The Gospel of John is among the richest and most beautiful of the canonical gospels. And Holy Week is John’s time to shine. Our lectionary is divided up into a three-year cycle, where each of the three synoptic gospels are read. But John’s richness gives it a special place, and as a result the Fourth Gospel* is a traveling work, being read throughout all three years, especially on Good Friday.


But this regularity also causes us a perennial problem: what do we do about John’s references to “the Jews?”


By now it should be no secret to anyone that Christians have a pretty awful record when it comes to our treatment of the Jews. Marginalization and flare-ups of shocking violence have occurred with shocking consistency throughout our history. And while the Holocaust was perpetuated in the name of an insane form of neo-pagan revivalism, German Christians were a bit too eager to embrace scholastic traditions that sought to remove Jesus from His Jewish context**—part of an antisemitic tradition going back as far as (at least) Martin Luther.***


A significant part of this comes from the ways in which we have read John’s gospel.


John’s gospel, more than the others, makes numerous references to “the Jews.” Consider one of the early passages (John 2:13-25, where Jesus chases out the money-changers in the Temple):


‘The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.’


In this instance we see how the author of the gospel is using “the Jews” in an instructive way. John’s gospel is written late, probably in the year 86 CE or so. By this time, Christianity had taken a strong root among Gentiles. Saint John’s community was likely very Greek and, in some cases, the gospel bearing his name is trying to teach things.


But then the passage goes on:


‘The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?”’


Here, “the Jews” is referring to a group of people. Taken baldly, it comes across as though Jesus is having a confrontation with a group of people who happen to be Jews. But the context is crucial because Jesus is not dealing with “Jews-in-general.” Instead, Jesus is dealing with Jewish religious authorities.


So, in some cases “the Jews” is shorthand for “Jewish religious authorities.” Why is this?


Well, remember how we already mentioned that John’s gospel was likely written in the late 80s of the Common Era? So, an important thing happened in Jewish history a little more than a decade prior. In the year 70 the Romans destroyed the temple in Jerusalem as a result of a seditionist movement. And around this time a clear distinction between Christians and Jews came into being. So the author of John’s gospel is writing in such a way as to make a religious distinction between Jews and Christians.


The author is not considering ethnic qualities here. One of the major themes of John’s gospel is that Jesus is fulfilling Jewish prophecy and scripture. In fact, peeling back the layers, one could argue that John’s gospel is pretty deeply Jewish in terms of its theology.**** But the author is also writing to a community of people who are not Jews. The author is also coming off of a period of time where early Gentile Christians were being pressured into things like circumcision, having to basically become Jews in order to be Christians (arguing against this notion is pretty much the entirety of Saint Paul’s letters). So, it makes sense that the author would make distinctions in the text in order to maintain a line of demarcation between what was “Jewish” and what was “Christian.”


John’s gospel is quite nuanced. Unfortunately, nuance is not a human strong suit. Which brings us to passages like:


‘Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and crucify him; I find no case against him.” The Jews answered him, “We have a law, and according to that law he ought to die because he has claimed to be the Son of God.”’ (John 19:6-7)


‘[Pilate] said to the Jews, “Here is your King!” They cried out, “Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!” Pilate asked them, “Shall I crucify your King?” The chief priests answered, “We have no king but the emperor.” Then he handed him over to them to be crucified.’ (John 19:14-16)


These references come from the NRSV, which still serves as the standard translation for many churches, ours included. And the way “the Jews” is used in these passages reads as though an entire race of people are to be blamed for the crucifixion of Jesus. But, given the context, “the Jews” is a term that refers to particular religious authorities—a relatively small group of people who have arrested Jesus and thrown Him in front of Pilate.


So, what are we to do? Do we exhaustively rehash this nuance every year?


One thing that we might do is to consider using different translations of the Bible.


I’ve been pretty vocal in my support of the Common English Bible translation and another good reason to embrace its regular use is that it quite masterfully renders “the Jews” in passages like John 19 as “Jewish leaders.” It might not be a translation that is accurate in terms of its adherence to the letter of the original Greek text, but it is a translation that is far more accurate in terms of the author’s intent (this is a conversation in translations circles about the merits of “dynamic” versus “formal” equivalence—it’s as thrilling a topic as you’re probably imagining).


