplr: Tbr l.ift, l.o~·rf, tnu/ I f1111"S oftm lmlil:i•lmd Church 111 Xr.:: "Ust11mml 7imrs(New York: P:mli~t. 19i9); :uul
John
Painter~
Tbr Qum for rbr .1/rsst.~b: Tbr 1/urory. I.Jtrr.mwr. ttml Thrologr of
rhr Johunninr Commmury, 2nd cd. (:\"a)h\ille: Abingdon, 1993). -4. R. Abn Cul[ll:[l[ll:r, Tbr Gorpflmull~lfrrs ofJohn, Interpreting Bihli~"":.ll "lt:xts (Nash\•illc: ;\bingdon, 1998), 5~. Rodney Stark, Risr oj"Cbristitunzw llrnt tbt• ObsmtY. 1\/m~iwd Jmts .\lorr-
n,r
m,•mllrmmrtbrDomitwmRrlht,iousl:onrwtbrll'rst.,.,.,/Vorldiulll:n:·G·uwrirs (San Fr.mci!>Co: I la rperSlnFr~nci-.c.:o. 1997), -4--13. 6. Rudolf l\ulm1ann, ]rms tmd thr lfiml, tran~. Louise Pettibone Smith and Enuinie ll umrc~s L:uuero (;\;e" York: Scrilmers, 1958). 11. i. Jolm i\ . T Robmson, Tbr Prionry of]olm. ed. j. E Coakle~· (l..nmlon: SC.\1. 19S5),1 1-11.19S,H2.
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Index
AruiChri~ts,4.
5, 33-H, 4!!-49, 6 1, M-6-1,65-68.69. i l-75, 79-8 1, S3-84. 85-87,9 1- 92. ')8-9'). 100- 102, 106-7. Ill, ll'J. 111- 1-1. 115,138.140.142.145.1-16. 150. 154,157, 158-59, 161. 163,16-1. 177n.7 t\ugu~tinc,ll,lil n.!, ! 71 n.3
n.S, 174 n.HI, 174 n.ll, 17fo n.lO.
176n. l, 181 n.l F. F., 171 n.IO. 171 n.lfi, IH n.9 Hultmann, Rudolf, 165, 171 n.JO, l iJ n.l?.lHn.:W. IHn.8.174n.10. 177 n.5, 18 1 n.l. IHI n.6 Blll·gc,Gary, l7i n.l (c h.6) Hur\.:c, Pctcr.l80n.20 Burldn, Ann, 77-78. 177 n.IO, 17 7 n.ll l~nK'\:.
lhloath~archi•c,42.1i5 n.lfl lhr· ll:m, .\lc::ir,-Hl.l75 n.7 ltrrrctt, C. K.,!O, 172 n.IO, 17:? n.ll. 173 n.20(ch. 2), 173 n.l (ch ..1), l i3 n.4(ch. 3). 174 n.S, 174 n.IO, 180 n.l (J)IISIS<Tipt) Banhn. Robnd, llil- 29, 179n.5 (ch. 10) Bean!. \hry. I 76 n.l') BclmeU Disciple. \:1'-~'l'i, 5. H. li. IR-20. H-!5.18, .J.3 • .J.5-4b, .J.f!. •JO. ?9. 101, 160, 163. 171 n.IO, 172 n.l6, 173 n.20 l ~ouL:of ,\lormon, 161 lirnwn. Ra ymmul E .. l'). 81. 171 n.ll, 17! n.I.J.. 172 n.l5. 173 n.l7 (eh. !). li3nA(ch.3).li3n.7(ch.3),1H
Crr"S(m, D. A.. 17, 171 nJ (prc!>Cript), 171 n.IO, 172 n.l!, 172 n.tJ, li! n.l6. 173 n.l, 174 n.S C~•·c .. fl.cucr;,.J.2 Cerimhus. 7! Ci\1l \\'3r(Amcrie.1n). l H- 17, IH, HI Clement of~Aicx~ndria, ~;;. 16-1-()5 colb:lil'e memory. Sloe mrm()ry:ro/INm •r1Jwit1l Cullq;c of ,\\t. St. J o~cph, ~·iii, 151 - 53 <:,onncrtun, Pau l, 113 , 17! n.5, 17'J n.O (ch. 9), lROn.I'J Cun~titution, U.S .. l.J.l-4! coumermcmorr. Sec mrm()ry; roumrr-
