NOW THERE WAS a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a member of the Jewish ruling council. 2He came to Jesus at night and said, “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him.”
3In reply Jesus declared, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.”
4“How can a man be born when he is old?” Nicodemus asked. “Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother’s womb to be born!”
5Jesus answered, “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. 6Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. 7You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ 8The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
9“How can this be?” Nicodemus asked.
10“You are Israel’s teacher,” said Jesus, “and do you not understand these things? 11I tell you the truth, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony. 12I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things? 13No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man. 14Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, 15that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.
16“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. 17For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. 18Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son. 19This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. 20Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. 21But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.”
22After this, Jesus and his disciples went out into the Judean countryside, where he spent some time with them, and baptized. 23Now John also was baptizing at Aenon near Salim, because there was plenty of water, and people were constantly coming to be baptized. 24(This was before John was put in prison.) 25An argument developed between some of John’s disciples and a certain Jew over the matter of ceremonial washing. 26They came to John and said to him, “Rabbi, that man who was with you on the other side of the Jordan—the one you testified about—well, he is baptizing, and everyone is going to him.”
27To this John replied, “A man can receive only what is given him from heaven. 28You yourselves can testify that I said, ‘I am not the Christ but am sent ahead of him.’ 29The bride belongs to the bridegroom. The friend who attends the bridegroom waits and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete. 30He must become greater; I must become less.
31“The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth. The one who comes from heaven is above all. 32He testifies to what he has seen and heard, but no one accepts his testimony. 33The man who has accepted it has certified that God is truthful. 34For the one whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for God gives the Spirit without limit. 35The Father loves the Son and has placed everything in his hands. 36Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life, but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God’s wrath remains on him.
Original Meaning
JOHN HAS DESCRIBED the wonder of Jesus through signs worked both in Cana and in Jerusalem (chapter 2). Both deeds—the one miraculous, the other a prophetic sign—unveiled the glory of Christ and demonstrated how the coming of the Messiah not only replaces, but overwhelms the traditional institutions of Judaism. He offers something new and abundant and makes an absolute call on those who would follow him. Jewish ritual vessels and the Jewish temple, both instruments of religious cleansing, now find a replacement in Christ. But in order for this replacement to be complete, we must await “the [hour]” (2:4), the time when “the temple . . . [of] his body” will be torn down and rebuilt (2:19). In other words, Jesus’ glorification on the cross will be the turning point in which Judaism discovers its dissolution and renewal.
Jesus and Nicodemus (3:1–21)
JOHN GOES ON to give us another glimpse of Jesus and his mission. John 1:4 told us that “in him was life, and that life was the light of [human beings].” Jesus does not merely replace religious institutions, he comes to give life, hope, and renewal to people. Notice how 2:25 anticipates the section before us. While he was in Jerusalem, Jesus knew that many people were watching him. But he did not entrust himself to any of them, for he knew the inner character of people. The Greek sets up the present story nicely (lit.): “for he knew what was in a man [Gk. anthropos]. Now there was a man [Gk. anthropos] of the Pharisees named Nicodemus . . .” (2:25–3:1).
In other words, Nicodemus steps forward not as a random observer of Jesus, but as a representative of those in Jerusalem who had witnessed the work of Jesus in chapter 2. Moreover, he represents an institution within Judaism: the rabbis or teachers of the law.1 These were men who specialized in knowing the law, who led in synagogue worship and instruction, and who served as spiritual guides. The Synoptics record many struggles with these people; this is Jesus’ first encounter in the Gospel of John.
The story of Nicodemus, therefore, is another story in which Jesus continues to reverse the prominence of institutions in Judaism—to replace them, to show their incompleteness in light of his arrival, to supplant their function with his own life and work. It also begins a series of stories in which Jesus converses with the very people he knows so well (2:24): a Samaritan woman (4:1–26), a Gentile official (4:43–53), and a crippled man at Bethsaida (5:1–15).
But the Nicodemus story also serves as a twin with the Samaritan woman story that follows in chapter 4 (just as Cana is a twin story to the temple cleansing in chapter 2). Nicodemus is a Jew, a man, and a member of the higher social strata of Jewish society; in chapter 4 we meet a Samaritan, a woman, and someone from the lower social strata. Nicodemus could boast in his righteousness; the Samaritan woman stands as a sinner. The irony of the comparison is the relative success that Jesus discovers with each. Those whom one would think are least ready to understand and accept Jesus (i.e., the woman) embrace him, while the theologian who comes at night (Nicodemus) offers Jesus nothing but questions. As we saw in chapter 2, in Jerusalem Jesus finds limited interest and faith; when he travels away from Jerusalem (to Galilee and Samaria), surprising results occur.
Some scholars have argued at length that Nicodemus represents more than a historical figure in Jesus’ day, that he represents a symbolic member of John’s immediate audience, a Jew who either holds a deficient faith based on signs or a Jew who is a “secret believer,” someone who fears the synagogue more than he or she loves Christ. This group may even be described in 12:42: “Many even among the leaders believed in him [Jesus]. But because of the Pharisees they would not confess their faith for fear they would be put out of the synagogue.”2
John, however, is clear in his own mind when he distinguishes the era of Jesus and the era of his church (see 2:22). Thus it is inappropriate to see Nicodemus as simply a literary foil. Nevertheless, John’s historical reporting of these episodes is not simplistic. He writes to convert, so that his reader will grow in faith (20:31). Inasmuch as every episode is designed to speak to John’s audience using the uniqueness of a historical figure (the educated, the outcast, the poor, the wealthy), this is true of John 3. Nicodemus’s encounter with Jesus is a drama describing one night in Jerusalem as well as any possible night anywhere.
We should also note that John now employs a literary structure that we will see throughout his Gospel: the discourse. No doubt Jesus and Nicodemus talked long into the night and not the merely two or three minutes it takes to read this chapter. Therefore John has built an artificial story structure that represents the essence of their conversation. In Johannine discourses throughout this Gospel, questions are posed to Jesus in order to transport the story onto a higher plane of discussion. The questioner is often blissfully—and ironically—ignorant of what is being asked of him or her, and this leads to dramatic misunderstandings.
Note how Nicodemus steps onto the stage three times to make inquiries (3:1, 4, 9) and each of these questions permit Jesus a fuller explanation of his views. Note also how Nicodemus uses ironic misunderstanding, “Surely [a man] cannot enter a second time into his mother’s womb to be born!” (3:4). The notion in this and so many other discourses is that unless some deficit is met (generally faith or the Spirit), deeper penetration into the words of Jesus is impossible.
John 3 is also organized with a simple literary pattern. In 3:1–15 a dialogue represents the conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus. John 3:16–22 has always posed a problem for translators since it is impossible to know where the citation from Jesus ends (since Greek has no quotation marks). It is likely that 3:16 begins another section of commentary provided by the evangelist, which leads us more deeply into the meaning of the preceding dialogue. Then, in 3:22–36 the same pattern follows: An initial dialogue (this time centering on John the Baptist, 3:22–30) is followed by more commentary (3:31–36), which leads us into insights that compare the respective roles of Jesus and the Baptist.3 Therefore John has given us two dialogues, each of which concludes with theological remarks that uncover the meaning of what has gone before.
