The storm crashes yet, the dark more dark still, all the world bowed and blinded.
And now, here, in John, is again revelation.
Here is vision of time itself, of all things temporal and not.
He knows.
He knows as he has not before what is finite and what infinite. He knows that for light darkness is needed and that his hundred years is not an end but a beginning only. He raises up his hands, and it is as though to word sent long ago response is now received. His voice cries out a prayer. And here in the illumined room of his spirit he sees a church, a vast lit place to which keep coming men, women, and children innumerable as stars. The church fills and further fills, its walls expanding; his spirit rises like an eagle and sees the throng stretch into the greater distance, yea on to the horizon of sea and sky itself. 'Hall'luyah, Hall'luyah,' he cries, and the disciples look to one another in awe and joy of what immanence is made manifest. Here is rapture and revelation. 'Hall'luyah, Hall'luyah!' Here is an ecstasy of soul, a condition out of ancient scripture, a purity of communion not known nor considered actual in their old age of the world. But here it is. Here is man with God. Here are all things made new.
John sees.
Returned to him is every moment from the first to the last and beyond. Returned to him in perfect clarity is each instant he spent by the side of Jesus. Each word spoken is in his mind. The teachings are as scribed on fresh papyrus. All is recollected. In those moments while the storm beats and flashes, he himself is the book being written. Here are things he had forgotten. Not the detall of sunlight nor the scent of the olive trees, not the salt slap of the Sea of Tiberias nor the close heat of Cana, but words, ways of saying. Everything taught, each phrase Jesus said is here now. And in that moment John knows the testament is not himself but the Word, and that what remains and what will remain to the last is just this, the word he carries. What gift he bears is not a narrative, is not a telling of what happened, but something other; it is a vision for all time, it is the very cornerstone of the vast church that looms in his mind.
He sees.
He sees and is humbled and uplifted both. He sees as if from a great height and is consoled.
The storm raging still, he lowers his arms. He speaks the names of the disciples gathered there and tells them not to fear.
He says, 'The Lord is with us.' Then he asks that one of them write what he will tell.
He sits. A light is lit.
In voice clear and strong, he begins to tell of the Baptist: 'There was a man sent from God whose name was John.'
38
He speaks on through dark. He does not stop. His manner is composed. Though outside the night is still broken, the disciples have no fear. Each has heard the Apostle teach pieces of the whole before, but here verse and chapter follow as though the words are already written. John does not grow weary. Into his voice comes sometimes anger at the world, sometimes sorrow, and sometimes nothing but the suffusion of love. Hour follows hour. He speaks long passages of the words of Jesus, and while he does, to those attending it seems a truth absolute, that these exact were the words spoken and by miracle in this man here preserved. In such a way is time overcome. There is no tarnish of age, no lack of clarity or pause for recall. The words are there, and are as an argument full of reason and logic. Phrases are balanced, built. Time and again certain words ring out. Love. Beloved. Friend. Truth. True. Glory. Command. World. Hour. Darkness. Light. And amidst these is all manner of the verb 'to remain'. Abide. Dwell on. Stay.
The composition continues. None can say for how long. Does the dawn come and the day pass and another night fall? Is it even on to the third day, as some will tell? Does the storm blow all the while? It does not matter. From this all else will follow. From this will be accounts numerous, versions of how and where and when that will continue even for thousands of years. There will follow scholars and sages, legions of the learned who in the coming history of the world will unearth possible traces of the gospel's genesis, what comes to be added after, what versions followed what and to what purpose in the unfolding of the early church. There will be one John, and then another. There will be argument and debate as to who wrote what and fragments of antique testimony offered in frail proofs. But none will matter. The words themselves will outlast all such. They will last to the very edge of eternity.
And this John knows as he says them. He knows the beginning and the end. He knows what work is his now, and that the world will not finish here, only his. He himself is already disappearing. He tells on. His spirit soars. He sees what is to come. He sees the numbers of the Christians grow. He sees the churches and thereafter the great cathedrals, the psalms, the songs, the composed Masses, the raptures and revelations of centuries of art divine yet to come. He sees the lives to follow of those about him, of Polycarp, of Lemuel, Meletios, and the others. He sees that on Patmos, Simon and old Ioseph are not dead but even now recover. As, too, in the fallen room in Ephesus where Kester tends to him, does the disciple Papias. The blisters retreat, the flesh is made new. In a day Papias will come to place the Apostle's hand upon his head. But already John will be near to discover that death is a doorway an instant long and beyond it is life everlasting. He sees this, and sees, too, how Papias will in time become bishop of Hierapolis, near Laodicea, and there himself write five books in his old age wherein he will tell of the apostle John, 'whose voice yet lives and remains.'
On and on it continues.
Vision is without end.
John tells his way to the resurrection. He tells it as now it will be told for all time. He tells it as testimony that God loves. And as he does, all feel the movement in their spirits from emptiness to fullness complete.
For here he is running to the tomb now and arriving first. Here he is, the sunlight in his hair. Here he is, little more than a youth running down the road, believing. The dust flies behind him. How swift he is. He sees the tomb opened and he cannot keep himself from joy. His hands he brings to his mouth. He would cry out. He would cry out with joy for ever now. The light fills in him as pure water that flows and flows. Love is resurrected.
He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.
My Lord, you are come.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I did not intend to write this novel. I intended only to find out the answer to a question that arrived in my mind one afternoon while I was working on another book. The question came to me out of the blue. It was: What was John doing the day before he wrote the gospel? I was not working on a religious theme. I had not been thinking of John or anything biblical, and had not at that point read all of the John gospel. But I had this question. What I wanted to know was something of the man. I supposed then that some basic research would answer the question and began a year of reading.