\89
mrmary
lndcx
190
Culpepper, R. Alan, S, 7-8, 14, 99, 161, 171 n.2(ch.l), 17 1 nJ(ch. l), l 7 1 n.4(ch.l), 171n .5, 17 ln .6, 17 1
n. 7, 173 n.5,1 78 n.S(ch.8), t81 rd , l 8 1n.4
degree zero writing, 127- 19, 141 dcl•cloprnc nt-al approach,}, 159-64, 180
nJ (poslSCript) DcwC)'.Arthur J., Jl, 173 n.6 digiral mode of thought, 137-38 Diotrcphcs, 64, 74, 83, 86, ?9, Ill, 140,
159, 164 73 Dodd, C. I-I ., 172 n.ll, ISO n.l (pos tscri pt) dob'ln~ti c memory. Sec 1111"/llory: li~l'lllllfic Doccti~m,
effective history, 76-77 Elder, the, X\', 33-H, 6 1, 62, 63-64, 6+-67, 74, 86,9 1- 92, Il l , 162-63, IM
Euscbius, 16, -+6, 164--65, 176 n.S li S, 120, 121, 171 n. 6, l 79 n.1 5, 17? n.1 7 Fi t·Mncyc r, J oscph, 176 n. 20 folk stories, 120-21 Fortn~. Robcn, 171 n.4 (prescript) Fom:ault, M ichel. 76-77, \53, 177 n.4. 177 n.8, 177 n.9 frameworks of memory. See mrmory: Fc n trcss, J ~mcs,
frsmtro.·orks French Rc\·olution, I H gene~ logical history. Sec tff'rcth•r birtoty Gnostidsm, 72-73,74, 75,80,97, 177 nJ Goodm~n, Martin, 40, 175 n.S Gospdof j ohn :lS:I]JOiogy, 158-59 ~uthorship of, n ·-xvii, 3, 18- 10, 159--64 historical backgrou nd, 61--68, 69,
7Z-73, H-75, 79-80, 71, 83, 85-86, 99-1 01, 106, Il l, 11 2, 119, Ill, 143 mcmory[heory. Scemm10ry: Jobsm-
llillttbroryof purpose, 4-9, 14, 16- 18,20,23, 31-33, H-36, 37- 39, 43-46, 46-48, 66-67, 80-8 \ , 83, 99, Ill , 11 9, 115, 145,146-47,149, \ 50, 151. 153-55, 157, I SS-59, 160, 16 1, 161.165, 172 n.l6, 180 n.l (postscript) written sources of, xvi- x\ii, 3, H. 161, 163,17 1 n..t(prescript) Gospel of Luke, Prologue (Luke 1:1-4), 44, 46, 90, 158, 176 n.20 Gullett, Don , 145-46 Halbwachs, J\hurice, xiii, 56-57, 58, 60, 78-79,80,87, 89, 93, 95, 98, 109, 118,126,174 n. l l, 176n. l , 176 n.!, 176 nJ, 176 n.4, 176 n.5, 176 n.6, 177 n.ll, 177 n.13, 177 n. l (ch. 7), 178nJ(ch. 7), 178 n.4 (ch. 7), 178n.5(ch. 7), 178 n.6(ch. 7), 178 n.7 (ch. 7), 178n.8(ch.7), 178 n.9 (ch. 7), J78 n.3(ch. 8), l 78 n.4 (ch. 8), 178 n. 5 (ch. 8), 178 n.6(ch. 8), 178 n.7(ch. 8), 178 n.2(ch.9), 179 n.IO, 179n. l4, 179 n.3 (ch. 10), 179 n.4(ch. 10), 180n.3 (ch. II ) Hanson . Ann EIIis. IHn.6 I larris, William V., 39-40, 174 n . 