John 1:10-18 Commentary

The world didn’t know what it has, but God keeps giving anyway. That grammatically incorrect sentence is my best quickfire attempt at summing up this Christmas dip into the Gospel of John’s prologue.

The world didn’t know that it had a gift waiting to be recognized and enjoyed. And because it could not recognize the gift as a gift, the world did not accept the gift.

Now go back through those two sentences and replace it with “we” or if you’re feeling extra brave, “I.” What sorts of things do not look or feel like gifts in the moment? Usually the circumstances, people, or things that we recognize will throw our world upside down—the ones we haven’t accounted for… the reminders that things are not within our control. We reject these gifts because they were not on our wish list sent out with the party invites.

But there are some who have learned to receive gifts in all their various, surprising forms. Those who receive this particular gift that is God and come to believe in the one who turns everything in the world upside down, are able to accept what he gives: a new identity, a new calling, and a new acceptance in the family of God.

This contrast between being able to receive versus needing to control is summed up in the way that the gospel writer describes how we become children of God. We are born not of anything human—neither blood nor desire—only something Godly. And just as quickly as we’re brought to the otherworldiness of our new identity, we’re brought right back down to earth with this God: he “became flesh and lived among us.”

Taking some liberties with the imagery conjured up after just watching a child unwrap presents, when I hear that we have “seen his glory” and I imagine that scene on the transfiguration on the mountain that comes much later in the story, I picture Jesus aglow, flesh wrapping and all.

But I also recognize in myself how difficult it can be for me to see what’s right in front of me—not because of the thing, but because of my own sight. A number of years ago I remember hearing about these sunglasses that helped people who were colourblind see colour. I went down the rabbit hole of watching reaction videos as people came to terms with the depth of colour that is always present but they were unable to see on their own. This is how I think of my ability—our ability—to see the glory of Jesus Christ.

Think back to the Advent gospel lessons with me: even John, who could see Jesus and Jesus’s glory more clearly than most, had his moment where his vision was skewed while in prison. This “gift” of persecution was not one that John was excited to be experiencing. But having seen it before, having received the gift of God already in his life, even in that dark moment John turned to Jesus.

And the promise is that John, you, and me, we all receive “grace upon grace” in the gift that is Jesus. That grace upon grace is what will see us through the gifts we love and the ones we’re hesitant to take hold of. Grace upon grace is what will be our guide when the surprising gifts of life turn everything topsy-turvy and strip us of any ability to pretend that we have it all figured out.

No matter what, God promises that his grace will never end. With Jesus, grace and truth are part and parcel. And inside that gift? The love of the Creator, yearning to be received and known.

Textual Point

The Greek word ginomai (“be” or “become”) carries our passage, being used 5 times to describe both God and God’s creations. The world came into being through God. God gave the power to become children of God to those who believed. The Word of God became flesh and lived among us. John the Baptist understood Jesus the Christ to rank (be superior) to him. And in contrast to the law, grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. In contrast to eimi, ginomai immediately clues us into a process—that there is a nuance to becoming we don’t just automatically “be.” It is a word with texture and gives us lots of opportunity to explore what has become reality.

Illustration Idea

Charles Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities is perhaps best known for its opening lines: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” Dickens’s comparison does not end there, however. He goes on, “it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

While also establishing a comparison that hearkens the readers’ attention to their present time, I find the Gospel of John to pack a bit more punch. What shall we do with this gift of God?