John 18:1–19:16a

Original Meaning

Jesus’ Arrest (18:1–11)

THE OPENING WORDS of chapter 18 link the Passion story with the Farewell Discourse. Once Jesus completes these teachings (his farewell and prayer), he leads his disciples out of the city to a garden that he frequented (18:2; cf. Luke 22:39). The Synoptics also refer to this departure (Matt. 26:30; Mark 14:26; Luke 22:39). Since it is Passover, they are required to remain in the city precincts that night, and Bethany is beyond the permissible limit. East of Jerusalem’s walled city is a steep valley called the Kidron.14 This valley is a riverbed that remains dry most of the year but flows only following winter rains.15

Here they find a garden named by the Synoptics “Gethsemane.” We should not think of a decorative garden like those built for pleasure in Europe or North America. This is an olive grove (“Gethsemane” means olive press, Matt. 26:36; Mark 14:32), which grew along the west shoulder of the Mount of Olives.16 At this point, the Synoptic Gospels record Jesus’ prayer in the olive grove (Mark 14:32–42). John does not refer to it.

John’s account of the arresting party’s arrival (18:3–9) has dramatic interests that differ from the Synoptics (Mark 14:43–50). Judas (who departed the story in 13:30) knows the location as well (18:2) and therefore can lead the party to this location.17 While the Synoptics only mention a Jewish guard at the arrest, John refers to “a detachment of soldiers” (18:3) who appear alongside the Jewish police.18

The appearance of a Roman “detachment” (Gk. speiras) in this posse has posed historical problems for many. A cohort could consist of a thousand men (760 infantry, 240 cavalry) and be lead by a chiliarch (lit., leader-of-one-thousand, generally translated commander, captain, or tribune). These soldiers were based no doubt at Jerusalem’s Antonia Fortress, but it is not necessary to think that all of them are present. This is likely a detachment large enough to warrant bringing along their commander (18:12) and equipped with weapons (18:3b).19

During festival seasons the Romans were aware of the explosive atmosphere in the city, and reinforcements routinely came to Jerusalem. At the beginning, then, we have a signal of Roman interest in Jesus and a hint that Pilate may already be participating. The presence of chief priests and Pharisees recalls their appearances elsewhere in the Gospel (7:32, 45; 11:47, 57) and indicates that these leaders, priestly aristocrats and teachers of the law, who had plotted Jesus’ death earlier under Caiaphas’s direction (11:53), are now putting their plan into action. Therefore John’s portrait is clear: The entire world—both Jew and Gentile—has come against Jesus. Responsibility for what happens next rests with all of them.

But Jesus is not taken by surprise (18:4). In Mark 14:42 Jesus knows that Judas is coming before he arrives. Likewise here, Jesus’ foreknowledge (1:47–48; 6:6; 13:1) gives him the ability to see the arrest before it unfolds. He does not shrink from the moment but has already made the decision to lay down his life under his own volition (10:18). Therefore Jesus steps forward and asks the first question, “Who is it you want?” (which echoes Jesus’ first words in the Gospel; 1:38). The answer is surprising (18:5): “Jesus of Nazareth.” In John, reference to Jesus from Nazareth appears only here, in the title on the cross (19:19),20 and at 1:45. Although John does not refer to Nazareth stories, he is acquainted with sources also known to the Synoptics. It is likely at this point that, according to the Synoptics, Judas marks Jesus with a kiss (Mark 14:44).

Jesus identifies himself plainly (18:5–7) but this certainly means a great deal more than a mere self-identification. Jesus uses the “I am” formula we have seen elsewhere in the Gospel (e.g., 4:26; 8:24, 58), which no doubt recalls God’s divine name.21 John underscores this in 18:6, “When Jesus said, ‘I am . . . ,’ they drew back and fell to the ground.”

This verse does not describe unruly soldiers backing away and stumbling (Carson), nor is it about the psychological effect of Jesus’ personality on the mob (Morris). Rather, John creates another of his many ironic scenes: Jesus’ words provoke a response that even those who hear it likely do not understand. This is the biblical response of holy fear before the Lord (Ezek. 1:28; Dan. 10:9; Acts 9:4; 22:7; 26:14; Rev. 1:17). This is a theophany in which God has been revealed before mortals and the only response is to fall prostrate (Barrett, Brown, Beasley-Murray; see Ezek. 1:28; Isa. 6:5).

Jesus not only steps forward (thus taking charge of his own arrest), but he protects his followers from capture (18:8–9) and so fulfills what he said in 17:12 (cf. 6:39). Of those whom God has given to him, he has not lost one. Twice Jesus makes his captors say that he alone is the one they seek (18:5, 7). This recalls the image we have of Jesus the shepherd in chapter 10—not only laying down his life for his sheep (10:11, 17–18) but also preserving them and not letting them become victims left to the wolves (10:12).

John alone tells us that Peter is the one who draws out his sword and strikes the high priest’s slave, whom John names as Malchus (18:10–11; cf. Matt. 26:51–53; Mark 14:46–47; Luke 22:49–51). The suggestion that we locate the origin of the name Malchus in Zechariah 11:6 (malchus means “my king”) is farfetched. It is not impossible, however, that John sees some ironic double meaning, insofar as the kingship of Jesus is one of the chief themes that runs through chapters 18–19. Peter’s sword is a machaira, a short sword or a long knife (probably worn with everyday garments), and Peter’s clumsy use of it shows something of the chaos of the scene. We know nothing more of the priest’s slave except that both John and Luke tell us that he loses his right ear. Luke closes the scene with Jesus’ healing of the man’s ear.22

Jesus then points to the “cup” the Father has given him to drink (John 18:11). This reference recalls the Synoptic Gethsemane prayer (Mark 14:36; but cf. John 12:27–28), but now the struggle with Jesus’ fate belongs to Peter, who cannot face the “cup” that includes the cross. Jesus, by contrast, understands that this is God’s will and so will not hesitate to embrace it.