4, 174 n.5, 174 n.6 llenb'CI,Martin,J76n.8 H crodotus,38, 174 n. l l lc7..ser,Catherine, 175 n. 7 H ill, A. J., 108-9, 116-27, 178 n.l (ch. 9) Hinn, Benny, 97 historical consciousncss,xi,xiii hiswric.JI objecrivicy. Secbistorybooks:
objmiviry history books, 76-77, 124, 125, 143 fixed content o f, 83, 102, 11 2, 134-39, 145, 147-49, 150-5 1,163-64,180 n. IS
Index objectivity, 116--27,119-3 1.134 1mhlic n:nurc of, 116-17, 129- 31, 146--17, 151. 151- 5-1 history of effect.~. Sec cj)~rtil·tbistory 1/ol~ba\\·m, Eric, I 7i n.1 1\oly Spirit, 13, 31-H. H-36, 37, 48. H. M-66, 68. 69, 71, 80, 83,90-91, 1JS, 99, 100, 101, 101. 105, IO(J, 107. 111. 119, 111. 146--47, 149, 154-55. 174n.8,174n.ll lgnltius. 73 illitcr.tcy. S<."elitmuy imcntionoftndition, 71-73, i4 lrcn:tcus,72, 176 n.8 J c~us
tndition. Sec rr.ulitio11 ~Jc"s~ (in the Founh Gospel). 2-1. 15. 35, 6 1,61--63,64,69.74. 83, 101-1. 150, 158 Joh:mninc <."Ouununity, 3, 5-6, 7, 86, Ill. I 19, 151, 160, 162--ti3,16-l J n~cphus, 40, -11--12, 175 n.IJ, 175 n.l 2. l ?;n. 13 !Ciscm:mn. Ernst. xiii. 17 1 n.1 (pre.;cri pt) Kelber, \ \'crncr, ix-x t.:: ing, ,\l:trtm Luther. Jr.. 114, 116--17 Ku Klux Kbn, 77 K11akuAnansi,110-1 1 Krsar, Rohcrt, 159, 180 n.J (]M)Stscript), 180n.1(JM)Stscript) landmarh. St:cmrmory:lllmlmllrh ~~""111110\\"C TS, jl)
Lc F:mu, J ~ep h Sherid~n. 167 LeRoy, 1\crbcrt, 173 n.5 litcn•q•, 39--10, -12-43, 105, 139--10, 1-11. 153, 155. 158-59. 161.174 n.4. 17-1 n.6, 17 S n.i. Iii n.8. 175 11. 12 Lo"cmhal. ]);wid. 14 1. 17! n.l, 172 n.8, 178 n.3(ch.9). 17R nA (ch.9), 179 n.IJ. 17'J n.12, 179n.3 (ch. 10), 179
19 1
n.IO(ch. 10), 179n.l 1 (ch. 10), ISO n.l2, lfl0n.l9, !80 n.B, 1fl0n .2-l Luke's Prologue (Luke 1:1--1). Sec GOJpt'/Q[ Lul:t: f'rolugur
Lunkcn Airpon Pbrficld. 131 - 32 ,\\alcolm X, 116--li ,\\arcion, 151 ,\\ar~hall, 1. 11oward, 176 n.20 ,\l.1rtin, Ru .~. 180 n.Z ,\\nrt yn, J. Louis, 63, ISO n.3 (I M~tM:ript) .\li~rjl~·rr, 165-66 collccti\dsocia1, .~iii-xi\•,.nii,56--60.