Using the CEB will allow us to better address the tragic dimensions of the Passion narrative. Far from this being about an entire ethnic group being guilty of Jesus’ death, it’s rather about a group of religious leaders twisted into fearful individuals willing to let an innocent man die because it would mean a maintaining of a shred of the status quo. Remember, the Romans were actively crucifying Jews during Passover celebrations throughout history because it was a time where riots and rebellions would break out.† The Pharisees and Sadducees were well aware of this and the risk that the Romans would kill more Jews and restrict more freedoms. This sort of political oppression fostered the tendency toward capitulation that lead to Jesus’ arrest and death.


Yes, Jesus was handed over to the Romans by His own people—particularly the religious leaders of His own people. But they did so as the result of a deeply broken world defined by death and fear—a world lousy with, in a word, sin. This is why Jesus can say, as recorded in one of the other gospels, “Father forgive them, they know not what they do.” Jesus recognizes how twisted up the world had become.


So, no. “The Jews” did not kill Jesus and we would do well to remember that fact.




NOTES


* Something to keep in mind when we talk about the gospel entitled “John” is that we don’t actually know who wrote it. At no point does the gospel give us an author’s name—preferring instead the phrase “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” The “John” identification is the result of conjecture and historical tradition. At this point, the reigning scholarly consensus is that the Apostle John founded a community in Asia Minor (centered in Ephesus), and shared his stories of Jesus. John’s disciples later recorded and collected those stories. For this reason, some prefer the title “the Fourth Gospel.” For the purposes of the article I will be referring to “the author” instead of “John.”

​

** For a great book about this history, see Aryan Jesus by Susanna Heschel




*** Luther’s On The Jews And Their Lies is a terrifying work that is largely responsible for the deep German antisemitism that came to deadly fruition in the 19th and 20th centuries. In it, Luther calls for the burning of synagogues and schools in order to promote conversions among the Jews.




**** Consider the vaunted prologue in the first chapter of the Fourth Gospel, which is rooted very much in the philosophy of a Jewish thinker named Philo of Alexandria




† This is because the Passover was a celebration of the time that God empowered Moses to lead Israel out of bondage. Hearing that story year after year would inevitably lead certain individuals to muster the people against the powers that be.

We began this series asking an important question: what is liturgy?


It is at this juncture that we ask the next important question: what is language?


The members of the rector’s forum (from which these essays arise) answered this question by saying that language is a means of communication, a means toward community, a tool necessary for our survival, the ability to reason, to cooperate etc. And this is all true and accurate. Language is a technique we humans evolved and is indeed a gift.


I spend a fair amount of time at Walt Disney World. One of our favorite rides is Space Ship Earth at EPCOT, which traces the history of human communication—starting with humans coordinating in order to take down the mastodon and all the way into the development of personal computers. First we spoke, then we drew pictures, after that we started writing, followed by printing, and then typing. It’s an inspiring story told through animatronics and the voice of Dame Judi Dench. But it gives us a lot the “hows” of human language, but little in the way of “why.”


Many animals have language. Dogs and cats, for instance, communicate through a combination of vocalizations and pheromone dispersal. Dolphins and whales have various clicks and musical tones. And so on.


But language for humans is something beyond this sort of rudimentary utilitarianism. Language, for us—and intrinsically to us—reveals deep relationships between the ways in which we think.


For instance, consider the word “cat.” ​

This is the English term that we use for a particular type of four-legged carnivorous mammal. There is much debate in etymological circles over the development of this word, but there seems to be some notion of “cat” relating to femininity (“kad’wa” is one possible root, which is Proto-Utaric for “female of a furry animal”). So, this means that, for some ancient peoples this ancient animal was named as result of recognizing qualities deemed “feminine.”


But in Mandarin Chinese, the name for this animal is “mao.” This is because “mao” is what the cat says (we’d say “meow” in English). Effectively, the animal gets to name itself.


This raises interesting questions about the ways in which different people think about a common thing. What’s the relationship one has with an animal if they allow the animal to name itself? What’s the relationship with applying a name onto an animal? What’s the relationship when that name comes from recognizing qualities of the animal? How do we see it?


In terms of expansive and inclusive language, knowing all these names for the animal known to us as a “cat” allows us to have a richer experience of that animal. For the one who only knows it because of vocalizations, seeing “feminine” qualities in the animal is important. For the one who’s only ever known it by the name projected onto it, considering that the animal might have a say in the matter (no pun intended) is also important.*


This is a brief introduction to the study of linguistics and how it begins to overlap with philosophy and theology.