The name of “Nicodemus” (3:1) is attested among Jews of the era although it is Greek. There is evidence, for instance, of a Jewish leader named Nicodemus (Naqdimon ben Gorion) who survived the war of A.D. 70; some have taken the unlikely position that the two men are the same. The chief problem is that such an identification would make the character of John 3 very young whereas the passage indicates that he is a member of the Sanhedrin as well as a distinguished teacher.4 Nicodemus appears twice more in the Fourth Gospel as a defender of Jesus’ interests: first at the feast of Tabernacles (7:50–52) and later at Jesus’ burial with Joseph of Arimathea (19:39). In each case he blends a mix of curiosity, courage, and timidity.
We know that Nicodemus was a member of the Sanhedrin (“the Jewish ruling council”) and that he was a Pharisee. Since the Pharisees had a limited stake in the temple operations, it would not have concerned him (possibly even amused him) that Jesus had just upset the markets in the temple courts. Still, if he was politically savvy, he may have seen this act of Jesus as politically explosive and dangerous.
We also know he was a rabbi (3:1, 10), a teacher no doubt of some fame. In 3:10 Jesus refers to him as (lit.) “the teacher [not a teacher] of Israel.” This at least must refer to his distinguished reputation in Jerusalem. When this rabbi comes to Jesus at night (3:2), it may simply refer to his desire for privacy stemming from fear. He might worry that the temple authorities, whom Jesus has just challenged, might see him as a collaborator.
But “night” is also likely a theological symbol (used frequently by John) that expresses Nicodemus’s spiritual relation to the truth. John often refers to darkness as the realm of evil, untruth, and unbelief (e.g., 9:4; 11:10). The only other actor who appears at night is Judas Iscariot, who departs into the night to betray Jesus (13:30). Nicodemus is a man of the darkness while Jesus is the light (1:4, 8). John’s subsequent commentary (3:19ff.) says this plainly: Jesus is light that has come into the world, but men and women prefer darkness. In this case, however, Nicodemus has made a serious choice: He has stepped into the light to make inquiries.
Nicodemus’s first question (3:2) shows admirable respect. He acknowledges Jesus as a teacher (despite Jesus’ lack of credentials, 7:15) and is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt: His activities must come from God and his efforts must have some divine endorsement. This is an “opener” launched by one theologian to another. Nicodemus wants to engage Jesus theologically, to launch a discussion. His use of plurals (“we know”) even suggests he represents a group. Is he an emissary from somewhere? An inquirer assigned to return with a report?
Jesus’ response is unexpected (3:3). Instead of joining Nicodemus by engaging his question, he forces the rabbi to move to another level of inquiry. Jesus is not interested in the divine authentication of signs but in the reality of someone’s relationship with God. Nicodemus has to keep up; he has to choose to follow Jesus’ lead or retreat back into the dark. Two terms require definition. (1) Although the Old Testament does not use the phrase kingdom of God in full, still, the notion of God’s sovereign, kingly rule is implicit throughout the Jewish Scriptures (Ps. 103:19). The Scriptures also predicted a final kingdom that was coming at the end of time, a kingdom of grand dimensions supervised by a descendent of David (Isa. 9:1–7; Zech. 9:9–10) or Isaiah’s Servant of the Lord (Isa. 42:1–9; 49:1–26). Judaism taught that this was to be a future kingdom and that all Jews who faithfully kept the law would be admitted to it freely.5
(2) Jesus, however, says that there is a new prerequisite to see or enter this kingdom. “No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again [Gk. anothen].” Anothen can either mean “again” or “from above,” and it is clear from the other Johannine uses that the local sense (“from above”) is John’s usual meaning (3:31; 19:11, 23). But since Nicodemus sees it one way and Jesus means it another, John has provided us here with one of the first misunderstandings in his Gospel. In order to enter the kingdom, in order to understand divine revelations such as this, one must have an experience that transports beyond the mere observation of “signs.” Divine signs are ambiguous without divine aid.
The notion of divine birth would have made sense to someone with a Hellenistic background (and later Hellenistic readers of John would have recognized it easily) since divine regeneration was a frequent idea there. But if we keep the historicity of the episode intact, we have to ask what a Jew of Nicodemus’s background would have understood. True, Judaism was thoroughly Hellenized in this era and Nicodemus would have understood the language of non-Jewish faiths, much like we understand the language of Muslims and Jews. Proselytes in Judaism were often called newly born children.6 But the language Jesus uses would have seemed unusual to Nicodemus. Jesus is driving at something comprehensive, a complete renewal of the whole person. As Calvin commented, “by the word ‘born again’ he means not the amendment of a part but the renewal of the whole nature. Hence it follows that there is nothing in us that is not defective.”7
Nicodemus’s second question (3:4) is either wistful (“Can human nature really be changed? Can we really start over?”) or cynical (“And I should return to my mother’s womb? I don’t think so.”).8 Above all it shows that Nicodemus is outside the kingdom and that he cannot penetrate its deeper truths. Thus Jesus must explain more fully (3:5–8). Divine birth is now explained as birth “of water and the Spirit.”
This critical phrase has given interpreters genuine difficulty. (1) Some have argued that when Jesus refers to water, he is thinking about literal birth. Water, then, refers to human birth or birth from flesh (3:6), which must be followed later by spiritual rebirth. The chief problem here is that this culture did not refer to natural birth as birth “by water” (although we may do so today, thinking of water as either amniotic fluid or semen).9
(2) Following this line of thought, some have unified “water and Spirit” and created a metaphor. Some ancient sources show that water could refer to male semen and in religious literature could be a metaphor for divine birth or “spiritual seed.” But this is obscure, and one cannot help but wonder if Nicodemus would understand it.
(3) Another set of options views water as baptism. For critical scholars, John is referring to Christian baptism that is accompanied by spiritual regeneration. Certainly as John wrote this passage, knowing that his readership would have this background, he was not unaware that this understanding would result. Thus a secondary meaning such as this is likely. But certainly Nicodemus could not be expected to know this, and such a view makes John a terrible storyteller since in 3:10 Jesus upbraids the rabbi for not understanding.10 Thus, a more likely view is to see this as a reference to John the Baptist’s baptism, which the Gospel has already introduced in the narrative. Nicodemus (by this reading) must submit to the baptism of repentance offered by the Baptist at the Jordan. Following this he can experience the Spirit and transformation.
(4) Another option suggests that “water and Spirit” form a unified concept to express the eschatological renewal promised in the Old Testament. The prophets in particular described a coming era when the transforming Spirit of God would be poured out generously on all people (Isa. 32:15–20; Joel 2:28). Sometimes this renewal is described metaphorically as water. Note Isaiah 44:3: “For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground; I will pour my Spirit on your offspring, and my blessing on your descendants.” Note how water and Spirit are easily joined as the life-giving gifts of God. This figurative pair appears again and again in the Old Testament, and no doubt Ezekiel 36:25–27 is the most important eschatological image of all. Here Israel’s heart will be transformed:
I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your impurities and from all your idols. I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.