Bridging Contexts

AS I NOTED at the beginning of this chapter (see comments on 18:1), the story of Jesus’ arrest and trial was essential for the earliest Christians and perhaps was one of the first explanations about Jesus’ life that circulated. It answered fundamental questions: How and why did the Messiah die? Therefore the story contains a precision and density that is striking, and it is not unusual to find incidental details of history anchoring it to eyewitness testimony. John reminds us explicitly that his story is based on an eyewitness report (19:35), and he adds footnotes along the way confirming his knowledge of the details (e.g., 18:1, 3, 10, 13, 18, 28; 19:13, 17, 20).

But this is also woven into a larger theological tapestry in which each Gospel writer—and John in particular—is giving an interpretation, a perspective of the meaning of these things. Our task, therefore, is not simply to understand the historical details of the story, but to discern the theological presentation. For instance, it is a historical fact that Jesus is given the title “king” during the trial and that this is tossed back and forth between Pilate and the temple leaders in seven carefully constructed scenes. But John so builds the story to disclose a deep irony in it, that Jesus is indeed Israel’s king and this is his coronation.

Hermeneutical decisions. The interpreter’s first task is to make some organizational decisions that will put the section into manageable units. The chapter divide at 19:1 is entirely arbitrary and was introduced no doubt so as not to interrupt the important sequence of events with Pilate. As the literary structure of the Pilate sequence shows (see above), this is a unified narrative designed for us to see its ironic climax at 19:1–5. The crucifixion narrative begins at 19:16b when Jesus is led away to Golgotha.

Therefore, what organization pattern might work best? I suggest that readers are well-served if they use the following outline on the section: (1) Jesus’ arrest (18:1–11); (2) Jesus’ Jewish trial (18:12–14, 19–24); (3) Peter’s denials (18:15–18, 25–27); (4) Jesus’ Roman trial divided into two subunits: (4a) Episode 1, kingship and truth (18:28–40); and (4b) Episode 2, preparation for the cross (19:1–16a). The cross and burial stories can easily be added as fifth (19:16b–37) and sixth (19:38–42) sections.

Our second task concerns the hermeneutical perspective from which the Passion story is told. There is always a tension in Gospel study since as an interpreter I have to choose between integrating the Johannine account into the details of the Synoptic story or reading John’s story alone from within his inner literary world. I do not believe we can avoid the first reading strategy, particularly when we have so much material in John that overlaps with the other three Gospels.

Nowhere is this more evident than in John 18–19. Our audiences (like John’s audiences) may know the rough outline, say, of Mark’s account. They may recall that it was Caiaphas who interrogated Jesus, but then are surprised to learn that in John, Annas speaks for the Jewish leaders. Inevitably, as an interpreter I must be in control of all the historical details that have shaped the story since my interest is not simply in John’s literary world, but the historical events that occurred in Jerusalem that Passover.

To integrate John with the other Gospels is a controversial decision, which would undoubtedly meet strong disagreement among many New Testament scholars. But it is a decision I feel I must make. It is Jesus’ suffering and death that I pursue as a theologian, not simply John’s understanding of his death. This means that I have to grapple with Synoptic parallels, even when merging these with John may be difficult or perhaps impossible. It also means that I have to grapple with extrabiblical materials that may illumine the significance of aspects of the story (such as the role of the Sanhedrin, the history of the Roman occupation, the nature of crucifixion)—details that John assumes his audience knows.

Once I have said this, however, I also want to listen to the voice of John. His story invites me to look through the lens of his particular understanding of these events. I must set aside the Synoptic story for a moment and concentrate on the portrait that he has carefully crafted for us. This means I need to experience the inner world of the Johannine Passion play, to know its stage well, to understand its symbols, and to see its characters unfold within the script.

To use an analogy: It is one thing to know the full details of the French Revolution; it is quite another to see it through the eyes of Victor-Marie Hugo’s Les Miserables. The play invites us to leave the revolution in the background momentarily (but without forgetting its details) so that we can trace the struggle of a few of its players from 1815 to 1832. Of course, Hugo fictionalizes his story (in order to explore personal themes) whereas John does not do this. Yet John is selectively reporting this story, which permits him to show us a view we may otherwise miss. John has a view of the arrest, the trial, and the cross that is uniquely his own. His views do not distort the reality of what happened in that fateful week, but rather they place elements of it in high relief, seeing it through the eyes of faith.

The responsibility for Jesus’ death. What then are the primary Johannine perspectives on the Passion of Jesus? Two major themes stand out. For one thing, John is making a claim about the responsibility for Jesus’ death. He has developed the Pilate story in such a manner as to underscore the role of the temple leadership in Jesus’ conviction. Multiple times Pilate calls for Jesus’ release, charging that he is innocent. In response, the leaders call for Jesus’ death and the release of Barabbas. Pilate again and again labels Jesus as “king” and ironically permits his troops to crown him, while the Sanhedrin leadership points to Caesar as their true king.