61,78-79, 107- 1 I, 112, 11 9, 120- 21, 123, 116-27. l!<J, 130, 133. IH. 162 . 163-()4 coumcrmcmory, 71, 73,75-80,84,86, 95- 96, 98. 100, 107, I ii n.-1 do~m~tic. 80, 87-91, 95- 96. 98-9'), 100,\0 1, 106 fr:llllC\IO rh, 60. 61, 61-63, 64. 6!1, il. 7 3-75, 76. 80. 83, 114-86, !\')- 90. 97. 110. 127.129-30.l32 .1 ·n. l47 influenced by history IICMJb, 138-39 Joh.mninc theory of, 20, B-31, 34-36, H. 69-7 1. 80-81,90-91, ')8- 99, I 00, 105, I ll, 146, 165 l:mdmark~. 11 8-19 mrqk:ll, flO . 87-88. 91, 93, 95 -99, 100.112 organization of. I 13- 18, 11 9. 113, ll.!-3-1.135 J>crson~l. 55-H. 58 asrcc:tllofcx1M:ricncc,l l- 11,10,13, 29-30.31 -32 , 34-3), 77 , 172 11.13 rcligiou,, 78- 79, 84-!-!5, 1711n. 2 (ch 7) symJiathctic audience, 120--!2, 123, 116, 146, 151 ,\lc)CN, Fric .\1 .. 175 n. IO misundcrot~nding(as a literary dc,·icc). 35, 173 n.5 mncmunicdccapiratiun, 135
192
l.n dcx
Morris, Leon, 171 n.3 (prescript), 171 n.\2,17!n.l6,173n.l,l73n.3, 174 n.S, I SOn.! (postscript) mysricalmcmol)'· Scc1/IC'IIIOry: mystiml narrative, 134-35, 136,143, 149,150-51 Norwood, Ohio, 54-55,93- 94, 1-1-9-50 objectivity. Sec bistorybool:s: o/Jjrcrivi~y O'Day,GailR., l73n.5 onltr:ulition. Scctmdition Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Center, 93- 95,97, 149, 178n.l (ch. 8), 178 n.l(ch.S) Owen, Stephen, 179n. IU (ch. IO) Painter, John. 67--68, 176 n.ll, 177 n.6, l81n.3 Papias, 16 Paradctc. Sec Holy Spirit Paul (Apostle), 19, 32, 41, 6 1, 79, 85,87 pcriodization, 132-33, 133-34, 135, 136-37, 138- 39, 142,147, 150-51 Peter (Apostle), 4, 16, 18, 87, 160 Philo,41, 175 n.ll Plato, 104,1 36,172 n.9, 180n.l6 Professor/Pastor ' !Om, 147-49 progress narrative, 116-17 religious memory. Sec mrmory: n·ligious Rensberger, David, 63-64, 7 1, 1 I I, 174 n.ll , 176n.9, 176n.l (ch . 6), 177 nJ, 177 n.6, 178 n.5 (ch. 9) Robinson, J ohn A. T., 165, 174n.3, 18 1 n.7 Roscn1;wcig, Roy, 179 n.7 (eh. 9), 179 n.l, 180n.22 S-) Submarine, 108- 10, 126-27 Schnad:cnhurg, Rudolf, 32, 74, 172 n.IO, 172 n.ll, 172 r1.1 5, 173 n. l 8 (ch. 2), 173 n.20(eh.2),173n.4(eh. 3), 174 n.IO, 174 n.11, 177 n.S, 180 n.l(j>OStsc ript) Schudson,Michael,l78n.9(ch.8)
Schwartz, Barry, 101, 178 n.9 (ch. 8) Shinan, A\~gdor, 175 n.8 Signs Gospel. Sec Gosprl oJJohn: 'U >rittm S0 /1/WIOj
Smalley, Stephen, 177 n.6 social memory. See mrmory:
collcrtiue!SO
' ICI Hai, 136-37 1Crnp1c lncirlcm , 2+-27, 28-29, 173 n.l, 173 n.4 Th:u<.:hcr,-IOm, 173 n.5, 176n.l 8 Thelen, David, 179n.7(ch.9), 179n.l, 180n .22 Thc()(loruslnscription,40 Thcophilus,44,4fo Thom:ls(Apostlc), 11 9, 157 Thomas, Rosalind, 3 7, 174 n.l Thompson,Mari:mncMcye, 177n.3 tum l past, 126 trad ition, x, xi-xii, ~iii, ~iv, xv, xvi- xvii, 3, 4, 5-6, 11 , 12- 14, 15,20, 23,30-32, 33-34,36,37, 40, 44, 45, 46, 53, 68, 74-75, 79,89,91,99, 100,10 1, 11)9- 11, 119,120-21,122-24,133, 149, 150, ISS, 161 '1Ti umpha1 Entry,27,28-29, 173 n.3 Turncr,Max,173n.7 virtucsofvab'\rcncss, 140-42, 145, 151-54,161 VisionarySand)•,93-95 , 96 w:nershcds. Sec pn"iodiuuion \Vickharn,Chris, 11 8, 110,12 1, 172n. 6, 179n.15, 179n.l7 "thcworld''(in thc j ohannine Lircraturc), 6 1-62, 63, 64, 66, 69- 71, 74, 83, 101 -1,158