In other words, Jesus is here pointing to the dawning of a new eschatological era. John the Baptist has inaugurated this era, and submission to his message—his water baptism, which is the precursor for Christian baptism—is expected. Jesus now is the baptizer “in Spirit” (1:33), who will complete the dawning of this time. But above all, Nicodemus must understand that this era will be an era when the Spirit of God moves among humanity. Jesus compares this with the “wind,” another Greek wordplay, since pneuma can mean either “spirit” or “wind” (3:8). Its origin and movements are mysterious, and they cannot be contained by the human religious systems Jesus has already challenged.
Nicodemus’s third and final question is rhetorical in the narrative. “How can this be?” likely disguises a thoroughgoing and lengthy inquiry by the rabbi, whose religious categories have now been upended. He is baffled. He is disturbed. His commitment to the Torah and obedience, to prayer and sacrifice, and his understanding of election, responsibility, and privilege have all been challenged. He should have no problem understanding that the Spirit of God can transform; but he is a man standing on the frontier, looking at a new country and wondering how such momentous events will unfold.
For the third (and final) time Jesus begins his answer with (lit.) “Truly, truly I say to you,” as if to underscore the importance of what he is about to say (3:3, 5, 11).11 The irony of his response is that he refers to Nicodemus as a rabbi (3:10), just as Nicodemus had referred to Jesus (3:2), but now we see that this teacher does not know the answers. Jesus is the only “true rabbi” who can explain the deeper mysteries of God.
But the problem is far deeper. It is not simply with this teacher; rather, there is a general problem with the religious world of first-century Judaism (just as at the close of ch. 2 there is a problem with humanity). The “we” in 3:11 likely refers to Jesus and his followers, who are witnesses to the signs of the kingdom. They have all seen this new kingdom and can bear witness to it. The problem rests on a refusal by many (pl. “you” in 3:11b, 12) to receive this testimony and believe. It is not really a problem of knowledge (3:10). The signs and Scriptures are accessible here on earth, and if these cannot be understood and believed, it is not possible for profound heavenly things to be believed. People who stumble on the elemental teachings of Jesus cannot hope to grasp the deeper realities.
Jesus is unique among all others to disclose these heavenly truths because he is the only one among humankind who has truly entered heaven’s realms (3:13). Human teachers do not have access to this sort of revelation. He alone brings a capacity for disclosure that exceeds both human imagination and wisdom. But just as Jesus descended with this knowledge, making him the unparalleled rabbi, so too Jesus must return (3:14).
Jesus then refers to a story from Numbers 21, in which Moses built a serpent of bronze and elevated it among the Israelites so that whoever gazed on it would be healed from the snakes that bit them in the desert. In the same manner, Jesus says, he must be “lifted up” in order to become the source of eternal life for all who believe. The Greek hypsoo (lift up) is an important Johannine verb to describe Jesus’ “ascent” or “lifting up” to the cross (3:14; 8:28; 12:32, 34). Luke uses this same verb in Acts for Jesus’ ascension/exaltation (Acts 2:33; 5:31). John has in mind that the cross will not simply be a place of sacrifice and suffering, but a place of departure, of return, when Jesus resumes his life with the Father (17:1–19). Jesus ascends to the cross. As we will see later in this Gospel, the cross will actually be a place of glorification.
Many scholars agree that 3:16–21 provides reflections or meditations written by John. This means that (contra the NIV) the quotation marks should end at 3:15, where Jesus uses his characteristic title “Son of Man.” Note that in 3:16 Jesus’ death is described as past (God gave his one and only Son), and much of the language of these verses is distinctly Johannine.12 With verse 16 we are reading John’s commentary on the importance of Jesus’ words to Nicodemus.
The statement that God loves the world is surprising on two counts (3:16). (1) Judaism rarely (or never) spoke of God’s loving the world outside of Israel. God desires to reach this world through Israel, his child. It is a uniquely Christian idea to say that God’s love extends beyond the limits of race and nation. (2) John tells his readers elsewhere that they are not to love the world (1 John 2:15–17) because it is a place of disbelief and hostility (cf. John 15:18–19; 16:8). Carson comments effectively, “There is no contradiction between this prohibition and the fact that God does love it [the world]. Christians are not to love the world with the selfish love of participation; God loves the world with the selfless, costly love of redemption.”13
This helpful insight gives a clue to what John means by “the world.” In John’s writings “world” (Gk. kosmos) is not a reference to the natural world of trees, animals, and plants—a world defended by the Sierra Club and Greenpeace.14 For John kosmos (used seventy-eight times in this Gospel, twenty-four times in his letters) is the realm of humanity arrayed in opposition to God (1:9; 7:7). Thus Jesus enters this world in his incarnation, knowing that hostility will result and that sacrifice will be needed in order to redeem the world (1:29; 3:17; 6:51). This dimension of the Son’s work must be underscored: The Son did not come to the world to save a select few (those chosen, those privileged); rather, he came to save the world, namely, the all-encompassing circle of men and women who inhabit this planet, people who embrace darkness habitually (3:19–21).
In this respect, the entry of the Son into the darkness of this world is an act of judgment (3:19; cf. 9:39) inasmuch as divine light has penetrated and unveiled the darkness for what it is. Jesus has not come to condemn the world (3:17) but to reveal and save, to provide a way of escape for those shuttered in the darkness. His coming does not bring a “verdict” (NIV), but a process by which judgment is active on those who witness his coming. Those who see this light and recognize the tragedy of their own situation have one responsibility: to believe (3:16, 18).
Yet it is not so simple. The affections of people in the world are corrupt; their desires are fallen; they are not eager to be redeemed. They “love darkness instead of light”; in fact, they “hate” the light. This is strong language, which uncovers something of the seriousness of the moral struggle between God and the world. Evil and darkness do not ignore the light; they wage war against it, trying to bring it down. But despite these efforts, the darkness cannot vanquish the light (1:9). The darkness launches a battle that brings about its own defeat.
By contrast, those who love the coming of the light, who look on and trust the “upraised,” crucified Son, who believe in Jesus and “live by the truth” (3:21), these people not only enjoy eternal life (3:16, 18) but they come to the light and yearn for its truth. John does not have in mind here people in the world who already have the goodness of God at work in their hearts and whom the light reveals. John is describing what happens when those in the world make a choice to believe; they are transformed into children of God (1:12; 11:52; 1 John 3:10), experiencing the power of the Spirit (3:5–6) and living the truth (3:21). Such people live righteously because God is at work in them (3:21b), not because they have a native desire to be godly.
Jesus and John the Baptist (3:22–36)
WHILE THE FIRST half of chapter 3 examined the discussion of Nicodemus and Jesus, now John the Baptist comes on stage. Just as Nicodemus must be born “from above” (3:3), so now the Baptist becomes a witness to Jesus as one who is “from above” (3:31). Jesus has descended from heaven (3:12–13), bringing heavenly gifts of the Spirit and rebirth; he is a messenger who reveals what he has seen and heard in heaven’s precincts (3:31–32). Just as Nicodemus represents Jewish leadership in Jerusalem, John the Baptist is a Jewish prophet. Both men are from “the earth” while Jesus is “from above.”