As I noted at the beginning of chapter 18, it is vital to remember that John is not pointing to the ongoing responsibility of Judaism for Jesus’ death. Centuries of Christian anti-Semitism are indefensible and may not be anchored here. But having said this, we must face squarely the fact that John does see the responsibility lying with their leadership. Judaism was betrayed by its leaders this Passover. Caiaphas and Annas represent men whose devotion to their religious careers and the political status quo exceeded their willingness to see God at work in Jesus. They have become the dangerous shepherds of chapter 10, whose interest in the welfare of the flock has been superseded by their own self-preservation. Now as an interpreter I have to ask a difficult question: In my presentation of this material, do I simply tell the historical story (Jesus died at the hands of Pilate through the manipulations of the Sanhedrin), or do I go beyond the story and see here a paradigm, a model of bad shepherds at work?

The kingship of Jesus. The other major theme that threads itself through chapters 18–19 has to do with the kingship of Jesus. From the wounded man in the garden (Malchus, meaning “my king”) to Jesus’ sustained discussion with Pilate, the word “king” occurs over a dozen times. Even on the cross, Pilate insists that Jesus be labeled “King of the Jews” instead of the compromising “This Man Said, I Am King of the Jews” (cf. 19:21). The remarkable thing from John’s perspective is that all of this is going on while the characters on his stage do not know it is going on. In a manner similar to the misunderstandings accompanying the signs and discourses, the divine revelation at work in the world in Christ cannot be perceived by the natural eye.

John the writer, however, has a dilemma. If he wants us to see this process at work, he must give his readers an “eye” that can see beneath the surface; he must make his readers “insiders” to the true story so that we can see the clouded vision and the incorrigible attitudes of these players. If we gain this view—if we see these people stumbling in the darkness, unable to see the true king in their midst—he has then challenged us with their predicament. If the kingship of Jesus was being submerged in the politics of Jerusalem, can this happen today? If political operators and renowned theologians exploited God’s Son then, how might it happen again? Of course, what we have just done is made a hermeneutical decision, casting John’s story out of the sphere of the historical and into the present century by looking within it for a paradigm of meaning that places us on the same stage as some of John’s players.

But despite the darkness of the story, John is quick to assure us that God’s glory is nevertheless as work. This is the King of glory, now arrayed before Israel. God is at work within these events (this is “the hour” he planned from the beginning) and Jesus is still in control. He asks the questions and makes the judgments. He alone has power that comes from “above.” Despite the difficulties of the world’s treatment of God and his Son, God will prevail. God’s glory and power cannot be suppressed or be contained by the plots of human antagonists.

Secondary issues. In addition to these two themes there are a few secondary issues that spring from this passage, and we would do well to explore their implications. (1) When Jesus refers to Pilate’s power in 19:11, is he acknowledging the divine authority of the state? Interpreters have frequently made this suggestion and it has had lasting implications for how the church has viewed the power of government.

(2) When Jesus describes his kingdom as “not of this world,” is he giving us guidelines for how God’s people, the church, ought to consider life in the secular world? Does this imply that Jesus’ followers should be apolitical, disengaged? As Peter should not fight in the garden, so too should we not fight in Congress or Parliament?

(3) The denials of Peter are secondary to the main thrust of the chapters (even though they are some of the most frequently used verses in sermons). They convey something important about the frailty of discipleship and the sovereign knowledge and sustaining power of God. Peter’s role in this Gospel is important and we will look at it in chapter 21 with some care. But here we see the beginnings of a portrait not unlike that found in Mark.

Contemporary Significance

ANY REFLECTIVE READING of these chapters demonstrates at once that John has offered us a highly nuanced presentation of Jesus’ Passion. John is writing a superb story with layers of meaning, layers that we must unpack.

The betrayal of leadership. This is a story about collusion, not cooperation. This is not a story about priests and governors working amiably together for the public good. Of course Caiaphas, one of its chief actors, would like to make that claim: “You do not realize that it is better for you that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish” (11:50). But as readers of the story we know better—that the benefit this death brings is not what Caiaphas comprehends. Caiaphas was right—and terribly wrong; that is the essence of John’s satire.

This is a story about collusion, about secret agreements with some fraudulent purpose, about conniving and conspiring. This is a story about the betrayal of leadership, how Judaism’s high priests abandoned all pretense of devotion to God and decided instead to conspire with the military arm of Rome. Remarkably the leaders are willing to trade Barabbas for Jesus (18:40) and Caesar for God (19:16); their pursuit of pragmatic goals makes them unable to discern the difference between a terrorist and a good shepherd, a statue of Tiberius and the God of Abraham. All Judaism did not reject Jesus—the crowds cheering him on Palm Sunday bear testimony to his many followers—but Judaism’s leadership did everything in its power to sabotage his successes.

While it would be easy enough to chastise the Sanhedrin’s behavior, tell its incriminating story, and outline its failure to uphold the excellent judicial system known in Jerusalem, John may yet have more to say to us. As we have seen multiple levels of meaning throughout this Gospel (the woman at the well is not just about Jewish and Samaritan worship, but our worship too, 4:21–24), I am troubled to think that this story may have a similar double entendre.