Index Wounded Knce .\hssa~:rc,l12 - 1 5,1H writing 3S :1rd1ivc, 1+-16, 18-20,23,35-36, Ji-38. 43--46.48.53, 76-7i, 10-t 105, 140, 145,153 )rmOOiic •-aluc, 37-39. -+0-43. 43-46, .f8, B. 99, 105-6, 132, 1-fO-·H, l.f5. 150, 153-5-1 . 158-59, t;S n.8, In 11.18 XnicrUniwrsity. 152 Yadin. ' 'ibrad, J;j n. l 5, H5 n.l6, ];6 n.l7 Ycrush3lmi. Yoscf11arim. 111, 179 n.2, 179n.4(ch.10),179n.9 (dl.10)
\93
Zdiwr, lbrhic, 171 nA, 1i2 n.i, 179n.8 (ch.9), 179n.16 Zenon l':! p)'ri.42, 175 n.1-f zrrodt:_!t"TCC. SccJrwl'r::.t"I"O':l'rlfillg Zcruha•·d, E•iatar.l16, 132, 133, 135, 137, 176n.7, 179n. l1. 179 n.l3. 179n.6(ch. 10), 179n.7(cll.10), 179n.8(ch. 10), 180n.l.f, 180 n.l5, 180n.l8, 11:10n.21 Zcruba•cl, Yael. 136-3 7, I 79 11.8 (ch. 10). J80n.l3. J80n.15, 11:10n.l7 Zion Church, 5+-58. 60
"Tom ll1atche r effertively rewrites riTe agemfa for fhc study of the Gospel of John for th• next decade. Dotted with diabrrams, drawings. and numerous conte mJ>Orary examples Thatcher carefully leads readers into new and unexplored territory. He works with contem porary ideas of social memor y and builds on the thesis that we discover the fourth evan gelist's message in oral rather than written form. He presents us with new understandinrr. of history and of the purpose of the Gospel of John. w
- Rolx:rt K!Js.ar, ~,.;md!J PmfesSOt" L mentus of Pre.:~h1n~
and New Te st.:une nt , L lllOf"_Y Um\"e f"Stt~
1llis may be the fi rst treatment of the Fourth Gospel that takes into account its predomi nantly oral communication e nvironment. In a carefully crafted argument. lllatcher use! Maurice Halbwachs's suggestive reflections on social memor y to develop a series o provocative speculations about what led from j ohan nine tradition to a writte n Gospel. Thi! book is sure to stir up some rethinking of the relation between the composition of J ohn'! Gospel and the social memory of the Johannine community in which it was embedded .H
- K oc.h<~rd A. Hc:>r.51e!J, Dtston.~..ashed Profe.sSOt" of Ltlx:ra! Art: ;:mel the S tud!J <>f Kdt~on , Untverstt!J o f Ma,.xhusetts ~tOf
HReject.ing a lengthy developmental composition histor y, lltatcher confronts the text-am us-with the fundamental question: why did John write. and write this kind of Gospel Unsettling in the best possible sense, this book offers a new point of departure for Johannint studies. It is my hope that the new perspectives 'll1atcher has introduced will initiate a gen uine reevaluation of our thinking about one of the most intriguing texts in early Christianity.·
- Werner H . Ke llx:r, tsb C mull and Pe rc9 t:. Tume Professor L.mentus o f 5 ,bloc.a! S tudte..o;, Ku:e Umver.st t~
N
ineteen hundred years ago, soml'
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