John 01: Logos, Johnny B, and Sitting Under a Tree
The Gospel of John opens like a thunderclap, framing Jesus not as merely a teacher or miracle worker but as the eternal Word who was with God and is God. That starting point alters everything about how we read the rest of the narrative, because it means we are not tracking a biography; we’re tracing revelation. John’s stated purpose is crystal clear: these things are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in His name. That conviction shapes John’s choices—seven carefully selected signs, seven “I Am” statements, and a prologue that reaches back to Genesis to declare that the Word created all things and the darkness cannot overcome the light. In a culture that reduces Jesus to an inspiring moralist, John insists on divinity, eternity, and lordship. This recalibration matters for seekers and seasoned believers alike, because a merely admirable Jesus can be ignored, but a divine Jesus demands a response.
John’s prologue is a masterpiece of theology and poetry. “In the beginning” signals more than a literary flourish—it anchors Jesus in the eternal counsel of God, co-equal yet distinct from the Father and the Spirit. John chooses the Greek term logos to bridge Hebrew revelation and Greek thought: the Word as God’s self-expression, the rational principle behind creation, the living voice that speaks light into darkness. By identifying Jesus as the Logos made flesh, John makes an audacious claim about incarnation: the invisible has become visible, the infinite has entered time, and grace and truth have moved into the neighborhood. This is not a downgrade of deity into humanity but an unveiling—full divinity housed in true humanity. That is why John can say that no one has ever seen God, but the unique Son, who is Himself God and near the Father’s heart, has made Him known. The implication for the reader is profound: to know Jesus is to see the heart of God, and to trust Him is to receive life that darkness cannot extinguish.
John the Baptist steps onto this stage not as a rival but as a witness. His role is to point, prepare, and then disappear. When pressed about his identity, he denies messianic titles and cites Isaiah: a voice in the wilderness, clearing a path for the Lord. His baptizing work functions both as repentance preparation and as the divine setup to identify the Messiah by the descent of the Spirit. When he finally sees Jesus and declares, “Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” John fuses Passover imagery with the mission of Christ. This lamb is not a symbol but a person, not a ritual but a redeemer. The Spirit’s descent confirms heaven’s verdict: Jesus is the chosen one. The theological weight here is immense. Sin is not denied or minimized; it is named and then answered. In a world with sophisticated ways to avoid guilt and pain, John places a cross-shaped solution at the center and invites us to watch as the Lamb bears away the world’s deepest ache.
The first disciples model a pathway that feels disarmingly simple: hear a witness, follow the hint, ask where He dwells, and accept the invitation to “come and see.” Andrew brings his brother Simon, and Jesus immediately renames him Peter, signaling a new identity and vocation. Philip brings Nathanael, who begins with skepticism—“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”—and ends with confession—“You are the Son of God, the King of Israel.” The turning point for Nathanael is not a polished argument but the startling realization that Jesus saw him before he was seen. This pattern repeats through John’s narrative: Jesus knows, calls, and redefines; people encounter, wrestle, and respond. Evangelism here is intensely relational and personal. It is less about closing a debate and more about opening space to behold. That is why “come and see” is such a powerful refrain; it invites experience, not just assent, and it anticipates transformation, not just agreement.
At the heart of John’s strategy are seven signs that reveal glory and seven “I Am” declarations that clarify identity. Each sign functions like a window into the divine nature: water to wine reveals creative joy; healing from a distance shows sovereign authority; feeding the multitudes unveils provision; walking on water displays mastery over chaos; giving sight to the blind exposes true light; raising Lazarus announces dominion over death. The “I Am” statements interpret these works: Bread of Life, Light of the World, Door, Good Shepherd, Resurrection and Life, Way Truth and Life, True Vine. Together they form a mosaic that refuses to let us domesticate Jesus. He is not an accessory to a good life; He is the Life. He is not a motivational speaker; He is the Way. He is not spiritual seasoning; He is the Bread. John is intensely pastoral and apologetic at once—he cares that our faith is alive and grounded, experiential and informed, humble and bold.
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