The most obvious actor in this drama is Pilate. He wins the greatest number of lines and appears at almost every major scene that directly affects the outcome of Jesus’ fate. Even though he was not at the arrest, he is in the background, represented by his troops. No governor at this season would send a detachment this size to arrest a man without studying the issues. When Jesus is finally handed to him after an entire night’s interrogation, Pilate asks all the right questions, but for all the wrong reasons. When he hears the truth he disputes it; when he is challenged he makes a mockery even of the concept of truth. “What is truth?” (18:38a) has a sinister and contemporary ring to it, and this is how John intends for us to hear it.

With Pilate we unmask the secular betrayal of leadership that surrounds us at every turn. When asked to produce its moral compass, when examined on the basis of its virtues, we can hear the words of Pilate ringing again. “What is virtue?” “What is right?” “What is truth?” One of the most famous scenes of 1998 shows Bill Clinton asking, “What is sexual intercourse?” as his defense crumbles and he finally admits to having a lurid affair with Monica Lewinski. It is Pilate replayed for another century. Thirty years earlier we heard Lyndon Johnson talking publicly about a “just and lasting peace” as B52 bombers pounded Vietnam. “What is peace?” was the question no one would answer. I was a Reserve Navy chaplain during the Gulf War in the early 1990s and recall pressing the moral virtue of carpet-bombing hundreds of thousands of forced conscripts on the Iraqi front, or starving hundreds of thousands of Iraqi children for many years with an embargo. “What is justice?” a senior Naval officer with four gold stripes asked me. He wore Pilate’s uniform.

How often do the Pilates of our world pursue a course of pragmatism and expediency, protecting their own self-interest, using the rhetoric of righteousness, feigning an interest in truth—but when backed into a corner, when pressed to make a decision with social consequences, they crumble? “What is truth?” is the question you ask when truth is the last thing you want to hear. In the end, Pilate is of the “world” and so represents a system that is filled with darkness. He may intuit the light, as Pilate senses that something is wrong with this verdict, and he may make gestures toward truth, as when Pilate tries to free Jesus. But when the deal-makers arrive, when the pollsters report what it is that will secure the future, all commitments are tossed out like yesterday’s newspaper. Pilate killed Jesus. He did not have the resolve to act on what his instincts were telling him (“I find no basis for a charge against him,” 18:38). He is a failed leader.

But the most disturbing profile in this climax to the Gospel belongs to Annas and Caiaphas, figures who almost merge in the narrative. Caiaphas is the catalyst, the mover, the inspired leader of the Sanhedrin, who is willing to tell them all they are ignorant (“You know nothing at all!” 11:49) while he alone knows the secret of how to deal with Jesus. When word is out in the streets of Jerusalem that the leaders are seeking to kill Jesus (7:19, 25), we can sense Caiaphas’ shadow in the background. At Jesus’ arrest his temple guard serves alongside Pilate’s soldiers. He even puts his small company of men under the leadership of Judas (a remarkable scene!) in order to bring Jesus into custody. It is Caiaphas who delivers Jesus to Pilate and from Jesus’ point of view, Caiaphas will be held accountable for this decision (19:11).

It is curious that nowhere is Judas incriminated for his deed during these chapters. He is a lackey, a pawn in a larger game, and no doubt in Gethsemane he is summarily pushed to one side. Later when Jesus squares off with the true power-brokers of the temple, he has arrived at the nodal point of darkness.

The essence of Jesus’ only interview with the temple leaders is that Jesus requests a fair trial. There is no theological debate (as in the Synoptics). We do not even hear Annas’s voice. Jesus simply wants an honest hearing wherein the evidence can be displayed and witnesses heard. He wants the public things he has done made known so that everyone can see them and make a judgment. But Jesus does not get what he wants; his request is answered with a slap (18:23).

This request is precisely what we possess in the course of the entire Gospel. Signs, witnesses, discourses—all have been paraded before us so that we may make our judgment on the truth of Jesus. John has thus taken the essence of Jesus’ trial and organized it into the structures of his Gospel.61 We now hold in eighteen chapters the material evidence against Jesus. Therefore we know the evidence accessible to these leaders; we know the basis of their judgment; as we read the Gospel, we stand with these leaders, weighing what Jesus has said and done. As we hear the tone of chapters 5, 8 and 10, we can hear echoes of the tone that flew at Jesus during his late-night interrogation.

With Caiaphas and Annas we unmask the religious betrayal of leadership. But when we read between the lines, we learn that in the end theology does not matter for these men. Caiaphas is concerned about the preservation of the state and the outcome of politics (11:50). His lieutenants are primed to call for Barabbas’s freedom as quickly as they can call for Jesus’ crucifixion. They have done their homework. When they see Pilate vacillating, they play political hardball (19:12), issuing a fatal threat to the man’s career and labeling Jesus as a genuine enemy of the empire. Their final words on this stage appear at 19:15, where they hoist up their patriotic flag higher than the highest temple rampart, putting Caesar above God.

What can we make of these men? This is more than a story about the miscarriage of justice. It is more than a disturbing parable of an innocent man dying without justice. This is a story of religious corruption, of spiritual leaders who slaughter the sheep and ruin the flock (cf. Ezek. 34). This is the story of priests who have bent the knee before Rome, not the temple; who have viewed God’s people as a power base, a social construct, a force among other political forces, an agent of change in the politics of change, and themselves as worthy brokers with the pagan power-broker from the Roman Senate. In their secret conspiracy to eliminate one man, a man who could upset their carefully-built equilibrium, they sacrifice their souls.