Some scholars see this section (along with the narratives devoted to the Baptist in ch. 1) as serving a need in the congregation to whom this Gospel is addressed. In the introduction I mentioned that the Gospel of John may have been written with an eye not simply to evangelism, but to address issues that troubled the Christian church as well. The portrait of Jesus, the stories selected from historical archives, and the sayings preserved in the stories all serve to meet needs relevant to John’s readers.15
Acts 19:1–7 tells us that there were people in Ephesus who were followers of John the Baptist but who did not believe in Jesus. Later postapostolic evidence even suggests that such communities continued to exist a few generations later, which elevated John the Baptist and rejected Jesus’ messiahship. If such a polemic existed in the communities that first read the Fourth Gospel, 3:22–36 becomes a potent corrective. John the Baptist becomes a premier witness to Jesus, dispelling rumors of a rivalry and urging his followers to believe in him. The Baptist devalues his own status—as the friend (3:29) compared with the bridegroom—and says explicitly, “He must become greater; I must become less” (3:30). But even though the passage may have an interest in a polemic with “the Baptist sect,” this should not undermine a historical reading of these verses. We have evidence in the earliest days of disciples who are willing to champion John the Baptist and give lukewarm interest in Jesus.
John 3:22–36 mirrors 3:1–21 in one respect. The narrative running from 3:22–30 likely ends with the finality of the Baptist’s personal devaluation. As the evangelist followed 3:1–15 with commentary (3:16–21), so he follows the Baptist narrative of 3:22–30 with further commentary (3:31–36). This means that chapter 3 is built with two halves, each containing structurally similar features. As the evangelist weaves the chapter together, he concentrates on similar theological themes and literary symmetries to make it a unified whole.16
Following his conversation with Nicodemus, Jesus and his followers move into the regions east of Jerusalem, where he conducts a ministry much like that of John the Baptist (3:22). This is an interesting note since it is our only record that Jesus had a baptizing ministry. But we must remain clear that at this point Jesus is conducting a baptism of repentance, no doubt like that of John, since, as 7:37–39 says, the Spirit (a feature of Christian baptism) has not yet been given. However, John goes on to make clear that Jesus’ disciples, not Jesus himself, baptized people (4:2). Imagine the sort of elitism that could have developed in the ancient church between those baptized by Jesus and those baptized by anyone else.
At this time (3:23) the Baptist is working at Aenon near Salim—a transliterated Semitic phrase meaning “the springs” (aenon), which were near a place named for “peace” (Heb. shalom; Arabic, salam). The location of this is disputed. The least likely suggestion is just north of the Dead Sea. A second possibility is south of the ancient city Beth Shan (New Testament Scythopolis) in the Jordan Valley. A third is near Samaria, where the note about springs would make sense since Jesus would not then be using the Jordan River. Nevertheless, there are many springs around the region of Beth Shan also and thus the location is uncertain.
The editorial note of 3:24 suggests that John the evangelist presupposes the Synoptic story.17 John’s arrest is only recorded in the Synoptics (Matt. 14:1–12; Mark 1:14; 6:14–29; Luke 3:19–20), and from that account we get the impression that once John is taken captive, Jesus begins his aggressive ministry in Galilee. But this is an unwarranted conclusion. The Fourth Gospel makes it plain that Jesus and the Baptist worked simultaneously for some time before Jesus moved north.
But this does not mean that John and the Synoptics are at odds. The first three Gospels imply that Jesus moves to Galilee because in some fashion he might be in jeopardy in light of John the Baptist’s arrest (Matt. 4:12). If Jesus had not been recognized as yet publicly, why would he worry about an association with the Baptist? The Fourth Gospel completes the picture. Jesus and the Baptist worked together, and when the one was arrested, the other had to move north out of the region.
The dispute described in 3:25–26 is the root of the problem that the Baptist’s subsequent speech (3:27–30) will address. We cannot know the name of the “certain Jew” of verse 25, nor can we be certain about the nature of the argument between him and the Baptist’s followers. John 3:26 suggests that it was about baptism and if we are right, then someone in Jewish leadership may be debating the theological correctness of ceremonial purity and how it relates to John’s baptism. Baptism such as this was commonplace for converted Gentiles entering Judaism since it represented a spiritual threshold the convert was crossing. Ceremonial washings were also common among Jews who cleansed themselves for service or prayer. But baptism for Jews did not make sense. Was this a ceremonial cleansing? Was it a threshold? Certainly these questions stand behind the interrogation of John reported at the beginning of all four Gospels.
But the key here is that Jesus’ baptism is drawn into the debate (3:26). If the argument is about ceremonial effectiveness and legitimacy, the critique from Judaism is less important than the threat posed by Jesus’ newfound popularity. This verse indicates that the Baptist had followers who knew about the events surrounding Jesus’ baptism, who knew John’s testimony concerning him, and likely knew Jesus by name. But curiously, they do not refer to Jesus personally (“that man who was with you”) and they harbor considerable envy for Jesus’ fame (“everyone is going to him.”). They seem disgruntled, unhappy that Jesus is becoming a celebrated leader.
The Baptist’s rejoinder (3:27–30) corrects the rivalry. God has provided the successes and increases enjoyed by Jesus. It is not that John is now receiving a lesser role (though this is true), but that Jesus is “receiving” more followers (cf. 3:26), and he has “received” these from heaven. Such growth should not be criticized. Above all, John affirms (as he did in ch. 1) that he is not the Christ (3:28) but his forerunner. Drawing on wedding imagery, John compares himself with a “friend who attends the bridegroom.” The groom alone has the bride, and the friend rejoices. Jesus frequently used such analogies (Mark 2:19–20), and later in the New Testament, the bride is described as the church (see Rev. 18:2; 19:7; 21:2, 9; 22:17).18
But this is not the present text’s interest and should not be allegorized. John 3:28–29 serves simply to emphasize what is stated forcefully in 3:29: “He must become greater; I must become less.” John the Baptist, despite the affections of his followers, must always play a secondary role. Now with the advent of Jesus’ appearance and ministry, John’s followers must discover a new allegiance to Jesus. This allegiance is precisely what John was encouraging in 1:35–42 when he identified Jesus and urged his disciples to follow Jesus.
The final paragraph of chapter 3 has often been viewed as a puzzle. Do the quotation marks continue through to verse 36 (NIV) or to they end at verse 31? Some scholars have noted the many links between it and the Nicodemus dialogue in 3:1–21 and have argued that it fits that section better. Some have even gone so far as to say that 3:31–36 should follow 3:21 as a fitting conclusion to the Nicodemus section.19 Yet this paragraph also sums up the differences between the Baptist and Jesus as well as uses the theological framework outlined in 3:1–21. In this respect, 3:31–36 is likely a meditation or theological epilogue written by the evangelist to highlight the differences between John and Jesus, using language established at the beginning of the chapter.
Jesus is superior because of his heavenly origins (3:31). He is “from above” (anothen, the same word that appeared in 3:3 [NIV, “again”]). This status must be carefully compared to anyone who comes “from the earth.” Human teaching cannot be compared with divine revelation, where the courier brings a message from God. But even when the heavenly message is delivered (3:32), the world is still a place of darkness and will not receive the testimony of what this courier, this Son, has witnessed (cf. 3:11). Truth, then, is something that descends, not something discovered through human labor. It is foreign. It comes from outside and thus runs the risk of rejection.
