‘The Gospel is sometimes spoken of as though it were a monotonous unfolding of the Logos doctrine, and brought before us a number of shadowy puppets, marked by no distinguishing features. I cannot but think that this view is partly owing to the prepossession of critical dogmatism, but partly also to the identity of style and tone which, wherever you may open the book, at once betrays the author. The simplicity is not the simplicity of Genesis or Homer, in which we forget all but the persons and events that are brought before us; the dramatic power is not that of Shakespeare, in which the author is hidden behind his own creations. On the contrary, everything seems more or less transfused with the individuality of the writer; and I think this fact sometimes causes us to overlook the wonderful variety of character that passes before us, and the graphic nature of some of the descriptions, which imprints the scenes for evermore on the imagination’ (The Character and Authorship, &c., p. 376).
I am not sure that we might not say that, so far as the narrative is concerned, the simplicity is really like that of Genesis: there is a Biblical style of narration, which descended down the centuries, and which the writer has thoroughly assimilated. But then his own personality must be added to this, and there was much more in his mind besides the impulse of simple narration. It is, as we shall see, the discourses, and especially the longer discourses, in which this personal element comes out most strongly, and which make it seem so dominant. But Dr. Drummond is certainly right in laying stress on the ‘variety of character that passes before us, and the graphic nature of some of the descriptions.’
But when he has said this, Dr. Drummond turns round upon himself, and proceeds to discount the inference that might be drawn from these characteristics of the Gospel. While allowing that they fit in excellently with the external evidence, he will not urge them as an independent proof of authorship, because ‘the introduction of names and details is quite in accordance with the usage of Apocryphal composition.’
This is true, and the examples given are quite to the point. The Apocryphal Gospels and Acts are plentifully sprinkled with names. We observe, however, that names of places are somewhat less common than names of persons; and where there is any real precision in the use of place-names, an inference in regard to the author may often be fairly deduced from it, and as a matter of fact has in a number of cases been successfully so deduced[[42]]. It would be unsafe to draw a conclusion simply from the presence of precise details. But all details are not alike; and when they come to be critically tested, they will soon be found to fall into two classes—one that admits of verification and is valuable, and the other that is soon exposed as worthless.
One of the parallels for the Fourth Gospel specially put forward from this point of view was the Apocryphal Gospel of Matthew, and I took some little pains to test this in the pages of the Expositor (1892, pp. 172 ff.). It was quickly found to teem with anachronisms and confusions. Professing to describe the circumstances of the birth of the Virgin Mary, it spoke of her father’s almsgiving in terms borrowed from the practice of the Christian Church. There were supposed to be schools for girls in the Temple, modelled upon the convent schools of the fifth century. The father and mother of the Virgin were represented as meeting at the ‘Golden Gate’ of the Temple. A gate bearing that name may be seen at the present day; but it probably owes its name to a corruption (aurea = ὡραία); and though the modern gate, which can be traced back to the time of Heraclius, is supposed to represent the Beautiful Gate of Herod’s Temple, it certainly occupies a different position. The Gospel contains a developed legend of the Descent into Egypt, which is also garnished with topographical details. These, however, cannot be worked into a consistent itinerary, and an official title introduced into the story belongs rather to the period after Constantine than to the time of Augustus.
Does the Fourth Gospel present anything at all analogous to this? One or two mistakes have been attributed to the author which are not seriously maintained at the present time. The only supposed anachronism that does not stand refuted is one recently put forward by Furrer the eminent geographer. In an interesting article on the topographical data in the Gospel[[43]] he gives them in general the praise of accuracy. He himself, however, regards the Gospel as a work of the second century, and he sees an indication of this in the name ‘Sea of Tiberias’ for ‘Sea of Galilee’ or ‘of Gennesaret.’ Dr. Furrer points out that this last form (‘Sea of Gennesar’ or ‘Gennesaritis’) is found in the writers of the first century, while ‘Sea of Tiberias’ became the regular designation in the second century, and from that time onwards. It is found in the Greek writer Pausanias (who wrote in the middle of the century, under Hadrian and the Antonines), and consistently in the Talmud. We may observe that in any case the Gospel was written quite late in the first century; and the way in which the name is introduced the first time it is mentioned would seem to point exactly to the period of transition from the one form to the other. John vi. 1 runs thus: ‘After these things Jesus went away to the other side of the sea of Galilee, which is the sea of Tiberias’ (πέραν τῆς θαλάσσης τῆς Γαλιλαίας τῆς Τιβερίαδος). There is perhaps something a little awkward and unusual in the apposition, which, however, does not justify the striking out of one of the two names as a gloss, against all the authorities[[44]].
Another point made by Furrer is that in xii. 21 Bethsaida is called ‘Bethsaida of Galilee,’ whereas, according to Josephus, Galilee ended with the right bank of the Jordan, and Bethsaida is on the left bank. Josephus, however, is by no means precise in his usage, as he twice speaks of Gamala as in Galilee, which is much further away on the other side of the lake.
Professor von Dobschütz treats as an anachronism the allusions (John ix. 22; xii. 42) to expulsion from the synagogue as practised upon the followers of Jesus during His lifetime. But this is surely very gratuitous. Partly the argument goes upon the assumption that the extreme penalty must have been always inflicted. Partly it seems to imply that excommunication was too great a punishment for the disciples, at the very time when death itself was threatened against the Master.
I hardly know whether I ought to mention as a fourth example, that is at the present time seriously alleged, the notion that the phrase ‘being high priest that year’ (xi. 49, 51), is derived from the fact that the Asiarch acting as high priest in the worship of the Emperor held office for a single year[[45]]. It is far more probable that the phrase is connected with the deep sense which the writer of the Fourth Gospel shows of the significance of particular times. I take it to be the counterpart of the often recurring words, ‘the hour had not yet come,’ ‘the hour is come.’
So that the four precarious examples really shrink up to one, the first, and that is explainable without any straining. There is no anachronism; but at the time when the Evangelist wrote the usage was changing, and he was aware of this, and expressed the fact in his text.