In the end, they are in the world as much as Pilate is; yet, disturbingly, they do not show any of Pilate’s reserve or regret. Being trained experts at ethics they know how ethics can be bent; being theologians adept at religious language, they know how to manipulate it for public consumption. Caiaphas is a parable as much as he is a man. He is a Christian in Washington cutting deals with political action groups. He is a theologian at denominational headquarters winning respectability by cutting out ancient and cherished beliefs—no, revising them for the modern world in order to gain the respect of Caesar, in order to make the church palatable for the world. Caiaphas kills Jesus. In his theological wisdom and hard-earned ecclesiastical prestige, he has lost sight of God. He is a failed leader.62

Jesus the king. Earlier in this chapter I outlined the literary structure of Jesus’ conversation with Pilate in order to show that John’s construction of the story is designed to focus on a central turning point located at 19:1–3. While the word “king” appears throughout the seven inverted sections, this central section could be deemed the “coronation” of Jesus, as ironically, Jesus is now given his robe and crown. Note how the lines “mirror” one another.

1 Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged.

2 The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head,

3 They clothed him in a purple robe;

2′ went up to him again and again, saying, “Hail, king of the Jews!”

1′ And they struck him in the face.

This structure is a clue to us to look deeply at what is really going on within the narrative. John’s Passion story is like a symphony, which seems to pursue one theme: the sorrow of Jesus’ departure, his rejection by many, the dismay of the disciples, the betrayal of Judas, the denials of Peter, Jesus’ immanent death—each of these are a part of the “hour” that beats its way through virtually every chapter of the Gospel. Particularly for readers who know the Synoptic version, this theme has all the makings of a tragedy.

But then there is a counterpoint, a secondary theme that works its way to the surface and makes itself known confidently but unobtrusively, a theme that could be missed if you were not watching for it. This is not the tragedy we think; this is not a moment for panic; there is something hopeful happening, something we didn’t see at first glance: This scene, this hour does not belong to Pilate or Caiaphas, it belongs to Jesus. Jesus is in control of the situation. John 18:4 reminds us at the outset that nothing will take Jesus by surprise. He asks the questions, he takes the lead, he steps forward and presents his captors with queries that make them stumble. It isn’t just the guards who fall to the ground in Gethsemane (18:6), but Annas and Pilate discover themselves plunging head-over-heel, made captive to questions they cannot answer.

John’s story reads like a medieval drama, where the true king of a tortured land, whose rightful rule has been temporarily overthrown, moves among the masses and is known only to a select few. He wears no crown, but the leather and wool of the commoner. But we who watch the play know that the usurpers are doomed. Even if the true king is captured and threatened with destruction, there will be some intervention (Merlin?!) that will reverse these events and win the day. Jesus is the true king, the hidden king, whose victory is about to be cheered.

A simple exercise brings the counterpoint to light. Take a pencil and circle every reference to “king” (or kingdom, kingship) in the story and watch what happens. Jesus is Israel’s king, despite what his enemies are doing to him; Jesus is the true king, despite their refusal to recognize him. Perhaps when we see this, we see the greatest “misunderstanding” of the gospel. The spiritual irony John enjoys most is when people only apprehend the surface of Jesus’ identity or message. A woman at a well thinks he may show her a river; a rabbi on a Jerusalem night thinks he offers a return to the womb. But John delights in accounts of men and women betraying their ignorance, but also by their words disclosing the truths that even they do not see. Of course in 9:40 the Pharisees are not blind—but then again, yes, they are. Of course in 6:15 Jesus is not a king, hailed by an unruly mob—but then again, yes, he is. Of course Jesus must be crucified as a pretender to the throne—but then again, yes, the throne is his!

John’s theological message is that despite the darkness of the hour, this is in fact the hour of glory. Jesus will not be crucified, he will be “lifted up” (3:14; 8:28; 12:32, 34). He is not a victim, but a king assuming his throne, transforming death into a passage, a return, a celebration of his resumption of heavenly position. And no matter what the world may think about or do to this glory, this regal glory cannot be suppressed. People who least recognize the work of God inevitably pay homage to his presence, acknowledging that he is there. They intuit truth they try to suppress, but inevitably, the truth about God becomes known. This means, with Paul, that “they are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened” (Rom. 1:20–21).

The Passion story of John is indeed a story of tragedy, but it is not Jesus’ tragedy; it is a human tragedy as we witness the futile and tragic efforts of people blinded by darkness, unable to see the true king in their midst. Nevertheless, their reflexes (unknown to them) and their instincts still work. They are religious. They have spiritual fears and questions. “Where do you come from?” Pilate asks (19:9). But their life in the darkness has made them only intuit the light, not see it, recognize it, or submit to it.

Therefore John’s story says that God will accomplish his purposes, revealing his glory despite what is happening in the world. No human being can stop it. No person is capable of stifling the glory of God if God intends for that glory to be shown. God is in control of history, even this hostile, seemingly darkened chapter of history that offers little hope. If he is sovereign in places like this Passover during this particular year in Jerusalem, if he can manifest glory and accomplish his purposes when to the observer everything seems like defeat and disaster, our history can be no different. If God could transform this “hour” with glory, so too he can transform any hour.