The two Greek verbs at the center of 3:33 are in the aorist tense (“the man who has accepted it has certified that God is truthful,” italics added). This describes men and women who have made a firm decision once and for all. They have acknowledged Jesus, accepted him and his witness, and made a theological deduction about God. In other words, to affirm the central ideas about Jesus is to commit oneself to a larger theological complex of ideas. To affirm the divine sonship of Jesus drives one immediately to affirmations about God and revelation and truth. John’s imagery is graphic. In antiquity wax seals were used to give authentication and ownership to letters and possessions. Even illiterate people could recognize the official seals of important persons. Hence, to embrace Jesus is to set a seal, to confirm, and to defend an entire constellation of beliefs central to Christian faith and God.
What is at stake here is the nature of Jesus and his authority (3:34–36). God’s love for the Son is so complete that nothing is beyond the Son’s reach; anything belonging to God has been placed in the Son’s hands. The Father has provided the Son with the words he speaks (“What he has seen and heard,” 3:32). The Father has commissioned the Son to come to us.
Above all, the Father has provided the Son with the Holy Spirit (3:34). Even though the subject of the final clause in 3:34 is ambiguous (lit., “for he gives the Spirit without limit”) and some have speculated that the verse describes how the Son gives the Spirit to believers, it seems clear that these verses are about what God has given to Jesus, equipping him for his mission in the world. This verse does not refer to Jesus’ giving the Spirit to us, but to God’s giving the Spirit to his Son, underscoring the remarkable interconnectedness of Father and Son once more.
Jesus bears a divine nature and carries God’s authority. Earlier John the Baptist testified, “I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him” (1:32). Therefore, the gift of life and Spirit that the Son will distribute (1:33; 3:3, 36) comes from the gift of life and Spirit that the Son already enjoys. It is a gift that comes “from above,” now resident in the Son’s life—a gift that will be distributed once the Son of God is glorified (7:37–39).
In 3:36b John then looks at salvation from the other point of view. Those who reject the Son will not see life; instead, God’s wrath rests on them. This verse does not indicate that God is angry in light of their rejection of him. Rather, it means that the world of darkness and unbelief stands under the judgment of God (Rom. 1:18ff.), and those who refuse the light, who reject Jesus, remain in the darkness and thus continue to live under divine judgment.
Bridging Contexts
JESUS AND NICODEMUS. Few passages in the Fourth Gospel have enjoyed the sort of attention awarded to 3:1–21. John 3:16 is arguably the most memorized Scripture verse in the entire Bible. And few verses are used more often in evangelism than Jesus’ words about rebirth. One of Chuck Colson’s best-selling books is even titled Born Again.20 Without seeing the index, we can predict that John 3 figured largely into his outline for the book.
But John has more to say to us here than to describe God’s love and the matter of our conversion. This passage has theological nuances that bear genuine relevance to a modern audience. As I claimed earlier, the conversation with Nicodemus is a model conversation, a paradigm if you will, of Jesus bringing the light of God to one who is captive in darkness. Nicodemus is not a literary foil per se (he was a true historical figure), but his evening with Jesus supplies John with raw materials from which he can build a model conversation. If John were asked, “What would Jesus say to someone in the darkness, someone with religious ambitions?” John would likely supply this narrative and say, Nicodemus was a man—and he is everyone.
(1) Note the profile of Nicodemus: He is one of the people Jesus would not trust (2:24) because he knew them so well. Morris infers from the passage that Nicodemus was a man who loved the truth, was timid about its expression, but in the end stood in Jesus’ defense when his disciples fled.21 This may be true, but we can also say that Nicodemus portrays a character whose life has not been completely penetrated by Christ, who asks questions but does not become a disciple, who listens but does not believe. Glimmers of courage surface in chapter 7—and certainly the choice to assist in Jesus’ burial was courageous—but in the end, Nicodemus does not become a model disciple. Disciples confess Jesus’ identity, remain with him, and tell others (cf. the disciples of chs. 1 and 4). Nicodemus’ story exhibits none of these features.
Above all, Nicodemus comes from “Jerusalem” instead of Galilee.22 He is a theological insider. He is adept at spiritual things and is famous for his skill at teaching. On the historical plane, I have argued that John is signaling to us something about messianic replacement and abundance: Jesus is the rabbi or teacher who brings heavenly wisdom (3:13) while the average rabbi cannot understand the deeper things of God (3:10). Jesus is the Rabbi who makes all other teachers schooled in Judaism redundant. In fact, one wonders if his theological skill becomes an impediment to Nicodemus’s ability to become a disciple.
Is there a comment here about our capacity to genuinely accept Jesus? Should Nicodemus serve as a mirror for some of us to see ourselves? John’s emphasis on Christology hardly makes him anti-intellectual. But in some fashion, I cannot avoid wondering if John would have us reflect on the relation between religious ambition and sophistication and our ability to see and hear a personal Jesus today.
(2) In these verses John has given careful attention to the work of Christ. Of course, John mentions the saving work of Christ on the cross (3:14), but he has far more to say. Initially John has an interest in how Christ’s work extends to those in darkness even though he is “the light.” He speaks to Nicodemus at night. That is, Jesus must step into darkness itself in order to redeem those captive to it. This notion reminds me of Jesus’ saying in Mark 2:17: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have come to call not the righteous, but sinners.” God is not demanding some moral or religious preparation from us that makes us interesting and acceptable to him. On the contrary, his mission is to enter the darkness and find us.
This strikes me as a terribly important theme. In the Synoptics, Jesus tells stories about shepherds looking for lost sheep. In John, Jesus uses the abstract dualistic metaphor of light and darkness, and in chapter 3 he is the light looking in darkness for men and women who will become children of God.
Another feature of Jesus’ work has to do with revelation. Jesus is not simply another human teacher who outdoes one of Jerusalem’s leading rabbis. Jesus is not simply a superior human expositor of Scripture who in debate can outrun any rival. Jesus is a divine teacher and revealer of God. We saw this already in 1:18: “No one has ever seen God, but God the One and Only, who is at the Father’s side, has made him known.” The importance of Jesus is not found simply in what he says but in where he comes from. Therefore there is an ontological dimension to Christology in John that is essential. Jesus has descended from heaven (3:13). This notion offers a remarkable appeal to my century: Christology makes an absolute claim, an outrageous claim, to religious truth. No other source can rival what is being claimed here for Jesus. He provides access to God that is unlike any other religious founder.
(3) John’s most obvious contribution has to do with human transformation and its possibilities. Of course when Jesus challenges Nicodemus that he must be “born again/from above,” he is making a fundamental statement about theological anthropology. That is, humanity is broken beyond all repair. God’s work in the world is not a question of fixing the part, but rebuilding the whole. It is described comprehensively as nothing short of another birth. The significance of this new birth gains weight theologically as soon as we develop our doctrine of the comprehensiveness of human fallenness and sin. As Augustine once taught, the problem with humanity is not that we sin, but that we are in a state of sin that needs a comprehensive solution. Nicodemus, then, and everyone in Jerusalem (2:23)—as well as everyone in the world (2:25)—lives with this infirmity. Its ramifications bear unusual importance for modern society.
