The Beginning of Jesus in the Gospel of John

“But tell me this, and speak truly, who are you, and where do you come from? What city is yours, and who are your parents? At the outset of Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus’ son, Telemachus, asks a stranger this series of questions, which form a refrain all throughout his journey from youth to adulthood and also through his father’s long journey home from war. 

These inquiries which echo through the oldest epic poetry, are the same questions we ask today as we get to know each other. Where do you come from? Where do you live? Who is your family? We ask in search of a context in which to see each other and in search of connections. 

Our answers are often short, at first. And as we form relationships, we slowly disclose more. Different people will draw out different aspects of our stories. And over time, as we tell and retell, we come to see things about our origins, our people, and places, and how they have shaped who we. 

The same is true in stories of the Christ. St. Matthew begins his Gospel with a genealogy of Jesus from his father, Joseph to the time of the Babylonian exile to King David to Father Abraham. St. Luke begins with Jesus’ mother and her family. Her cousin, Elizabeth, descended from the daughters of Aaron, Moses’ brother. Elizabeth is the wife of a priest and mother of John the Baptizer. 

But when we come to the Fourth Gospel, the Evangelist plays with the conventions of biographical introductions and reframes how we come to know the Christ, the Messiah, who was foretold by the prophets. St. John begins much further back than Moses and Abraham, before time, before all things came to be. The first first words of his Gospel echo Genesis: en arche, “in the beginning”. 

“In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void, and darkness covered the face of the deep.” Genesis tells a story of what was before time, when all was formless and dark, when a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. The word translated ‘wind’ can also mean ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’. Formation and transformation come about through breath, through speech. God says, “Let there be light, and there was light”. 

John recalls the creation story to recall who the Christ is and from whence he comes. This Christ does not have a beginning, but rather he is a beginning. All things came into being through him, and without him, not one thing came into being. The poetry of John’s prologue identifies the Christ as the Word of God, which was uttered to create, and separate, and name. 

The books of Genesis and John both begin with poetry, and I venture that this is because, as T.S. Eliot observed, “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood” (Excerpts from Dante, 1929). 

The images of darkness and light, water and world and word, flesh and life offer glimpses and reflections and echoes of a God whom we come to know through his breaking through silence and darkness.

The beauty of poetry is that it speaks to us on many different levels at once. Echoing the creation of light and life, John identifies the Christ with the God of Genesis. And at the same time, he points to a new creation that is ushered in by the Incarnation. While Genesis tells of matter put into motion by the breath of God, St. John tells of how God revealed himself in a new way through becoming flesh and dwelling among us. 

This parallel between the creation and the Incarnation is recognized by the Scottish hymnwriter James Montgomery, as he addresses, “Angels, from the realms of glory,” who wing their flight o'er all the earth, 

“Ye who sang creation's story,
Now proclaim Messiah's birth”

God’s first creation was light, and Montgomery notes that when these angels come to the shepherds in the depths of night, they receive a parallel message: “God with us is now residing; yonder shines the infant light.”

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Tolstoy tells a story about a cobbler, Martin, who struggled with the darkness that descended when he lost his wife and children to illness. While he found consolation in reading the Gospels, in the lonely silence he wrestled with questions of how there could be a God who would permit such suffering. “Is there even a God?”, he wondered. 

One night, he heard the voice of Jesus, saying that he would appear to him the following day. Martin wakes up early, and as he works at his bench, he catches a glimpse of an old man, Stepanitch, outside his window shoveling snow. As Martin stiches, the old man leans his spade against the wall, apparently resting, or trying to warm himself. “What if I called him in and gave him some tea?” Martin thinks, “the Samovar is just on the boil”. He invites him in, and they talk. 

Later that day, Martin opens his home to a cold and hungry mother with an infant. He feeds her cabbage soup, asks her about herself, and gives her a cloak. That evening, Martin steps outdoors into the snow, to broker a peace between clashing neighbors. 

Darkness falls, and as he lights a taper and reaches for his Bible, he hears the voice again. 

“Martin, Martin, don’t you know me?”

“Who is it?” mutters Martin. And one by one, he sees the faces of all whom he reached out to serve. Tolstoy concludes the tale, “and Martin understood that his dream had come true, and that the Savior had really come to him that day, and he had welcomed him.

How do any of us know that there is a God, that he yearns for us, and that he came as Jesus to dwell among us. In Scripture and looking back at my life, I find a pattern of God communicating before we understand. He dwells among us, and we come to know him through conversations, encounters, stories, poetry, creation, the arts, and relationships, especially in caring for those in need.

On this fourth day of Christmas, we give thanks for the Incarnation. It is right to worship God by offering music, flowers, other gifts of beauty, as well as symbols of our harvest and labor in the bread and wine. But the celebration is just the beginning of the work of Christmas. 

The words of Howard Thurman, an educator, theologian, and mentor of civil rights activists, including Martin Luther King, Jr. warrant repeating that we might take them to heart and internalize them this Christmastide: 

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among others,

To make music in the heart.

My prayer for each of you, is that you may grow in this new year in the love and knowledge of God, a God who breaks through the darkness in creative ways, time and time again. My prayer is that that you may recognize him in others. And my prayer is that you might reflect his light as we embark together on the work of Christmas. 

“Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word: Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives” (Collect of the Day).