Three secondary issues. (1) Church and state in 19:11. During Jesus’ final conversation with Pilate (19:8–11) the governor postures himself as a man of power. Pilate asks him: “Don’t you realize I have power either to free you or to crucify you?” Jesus then responds, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.” Is Jesus saying that Pilate enjoys a divinely authorized power? If so, this makes the passage fit closely Paul’s words in Romans 13:1, “Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.”

Among German interpreters (such as Bultmann) who have had to wrestle with the specter of Nazism and the abuse of state power, this text has become the source of real theological agony.63 Their solution, sometimes seen today as a “reading in” of issues from another era, nevertheless bears some truth. Pilate is being reminded that his ultimate power does not come from the empire at all, but from God. It is not as if the work of the state enjoys a divine approval, but that the representatives of the state are being put on notice. Pilate thus must choose to follow either the truth revealed by Christ, a truth that finds its origin in God, or he must choose the world and its devices. When the state renounces its submission to God, it is immediately darkened and controlled by the world. As one writer puts it: “In place of the Roman governor offering the Jewish people the choice, ‘Which will you have, Jesus or Barabbas?’ the Jewish people offer the governor the choice, ‘Which will you have, Christ or Caesar?’ ”64 Pilate has little interest in the death of Jesus; but now at this moment he is confronted with a choice. Does his real power derive from Caesar or God? Pilate chooses the former.

In other words, 19:11 understands that God is indeed at work within the work of the state (Rom. 13:1), but this is not said in order to provide an endorsement of God-given rights for the governor; it is to check the governor, to make him alert to the limitations of the excessive power he thinks he already owns. He too is accountable to God and subject to God’s work in the world. In fact, from John’s point of view, the best example of God’s power at work is found in the role he has given Pilate in “the hour.” Pilate has been assigned a task in the redemptive plan of God, whether he knows it or not.

(2) Politics and religion in 18:36. In his first conversation with Pilate, the governor asks Jesus about his kingship. No doubt Pilate saw Jesus’ answer as a harmless, sentimental response he could all but ignore: “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jews. But now my kingdom is from another place.” In context, of course, Jesus is eliminating any anxiety Pilate may have that he is indeed a political threat. Jesus does not deny he is a king, but he refuses to make his domain the same as that of the empire. Jesus is not a king in Pilate’s terms. He will not assume a secular interpretation of power.

But what does this mean for Christians? If our allegiance is to Christ, whose kingdom is not of this world, who is making no claim on the civil order of secular society, does this mean that Christians should be disengaged and passive? Verses like 18:36 have led to remarkable examples of Christian neutrality (or apathy) in the world.

While it is beyond the scope of this discussion to explore the theological problem of the church and the state (or “Christ and culture”), at least we can place some parameters on how this verse should be used. (a) Its exegesis is utterly bound to its historical setting. Jesus is refusing to accept the label and crown in Pilate’s question. Jesus is not a secular monarch, vying for rule; he is not building an army and palaces like so many other Caesars.

(b) Jesus refers to his heavenly kingship in order to explain its origins (18:37b) and its character, not its domain. He is a different king from a different place. He is not competing with Pilate for dominion. Jesus is sent by God, not assigned by the Imperium Romanum.

(c) Therefore 18:36 leaves open the possibility that indeed Jesus (and his followers), whose origins are from above, may speak to the world and its systems of governance while not envying the positions of power held by men like Pilate. Jesus may well have something to say to Pilate about the truth and the right use of power as he uses them in his rule. In fact throughout the course of the Gospel Jesus has been challenging the systems of the (Jewish) world at every turn. Christians are commissioned to do likewise.

(3) Peter’s denials in 18:15–18, 25–27. The account of Peter’s denials is not a unique feature of the Johannine story but has parallels in the three Synoptic Gospels. It is profitable to follow the profile of Peter up to this point in John’s Gospel. Unlike Mark’s Gospel, which provides a consistently critical portrait of the apostle’s heroics and shortcomings, John gives Peter a sterling role till now. He was a model disciple and among one of Jesus’ first converts (1:42). When many are scandalized at Jesus’ shocking words, he alone stands fast, urging that there is nowhere else to go to find eternal life (6:68). Because he respects Jesus deeply, he refuses to let him wash his feet (13:6); then, when he learns that this is a prerequisite for discipleship, he asks for a full bath (13:9). In the Upper Room when the disciples hear clearly Jesus’ prediction of his coming death, Peter is heroic, refusing to believe he will ever renounce his Lord (13:37). In the garden he impulsively, albeit sincerely, tries to defend his master with a sword (18:10). When Jesus is led away as a prisoner, Peter follows, refusing to let Jesus undergo this abuse by himself (18:15a).

But this great profile is overshadowed by his great failing at the high priest’s house. Numerous lessons spin out from this. Despite Peter’s prominence, despite his role as custodian of the faith and leader among the disciples, he can still deny it. This is a warning. Denial and faithlessness are always within reach for even the strongest disciple. I can understand Peter’s denials as he stands by the fire feeling threatened by Malchus’s relative and a circle of soldiers. But does he have to dispatch his faith the moment a young woman at the gate catches his sleeve? We dare not miss the pitifulness of this scene.

But perhaps what stands out in the Johannine story is Jesus’ continued interest in Peter. We will see this again in chapter 21, but can anticipate it here. John reports that Jesus renews his relationship with Peter later when he meets him in Galilee (21:1–17). He is still a man deeply loved and forgiven, a man with work to do for his master.