The transformation offered to Nicodemus also opens the question of the nature of true religion. That is, religion is not necessarily a matter of personal knowledge or ethical behavior. Nor is it fidelity to religious traditions, no matter how virtuously they evoke higher ethical, religious behavior among us. Jesus is claiming that true spirituality is not discovering some latent capacity within the human soul and fanning it to flame. It is not uncovering a moral consciousness that is hidden by sedimentary layers of civilization’s corruptions. Nor is it inspiring aesthetic qualities that promote society in its finest form. It is not a “horizontal” experience that takes up the materials available around us in the world.
Rather, Jesus claims, true religion is “vertical.” It has to do not with the human spirit, but with God’s Spirit. It is a foreign invasion, sabotage of the first order. True religion unites humanity with God’s powerful Spirit, who overwhelms, transforms, and converts (in the full meaning of the word) its subject. Our role in this transformation is belief (3:16, 18), and yet it is a belief that is aided by God’s work within us since we live in the darkness and have our spiritual capacities handicapped by sin. As I convey this concept to my world, I need to search for creative metaphors, clever images that bring the full impact of this idea home.
Jesus and John the Baptist. This is one of the least celebrated sections of this Gospel, overshadowed no doubt by the dramatic and well-known dialogue with Nicodemus. Historically it gives us some information we do not find elsewhere in the New Testament. We learn, for instance, that John the Baptist had a committed circle of disciples and that some of them struggled with the decision to shift their commitments from John to Jesus. We also learn that Jesus and John enjoyed a simultaneous period of ministry in Judea.
The Synoptic picture of Jesus has him beginning a Galilean ministry following his baptism and temptation; it provides no information about this early period. But in Mark 6:14–29 we are left wondering why Herod Antipas (who murdered John the Baptist) would conclude that John and Jesus were linked in the popular imagination unless they had been together at some previous time. Seeing Jesus some cried, “John the Baptist has been raised from the dead” (Mark 6:14). Herod even believed it (6:16). This connection is explained by John 3:22–36. Jesus and John knew each other well. They worked together. Their disciples knew each other. And in the turmoil of John’s arrest and death, some of those disciples were deeply conflicted about their commitments.
These insights bring a peculiar but human dimension to the early ministries of Jesus, John, and their followers. Even the disciples of Jesus were not as generous as we might think. At one point in Galilee they discover someone working in Jesus’ name, and they eagerly report it to him, “Master . . . we saw a man driving out demons in your name and we tried to stop him, because he is not one of us” (Luke 9:49). Jesus refuses to act and gives them a gentle rebuke. The same thing happened in the early churches founded by Paul. At Corinth Christians were quarreling about allegiances to Paul, Apollos, and Cephas/Peter (1 Cor. 1:10–17). Perhaps we need to set aside the fantasy that the earliest Christians worked easily with each other and did not form human loyalties that got in the way.
(1) John the evangelist certainly finds a universal lesson in this story—a lesson no less pertinent for us today. The followers of John the Baptist were not able to see that their affection for and devotion to the prophet made them unable to follow Jesus. I am sure that they would not oppose Jesus, for that would have put them at odds with their master. Nor did they deny that Jesus was in some respect unique, fulfilling the work of God in the world. But what explains John’s firm reminder in 3:28, “You yourselves can testify that I said, ‘I am not the Christ . . .’ ”? Are some claiming that perhaps John is the Christ? Are they unwilling to let John “become less” so that Jesus might be glorified? Has their investment in John become so all-consuming that they have promoted him to a place John would never accept himself? These are important questions and need to be explored today if we create commitments and investments that may impede genuine devotion to Jesus.
(2) A second lesson is imbedded in John’s unqualified affirmation of Jesus. The theological uniqueness of Christ is not centered on the effectiveness or persuasiveness of his ministry. It is not that Jesus provides wisdom or insight that resonates with us and is confirmed by us. Theological certainty is not awarded by earthly degrees. Simply put, Jesus is “from above.” He bears God’s Spirit without limit (3:34). He bears revelation that is utterly different from anything in the world, a revelation that comes directly from God the Father.
Two things result from this realization. (a) It should come as no surprise that the world cannot understand or recognize this revelation (3:32). The world is steeped in darkness, blinded by its own fallenness, and without God’s Word, it is a helpless, pitiful, lifeless thing (3:36). As this Gospel unfolds, we will hear a great deal more about the incapacities of this darkened world, its anger toward the light, and its desire to destroy those who respond to God’s light.
(b) John is making a statement about authority. If it is true that this is revelation “from above,” revelation from God, then Christian revelation is not on a par with any other religious system in the world. Noble attempts to domesticate Jesus by making him one more sage along with many other religious teachers fall short here. The Christian theological affirmation is that in Christ something unparalleled has been disclosed, something the world has never seen. The implications of this affirmation fan out like ripples in a pond: Our understanding of salvation, Scripture, and revelation (among others) is permanently affected.
(3) Finally, John began the chapter with the Nicodemus story and now ends by making us wonder about the fate not only of Nicodemus, but also of John’s followers. Nicodemus is pointed to “water and Spirit” as a means of renewal. The followers of John the Baptist are locked in debate about ceremonial washing. Both parties need to discover that the only one who can truly transform and cleanse is Jesus because he bears the eschatological Spirit from God.
This challenge is ours as well. Will we “certify” (3:33) and affirm the truth of what God is doing? Will we step out of the darkness, out of the world, out of death, and place our seal on the truth of what Jesus says and who he is? The first half of the chapter (3:1–21) pointed to an experience that is necessary for entry into the kingdom of God—a powerful, transforming encounter with the Holy Spirit. The second half of the chapter (3:22–36) now underscores a commitment of belief, a challenge to embrace the true identity, origin, and mission of Jesus. This is not simply a commitment to some small truth, but to an idea of Truth, a system of understanding reality, God, and ourselves.
Contemporary Significance
THE CONVERSION OF NICODEMUS. The longer I am in the church, the more I am in need of conversion stories. That is, fresh stories of conversion remind me of the nature of the world (from which I am increasingly isolated, as my circle of professional and personal friends are increasingly Christian). These stories also remind me of the power of God (about which I can become increasingly blasé). Of course there are moments when I have a glimpse of the darkness. And there are other moments when I see the radiance of the Light, and suddenly I inherit the dualistic up/down, right/wrong, dark/light worldview that John would have me possess. Conversion stories help me understand the drama of sentences like 3:20–21: “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.”
Living with new converts who have been recently transformed by God’s Spirit is like living on a political frontier and receiving and welcoming refugees from a terrible war. In Chicago I often meet recent arrivals from the civil war in Bosnia. They have stories to tell. In fact, they cannot keep from telling these stories nor can they keep from expressing their heartfelt gratitude for their rescue and salvation. To convey the decision that faced Nicodemus and the prospect for his renewal, I have to tell stories that describe what would have happened if Nicodemus had been “born again/from above.”