Let’s take it a bit further and consider the word “God.”


Every now and then I’ll see someone write “G-d” instead of “God.” This, in my experience, is a Jewish discipline rooted in respect for the Divine Name (and is a thing that I’ve also seen among liberal Christians**).


Writing “G-d” is in keeping with a well-established tradition of not saying יהוה (the English equivalent is YHWH). This is known in Hebrew as “HaShem,” or “The Name,” and is the name given to Moses at the burning bush. It is often translated into English as “I AM WHO I AM” in Exodus (but rendered as “Lord” elsewhere in the Old Testament). Here’s a little lesson in Hebrew:


The Hebrew language is an ancient language, characterized by its lack of vowel characters. Vowels in Hebrew are, traditionally, understood through context (this is still the case with Modern Hebrew). It is almost musical in that vowels are the sounds made between notes.


A group of Jewish scholars working between 6-10 AD known as the Masoretes added a system of points and marks to denote vowel sounds. But when they came to יהוה they did a couple of things.


Before I continue, I should mention that Jewish scribes believed in the sacredness of The Name to the extent that they would bathe before and after writing those four characters on the page. This is in keeping with the commandment: “Do not take my name in vain.” So, The Name always received reverential treatment.


For the Masoretes, working in this paradigm, the choice was made to avoid rendering this name pronounceable so that it couldn’t be used in vain. It also clued in the reader that another pronunciation should be made. Often, they would substitute “‘adonai.”*** Nowadays, you might hear “HaShem.”


Getting back to “G-d,” we find ourselves with an interesting question: does it make sense to remove the vowel from “God?” It does if this is the name of the one we call God.


But here’s the dilemma: God’s name is not “God.”


God is an English word that comes from a lengthy linguistic lineage beginning with a “Proto-Indo-European" word: “ghutom” (rooted in the word for “to call or invoke”).


There are a number of Hebrew words translated as “God” in English. One of the most prominent is the word “Elohim.” This is the word that appears in the first chapter of Genesis.


Elohim is a plural word. The singular word is “El” and is borrowed from the Canaanite language (and was likely the supreme deity of ancient Canaanite religion)†. It is a word for power.


Ancient Jews did something interesting with this name. It seems that “elohim” was used in the Canaanite religion to denote something similar to the Greek “Pantheon,” or the collective term for all the deities. When Canaanites referred to “elohim” they were talking inclusively about all the powerful beings in the heavens. But the Jews, following what was revealed to them through Abraham, came to believe in a single divine being.


Without getting into the arguments about biblical authorship, some of the earliest compilers of the biblical stories preferred to use the Canaanite language for this deity. Their belief, in effect, was that “Elohim” was an all-inclusive deity. There was no need for many “gods” because this One encompassed them all.


Now, we have to remember that “el” is word for power. So “elohim” means “powers.” Or, “all-powerful.”


“God,” the English term, is a word for “one who is invoked.” “Elohim” is a biblical term for an all-powerful being.


There’s a bit of a complicated bit of history to consider. First, we have to remember that English-speaking peoples were evangelized by the Latin-speaking Western Church. This Church used the Vulgate as their Bible, which was a Latin translation of the Septuagint (the Greek Old Testament that was standard for Jesus and Saint Paul, among others) and the Greek-written gospels and letters of Jesus’ disciples. Latin borrowed “Deus” from the Greek “Theo.” Both of these terms were used to refer to the Elohim of the Old Testament.


So when English-speaking people first heard of “Deus,” they needed to understand what that word meant. The simplest way to convey a message between languages is to look for cognates (words that share the same root) or synonyms. Like with “cat.” You point at the animal and say “cat” and a Chinese person will point and say “mao.” So, when trying to introduce the Christian religion to Anglo-Saxon pagans, the word being used for the supreme deity was “god.”


And so, here we are.


But now we have to ask ourselves if these are actually equivalent words.


Again, “God” refers to one who is invoked. On the surface, there’s nothing inherently wrong with this term. But it does expose, perhaps, some of our relationship to this deity in the English-speaking West. If we worship someone “who is invoked” does this not speak to our propensity to treat this being as someone we largely turn to when we need something—only when he is invoked or called upon?††


And while there is biblical language for “calling upon the Lord,” this is only part of what the Bible says. Elohim refers to power, a multi-faceted kind of power. The All-Powerful One.