It was the real Peter who protested his loyalty in the upper room; it was the real Peter who drew his lonely sword in the moonlight of the garden; it was the real Peter who followed Jesus, because he could not leave his Lord alone; it was not the real Peter who cracked beneath the tension and who denied his Lord. And that is just what Jesus could see. . . . The forgiving love of Jesus is so great that He sees our real personality, not in our faithlessness, but in our loyalty, not in our defeat by sin, but in our reaching after goodness, even when we are defeated.65

Original Meaning

Jesus, Peter, and Annas (18:12–27)

ACCORDING TO JOHN’S rendition, Jesus is then taken to Annas (18:12–14), where he is interrogated (18:19–24) and simultaneously Peter is questioned in the courtyard (18:15–18, 25–27). The literary interlocking of these parallel stories invites us to contrast them and reflect on their symbolic value.

Under full armed arrest (note that both Roman and Jewish troops continue working together, 18:12), Jesus is brought to meet Annas, Caiaphas’s father-in-law. From the Kidron Valley they walk west across the city, climbing its western hill where archaeologists have recently discovered the wealthy “upper city” of Jerusalem, where Annas likely resided.23

Annas is well known even though he appears second to Caiaphas in the New Testament (Luke 3:2; John 18:13, 24; Acts 4:6). Josephus indicates that he was appointed in A.D. 6 but was removed from office in A.D. 15 by Valerius Gratus, Pilate’s predecessor. He continued to enjoy enormous influence, however, and considerable popular support since Judaism resented how the Romans controlled the high priesthood (his festival vestments were kept, for instance, in the Antonia Fortress). Five of Annas’s sons became high priests as well as his son-in-law Caiaphas. Thus Annas enjoyed great power and was the patriarch of an influential priestly family, well known for its wealth, power, and greed.

That John refers to Annas as “high priest” should not confuse since he clearly understands Caiaphas to be the ruling high priest and Jerusalem can only have one (18:24). Judaism understood that appointment to this position was permanent (Num. 35:25), so that when Rome removed such men, the continued use of this title became a courtesy. The Mishnah supports the ongoing holiness of such deposed high priests (Horayoth 3:1–2, 4), and Luke follows this practice when he mentions Annas in his Gospel (Luke 3:2).

That Jesus is sent first to Annas is plausible if he is the de facto power behind Caiaphas. This meeting may have been arranged in advance if Caiaphas (who originally determined that Jesus should die, 11:49–51) is seeking to broaden his base of support vis-à-vis Rome. Since Jesus remains with Annas until 18:24, we should assume that all generic references to the “high priest” until then refer to Annas (18:15, 16, 19, 22). Thus the interrogation in 18:19–24 represents the gist of Annas’s questioning.24 Some interpreters wonder if perhaps Caiaphas and Annas are together during this interrogation (thus making the references to “high priest” refer to Caiaphas), but this view struggles with what to do with 18:24.25

Each of the four Gospels record Peter’s denials of Jesus during his interrogation by the Jewish authorities. On one level Jesus has predicted this (13:38) and so his foreknowledge includes not simply the events of the arrest, but the responses of his followers. Nevertheless it is a tragedy since throughout the story (both in John and the Synoptics) Peter figures prominently and the denials represent Jesus’ apparent loss of a major follower.

Peter is accompanied, however, by “another disciple,” who remains unnamed (18:15). This is curious since John has been careful to name people carefully (Annas, Caiaphas, Simon Peter, Malchus). Is this the Beloved Disciple, who figures elsewhere in the Gospel and is commonly identified with John son of Zebedee (a not unreasonable position)? Many scholars object, wondering how a Galilean fisherman could be “known to the high priest” (18:15b), enter his guarded courtyard, converse with the maid, and bring Peter in (18:16). Perhaps this is an anonymous Jerusalem disciple. Or, as one interpreter unconvincingly suggests, maybe this is Judas (who would be well known to the authorities by this time).

Yet the view that this is the Beloved Disciple has a great deal to commend it. Throughout the gospel the Beloved Disciple frequently appears alongside Peter (13:23–26; 20:2–10; 21:7–8, 20–24), a portrait also common in the Synoptics (Mark 5:37; 9:2; 13:13; 14:33). The Beloved Disciple faithfully follows Jesus even to the site of the cross, where Jesus talks to him (John 19:25–27). His presence at the arrest shows his profound loyalty to Jesus so characteristic throughout the Gospel. We also must be careful not to stereotype fishermen and think of them as poor, uneducated, and socially marginalized—and thus unable to know Jerusalem’s leaders. John’s father, Zebedee, had hired servants (Mark 1:20). Brown makes the interesting (and compelling) argument that John (of Zebedee) may have been related to Jesus, which also explains the Beloved Disciple’s responsibility in 19:26–27 to take care of Jesus’ mother (we will look at this theory in ch. 19).26 If Jesus and John are cousins, then Mary’s priestly connections in Jerusalem (Luke 1:36–45) may well have connected John with Jerusalem too.

When Peter enters the courtyard, the young woman guarding the gate recognizes him and immediately inquires if he is one of Jesus’ disciples (18:17–18). Each of the Gospels note that a young girl asks this question; the form of this question (beginning with the Gk. word me) implies a negative answer. She is cautious but curious, and she implies that she knows there are many others who follow Jesus. We might paraphrase: “What’s this? Not another of this man’s disciples, is it?” Or: “You couldn’t be another one of this man’s disciples, could you?”