On a recent trip to Israel I rented a car with one of my daughters and drove south through the desert to the port city of Eilat. Our aim was to see the desert in its springtime glory, visit the copper mines of Timna, and go snorkeling in the Gulf of Aqaba’s coral reefs. On our first evening I contacted a messianic Jewish fellowship that I knew had a large, successful ministry in Eilat. Following dinner (at our first kosher Burger King restaurant),23 we drove to a nearby neighborhood and found a large home whose living room had been designed as a worship center.
Following the usual greetings and introductions we sat transfixed in a room packed with Russians, Chinese, Rumanians, and Americans (all with a Jewish heritage—except the Chinese). Following a time of worship, a gifted teacher gave an evangelistic message based on the thieves on the cross: one who asked for mercy, another who refused. As the teacher spoke in English, translators around the room converted his words into Russian, Chinese, and Rumanian. When the translators came to an impasse, they lapsed into Hebrew with the teacher in order to straighten out his meaning. The international flavor of the scene was fascinating.
I wondered where these people had come from. The Rumanians and Russians had come to Israel as Jewish refugees, leaving lands with historic records of persecution. They could tell stories of the collapse of the Russian economy and the rise of corruption, as well as the frightening threat of renewed racism and anti-Semitism. Few of them were piously orthodox, and Judaism was chiefly their ticket to get out of Russia, a chance to discover a new start. The Chinese were laborers building the many high-rise hotels found throughout the city. Over the years hundreds of them had become Christians (thanks to these messianic congregations) and had taken their faith back to China. And the word had spread. Laborers were coming and discovering Christ every week. The irony of God’s plan stunned me. Who would guess that the desert streets of Eilat would be at the forefront of Chinese evangelism?
My attention was drawn to a particularly upset young woman of eighteen or nineteen, who had just left Russia to join her young fiancé in Eilat. She still wore the traditional clothes of the Russian countryside while he now sported jeans and a T-shirt. She had left everything behind: family, home, tradition, language, security, and job. Her world had been overturned. For the first time, in the confusion of her personal storm, she was hearing the gospel. Her fiancé had become a Christian weeks earlier, and now he wanted this young woman to discover the same. She wept through the entire Bible study.
Nicodemus was challenged to think about the frontier between what is above and what is below, between the darkness and the light. This Russian woman was learning the same. Her new world in Israel came with something unexpected: It now was offering her a new birth. We left thinking about the preciousness of the events we had just witnessed.
The drama of belief, of choosing to come to the light, is a drama that must remain before me so that as a Christian I can understand where I stand and where an unbeliever must move in order enter the light. In some churches, pastors regularly tell stories of such conversions. One of my favorite books is Conversions, which describes the stories of famous conversions (Augustine, Muggeridge, Tolstoy, Spurgeon, Wesley, etc.).24 Some pastors let people tell their own stories regularly in worship in order to reinforce the idea that Christianity is not something that you follow as much as it is a power that transforms.
There is also a provocative secondary message here, which has to do with cultural and intellectual bondage. Nicodemus was entrenched in his career, locked into the status quo of Jerusalem’s mainstream; he was so invested in it that he had to have a clandestine meeting with Jesus. The young Russian woman of Eilat had lost her career and was experiencing acute personal and cultural dislocation. As a result her world—her life—was open. There is an important lesson in this, namely, that there is a link between spiritual receptivity and the degree to which we are “settled” into a system of life and belief. The greater our comfort, the less our chances to receive a new word, a transforming word from God. This is probably the reason why as people age, the possibility of their conversion tends to decrease.
Our arena of comfort also has to do with the scope of our religious knowledge. Nicodemus was a man skilled in religious rhetoric. He knew the Word of God and had no doubt built his own “systematic theology” that explained God, his world, and his relation to both. His problem was not a lack of knowledge; in fact, his great knowledge in some fashion may have anesthetized him from true spiritual conversion. Religious knowledge can become a shield, a defense with which we protect ourselves from the very God we claim to know. It is like visiting a Pentecostal worship service with a theologian or a sociologist. They can always explain what is going on without reference to genuine divine power.
When I am leading a group of students or adults through the Holy Land, I occasionally listen in as other Israeli guides take their groups through biblical sites. On one occasion I happened to get to know a remarkable Jewish man named Moshe, who was thoroughly versed in the religious history of his country. At Capernaum he could provide a brilliant five-century history of the site, and he could tell virtually every story and teaching that Jesus told in that lakeside village. I was intrigued. I once asked him, “Since you know more about Jesus than most Christians, what do you think about the truth of his words?” Surely, I reasoned, I was not the first American Christian to ask him that question. “Jesus’ words are interesting, but I’m a Jew and that’s where I’m comfortable.”
Moshe’s problem was not a question of knowledge. He (along with hundreds of licensed Jewish tour guides in Israel) possesses more knowledge about Jesus than the average pastor. Such guides are like Nicodemus inasmuch as they are professional observers who can talk about Jesus but have not experienced him, who can give accurate lectures but who have not had a transforming spiritual experience, who know all about wine but have not tasted it.25
But is John 3 a message that only pertains to the non-Christian? To be sure, the invitation to believe in Jesus and to be born of water and Spirit is an invitation to Christian discipleship. But Nicodemus was a man steeped in religious tradition; he knew how to teach and defend it. I firmly believe that there are men and women in the church today who have not really heard the Nicodemus story. They have grown up in their tradition, they have taught it and defended it, but it has become a tame and predictable thing. One of the problems that comes with discussions of transformation and the power of the Spirit is how some people with longstanding spiritual interest, personal experience, or theological degrees will respond to stories like John 3. They can be skeptical. Or they may have determined a way to theologize their way around the mystical gift offered to Nicodemus. Jesus is talking about mystical experiences and spiritual power. One can harness this Spirit no more than one can harness the wind.
Each year I require beginning theology students to read an old book written by Helmut Thielicke, A Little Exercise for Young Theologians.26 The good fortune of this assignment is that I have to read the book as well every year. The slim volume consists of a series of sermons delivered to seminary students in Hamburg, Germany, where for many years Thielicke was a famous and popular professor and pastor. This is a book full of wisdom and warnings. Above all it describes a “diabolical theology” that can infect the most well-intentioned, passionate, Christian leader. It is possible, Thielicke argues, to get one’s theology right but to get one’s relationship with God all wrong. There is a pathology to theological education—a spiritual disease, he calls it—that can distance us from God. Nicodemus was a theologian. I am a theologian. Mature Christians are theologians. We must always be on the alert to see if we are linked to the spiritually unpredictable Holy Spirit of God.
A final contemporary note has to do with the work of Christ and Christology. I mentioned above that it is essential for us to communicate something of the salvific and revelatory work of Christ to our Christian audiences. Today’s intellectual climate is offended by the absolute claim of religious truth, but a faithful rendering of New Testament Christology demands this. This theme will continue to come up throughout the Gospel of John, but at this juncture John has said something important that we must pause and note.