So, in a word, no, “God” and “Elohim” are not equivalent terms. There’s a reason that the Hebrew scriptures have a multitude of names for the One we call “God.” Not titles, mind, but actual names.


This underscores the importance of fostering expansive and inclusive language. For starters, it’s consistent with the Bible. It also helps us have a broader view of the One we worship. Yes, we call upon Him. We also recognize that He is all-powerful. That He is all-merciful. That He is Lord of Lords, above all rulers and authorities.




Now, we talk a bit about the relationship between liturgy and language.


A few years back, a couple of my clergy peers were discussing the Eucharist and we got into the discussion about who the prayer is for. One person noted that it was a prayer and, therefore, it is directed at God. Another person said that it didn’t really make sense because there’s all this stuff that God already knows being said, like the words of institution and bits of historical narrative.


This perfectly encapsulates the nature of the liturgy. Remember, liturgy is an offering. In the Eucharistic prayer we even refer to it as “this sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” The word sacrifice, by the way, is a Latin word that refers to “a sacred performance.” We associate it with the ritual slaughter of animals, but that is only one form of sacred performance.


The English theologian Catherine Pickstock, in her book After Writing: On The Liturgical Consummation of Philosophy, says that language finds its fulfillment in liturgical expression. In other words, language was given to us by God so that we could direct it back to Him. Which is the nature of every gift from God—given in order to return, so that it could be given back.


We come to Him the way my children come to me and recount the fun things we’ve done together, the things I’ve done for them. I remember them (I was there!) but I delight in hearing them tell me the story.


Language is given so that we can have a relationship to The Holy One, the Creator. And not only that, language is given so that we might be able to worship Him. This we do whenever we gather as the body of Christ, sharing words and actions that are directed to His presence, a performance for and about God.




NOTES


*   Further, if the “feminine” aspect of “cat” is accurate, then it also reveals some interesting discussion on what “femininity” is all about—and does this reveal that a man made this determination? And does this effectively “other” anything that is female?


**  But I suspect that that is more rooted in “liberal” pluralistic/relativistic thinking/theology than it is in traditional Jewish theology. But I could be wrong and dismissive here…


***  This leads to an interesting quirk. Some of the Masoretes would add the vowels for the word “adonai” to YHWH so that the reader or chantor would be clued in to substitute “adonai” in that spot. But when you combine those vowels with the consonants YHWH you get something that sounds like “Ye-HO-vah.” Later English translators made the error of saying that “Jehovah” was a name for God. In Hebrew, this would be seen as kind of nonsense. So, now you know that “Jehovah” is not an accurate name for God.


†  “El” has a couple of interesting heritages. First, it is also the root of “elah,” another singular word for a deity. This made its way into Arabic as “Allah.” “El” is also part of Superman’s Kryptonian name (Kal-El). This is because Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, the creators of Superman, were Jewish and wanted to infuse some of their heritage into the character. The name is reminiscent to the Hebrew Qal-El, which would be “Voice of God.”


††  This also reveals our tendencies toward triumphalism. The Anglo-Saxon notion of “god” speaks to tribalistic beliefs and the representative “gods” that are called upon in the day of battle.




EXTRA:   At this point, it’s probably good to talk about pronouns for this One. There is a tendency to rely on “God” as a substitute for “Him.” Instead of saying “God is in His holy temple,” our more “progressive” liturgies might substitute “God is in God’s holy temple.”


But this is awkward, right? We wouldn’t say “Chuck is in Chuck’s car.”


Proponents of this approach rightly note that our supreme Being is beyond gender. At the same time, the Bible always refers to The Holy One using masculine pronouns. Additionally, we Christians believe that The Holy One is decisively revealed through the man Jesus Christ. Jesus is The Holy One. So when we speak of the Being often called “God” we are speaking of Jesus and vise versa.


You may notice that there’s a tendency to capitalize the pronouns used for The Holy One. This is rooted in a longstanding custom to denote reverence for God. But I get a little weird with it, personally.


When I write “He” instead of “he,” in my mind I’m denoting the distinctiveness of The Holy One. He is not either “she” nor “he.” Rather, He is “He.” Now, I know that this doesn’t satisfy the auditory sounds and it’s still technically a gendered pronoun. But, for me, this is one way in which I make a distinction about God.


I have good friends who refer to “Sister Holy Spirit” and pretty much always use “She” when referring to that person of the Trinity. I even do that sometimes. Using “She” to refer to The Holy One is still odd for many (including women!). It will take time, perhaps.