Peter feels his vulnerability because the small courtyard also hosts officers and other servants (18:18a). Some of them may even remember that he attacked Malchus—another slave, whom this woman may know. So at the gate, to gain entry, Peter refuses to acknowledge his discipleship. The “other” disciple’s silence does not point to the maid’s failure to recognize him, but to his unbroken fidelity to Jesus. Since it was now night (note that lanterns were used at the arrest, 18:3) and springtime, the bystanders in Annas’s courtyard, including Peter and the Beloved Disciple, stand around a charcoal fire,27 warming themselves against the cold.

John now shifts the scene to what is transpiring inside (18:19–24). In a formal Jewish trial, the judge never asked direct questions of the accused but rather called forth witnesses whose words determined the outcome. If two or more agreed with the charges, the verdict was sealed. But Annas may not see himself engaged in such a trial. If it were a genuine trial, Caiaphas would be presiding, but he is not present (18:24). This is like a “police interrogation” of someone recently arrested. Yet if Jesus does utter something incriminating, Annas himself will become a witness against him.

The words recorded here no doubt represent the barest summary of Jesus’ meeting with Annas, who probes two things: Jesus’ teachings and his disciples (18:19). To what extent is he a genuine threat? Does he have a strong following? Is he promoting some sort of conspiracy? A secret conspiracy? To what extent does he threaten their interests? Jesus’ sharp answer—pointing out that Annas should be talking to witnesses—unmasks the priest’s attempt to make Jesus’ incriminate himself. Twice Jesus demands that Annas produce witnesses and evidence; in other words, Jesus is demanding a trial.

When Jesus affirms that he has taught openly (in the temple and in synagogues) and many can verify his work, he may sense that Annas is maneuvering to accuse him of being a false prophet.28 “False prophesy” is the classic charge against Jesus reported in the Talmud (b. Sanh. 43a). To qualify as a false prophet one must “secretly entice” or “deceive” the people (Matt. 24:11, 24; Mark 13:5, 22; Luke 21:8). The punishment for this was death (Deut. 13:1–11). Twice before this was precisely the suggestion uttered by the crowds (7:12) and the Pharisees (7:47).

Jesus has thus reminded Annas of judicial procedure, which the guards interpret as insolence. Thus, one of them strikes him (18:22). But note that Jesus here (as later) simply points to the truth (18:23). He speaks directly to the soldier. There are no witnesses accusing him. He has not been subversive. No evidence says he has led people astray. Nothing he has said can be construed as incriminating. Annas is at an impasse. His probing has been unsuccessful. Therefore Jesus is sent on to the reigning high priest, Caiaphas. If Jesus is going to be prosecuted, if his case is carried successfully to Pilate, it will be necessary to have the explicit support of the Sanhedrin, Jerusalem’s high judicial council.

John understands that a major meeting of the Sanhedrin takes place under the direction of Caiaphas that evening (see Mark 14:53), for in John 18:24 Jesus is moved to a new location.29 This is not shameless harmonizing, particularly if we presuppose that John realizes his readership already is aware of the story (esp. Mark’s story; see comments above). John continues with the denials of Peter in 18:25 (which he left off at 18:18); he assumes that Peter is still in Annas’s courtyard (they are still at the fire, 18:25). But according to the Synoptics, Peter’s denials take place at the house of Caiaphas at the close of the Sanhedrin meeting (Mark 14:64, 66). John has split the denials so that the first one happens simultaneously with the meeting with Annas while the second and third happen as Jesus is before Caiaphas (which is the Synoptic setting).

But when John says that Jesus is sent to Caiaphas, it does not mean necessarily that he moves to the other side of the city. He is moved to Caiaphas, who may well be nearby (like moving from one courtroom to another).30 We can imagine that Jesus’ conversation with Annas takes place while Caiaphas is gathering the needed members of the Sanhedrin in the same locale. According to the Synoptic outline, Caiaphas meets with Jesus during the night with numerous Sanhedrin members (Mark 14:55). Early the next morning it reconvenes in order to consolidate the decision (15:1). John’s account points to the late night meeting; then we should assume a lengthy pause before 18:28, when Jesus is taken early in the morning to Pilate.

While Jesus is with Caiaphas, John reports Peter’s ongoing failings as a witness in the courtyard (18:25–27).31 That he is still warming himself (presumably by the charcoal fire, 18:25a) links this scene with that in 18:15–18. But now the drama tightens: Around the fire stand soldiers and servants and they try to identify Peter. “You are not one of his disciples, are you?” (18:25b, cf. v. 17). Peter utters his denial a second time. Then Peter’s worries are confirmed: A relative of Malchus, the man whom Peter attacked, speaks up. “Didn’t I see you with him in the olive grove?” (18:26). When Peter denies Jesus the third time, a cock crows, recalling Jesus’ prediction of Peter’s great failure (13:38).32 Such crowing can take place in spring between 3:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M. and was a time signal for a trumpet blast at the temple (m. Sukk. 5.4).

By weaving Peter’s denials among the various interrogations of Jesus, John makes a theological point. Brown aptly comments: “John has constructed a dramatic contrast wherein Jesus stands up to his questioners and denies nothing, while Peter cowers before his questioners and denies everything.”33 Of course, Peter’s triple denial will return in John’s story, for in 21:15–17 Peter meets with Jesus in Galilee and is invited three times to affirm his love for him.