Many Christians today think about the work of Christ with an unfortunate, ill-informed understanding of God and Christ. I see this again and again both in classes I teach and in the church. The imaginative picture used by many to express the work of Christ is that Jesus has died in order to placate an angry God, whereas the cross expresses the love of Christ for us and his work appeases God’s threatening wrath. This makes God an opponent and an adversary while Jesus is our ally.
But this is not what John says in 3:16. “God so loved the world. . . .” The work of Christ is God at work, God saving the world, God extending himself into the condition of our humanity and bringing about reconciliation. The center of this error is a deficient view of the Trinity or, more precisely, a deficient understanding of what the church’s earliest theologians were trying to express at the Council of Nicea (A.D. 325). Christ was not created—there was no time in history when he “was not”—and so he enjoys an eternal existence precisely like God. Further, he shares the very essence or being of God (the Council of Nicea used the word homoousios to express this concept). Why is this important? Because it means that God himself is on our side. God himself is at work on our behalf. He did not send a messenger (Jesus) to do the dirty work. God himself came to the cross and suffered in order to bring his beloved creation back to himself.27
This understanding is expressed repeatedly by Paul. In 2 Corinthians 5:18–19 he describes the goodness of God in rescuing us and remarks: “All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation.” Or again, in the words of Colossians 1:19–20: “For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in [Christ], and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.” The cross is thus God’s work. Jesus Christ came to earth not in order to change God’s mind, but to express God’s mind.
I remember the first time I explained this in a theology class and literally witnessed a couple of students weep. They claimed it was a revolution in their thinking since it meant that heaven no longer harbored an adversary. Now when I speak about the cross, I never fail to reinforce the important conclusions of a sound Trinitarian theology.
John the Baptist and charismatic leadership. The impulse to follow a charismatic religious leader is with us today as much as it was with the first disciples in the first century. We have simply replaced those ancient names (e.g., Apollos, Paul, John, Peter) with contemporary names of spiritual heroism and theological insight. It is not as if we are less committed to God because we elevate these leaders. All of this is taking place indeed in a spiritual context! It is simply that these leaders’ view of the religious life, their formulation of community and conviction, and their ability to captivate our imaginations and emotions make them models worthy of a following. In some cases these are nationally known names, men and women whose writing and speaking become the model against which a pastor’s sermons and skills are compared. In other cases, these are local leaders, people who have found great influence in the parish and who truly have a “following.”
The easiest thing to do at this point is to compare such modern leaders with John the Baptist in John 3 and point out that the problem is not necessarily with their contributions, but with their followers, who have a personal interest in elevating them to levels that the leaders would not accept for themselves. John the Baptist was doing exactly what God had gifted and called him to do; contemporary leaders are often doing the same. But their followers exploit the leader’s stature as a means of leveraging their own power or position in the kingdom of God.
It does not take the average pastor much imagination to recall times when laypersons have argued, “But John Stott sees it differently.” Or, “The pastor of the Vineyard Fellowship is really in touch with God.” These pastors and theologians are not in error. But in some cases their admirers employ their names in order to discredit those whom God has called into local leadership. By pointing to their hero John, the Baptist’s followers could effectively eliminate their obligation to shift their efforts to Jesus and support his work for the kingdom.
My local community recently provided me with a perfect example. I know a charismatic, influential teacher who joined a growing local church, gained a strong following, and then after two years found himself at odds with the pastoral leadership. He left, discrediting the church’s leadership as he departed. This month I learned that over a hundred people are “leaving” with him and that now he is going to launch his own church. All of this behavior is disguised in religious language; but in this case, this leader needs to take a lesson from John the Baptist: He must become less while Jesus becomes greater. Make no mistake, of course; he would quickly say that Jesus is “increasing” thanks to his independent, groundbreaking work. Perhaps this is the root of the problem: Religious allegiances are so deceptive they trick those who cherish them dearly.
John 3:22–36 is all about the fragmentation that results in the kingdom of God when Jesus is made to compete with human vessels in this world. No one will admit that they are competing with Jesus. No one will say that they are impeding the kingdom’s growth. Words like envy, jealousy, and rivalry are never admitted. But just as the Baptist’s followers were interested in making him into an institution, so too the Christian church can become a human institution built on the foundation of human enterprise and personality.
At the core of the Baptist’s argument against his followers’ views is an understanding of Jesus that sets him apart from every other human being. Jesus Christ is superior to any other person on earth. He has “come from above,” he has been sent by God, and God has given him the Spirit without limit. The Baptist cannot rival these credentials. Therefore every form of human wisdom, every form of religious expression, must be seen as secondary to the revelation that we possess in Jesus Christ. Indeed, every charismatic teacher and every gifted leader must decrease so that Jesus alone is seen as preeminent.
Last month I was flying home alone from the Middle East on the Israeli airline, El Al. My seat companion for eleven hours was an articulate orthodox Jewish woman whose husband was completing a Ph.D. in psychology at Northwestern University in Chicago. She was headed back to Chicago to join him. She asked what I did for a living almost before the pilot pulled up the wheels above Tel Aviv. By the time we were over Greece, we had locked into a dense theological discussion about Jesus and his relationship with Jewish religious thinkers through the ages. I knew better than to begin a debate about Jesus’ messianic credentials; this was a theme that the synagogues in Israel speak about regularly. Instead, I framed the “question of Jesus” around the nature of rabbinic authority. I could see she was intrigued.
Jesus was not, I argued, simply about the fulfillment of prophecy. I agreed to set that subject aside (whereupon she noticeably relaxed). With the theologies of Nicea and Chalcedon as my targets, I argued that Jesus was a mystery, a self-revelation of God that had not happened before in human history. Jesus was more than a rabbi, even more than a prophet. To her objection that my Christology was idolatry, violating the second commandment, I reached for an analogy that fit her frame of reference. God can occupy holy space, I argued, and this is what defined the sanctity of the Most Holy Place in the temple, where stone and wood took on properties that were beyond human touch and comprehension but which nevertheless retained their original form in the world.28 What if God did this same thing in human flesh? What if God disclosed himself dramatically, descending from heaven, assuming the form of humanity in order to communicate with us and deliver us? If God was in Christ like this, I urged, then we have an utterly new model of revelation surpassing anything found in Moses’ words in Torah or in the ongoing insights of Mishnah and Talmud.
I recall that at this moment she raised her finger to make us pause. “And here is precisely where Judaism and Christianity truly take separate paths,” she noted. I agreed. As the hours flew by, we discussed the importance of finding common ground where the synagogue and church might meet. Monotheism, ethics, justice—these were all common themes. But she knew now with certainty that there is a pivotal theological issue that will forever keep us apart. I cannot say that Jesus was just a rabbi or sage or prophet. Jesus was not like John the Baptist. Jesus is God in descent. Jesus is God incarnate. This is the starting point of every Christology—not the wisdom of Jesus, his perfection, or his fulfillment of prophecy.
It is this starting point that John the Baptist is driving home to his followers. “The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is from the earth belongs to the earth, and speaks as one from the earth” (3:31). Jesus is above all. His words are above every human word. When we speak about Jesus today, the same theme must resonate from every pulpit and lectern. Jesus is God in descent. Jesus is important and glorified not because his teaching is winsome, but because has come from the very heart of the Father. Indeed, he and the Father are one.