"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (John 1:1). The Gospel of John opens not with Jesus's birth or baptism, but with a stunning theological claim: Jesus is the eternal Logos, distinct from God the Father yet fully God Himself.
This is high Christology—the highest you can go. John doesn't present Jesus as merely a great teacher, prophet, or even divinely empowered human. He presents Him as the pre-existent divine Word through whom all creation came into being. Before Abraham, before Moses, before creation itself—the Word existed.
The term "Logos" is carefully chosen. To Greek philosophical readers, Logos meant divine reason, the rational principle ordering the cosmos. To Jewish readers familiar with the Old Testament, it recalled how God spoke creation into existence and how divine Wisdom personified in Proverbs was present at creation. John says: this Logos, this divine Word and Wisdom, is a person—Jesus of Nazareth.
"All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made" (John 1:3). This isn't saying Jesus helped create some things. It's claiming universal creative agency. Everything that exists—galaxies, atoms, minds, mathematical structures—exists because the Logos spoke it into being. Jesus isn't a creature, however exalted; He's the Creator.
As someone who loves physics and cosmology, I find this profound. When I study the mathematical elegance underlying physical law, I'm studying the Logos's creative work. When I marvel at fine-tuning, I'm encountering the precision of the divine Word. When I explore Mars or quantum mechanics, I'm investigating the handiwork of the same person who walked in Galilee.
"In him was life, and the life was the light of men" (John 1:4). Life doesn't originate from non-living matter stumbling into improbable complexity. Life originates from the Logos, who is Himself the source of all life. This doesn't mean evolution is wrong—the Logos could create through evolutionary processes. It means life is fundamentally personal, not accidental. It flows from a living God, not from dead matter.
The light/darkness motif that follows is both metaphorical and theological. The Logos brings understanding, truth, and revelation—light that exposes and illuminates. But darkness doesn't overcome it. Despite human rebellion, despite evil's presence, despite apparent defeat at the cross, the light shines unquenched.
John the Baptist appears in verse 6, but only as witness to the light. Even the greatest prophet is subordinate to the Logos. John's role is to point away from himself toward the true light "which gives light to everyone" (John 1:9). This universal illumination might refer to general revelation—the way all humans have some knowledge of God through creation and conscience. Or it might refer to the universal scope of the gospel—available to all, not just Jews.
Then comes the tragedy: "He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him" (John 1:10-11). The Creator entered His creation, and creation failed to recognize Him. The Messiah came to Israel, and Israel largely rejected Him. The irony is devastating—the world rejecting its Maker, God's people rejecting God's chosen one.
But verse 12 pivots to hope: "But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God." Reception and belief result in adoption into God's family. This isn't automatic or universal—it requires receiving and believing. But it's available to "all," not limited by ethnicity, social status, or prior moral record.
Verse 13 clarifies that this new birth isn't "of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God." Physical descent doesn't make you God's child (contra Jewish assumptions about Abrahamic descent conferring covenant status). Human effort doesn't make you God's child (contra Pharisaic assumptions about Torah observance earning God's favor). This is entirely God's work—regeneration from above, not achievement from below.
Then verse 14 delivers the prologue's climax: "And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth."
This is the Incarnation stated as plainly as possible. The eternal Logos, through whom all things were made, became flesh. Not appeared to be flesh, not temporarily inhabited flesh, but became flesh. The Second Person of the Trinity took on full humanity, entering creation as a creature while remaining fully God.
"Dwelt among us" is literally "tabernacled among us"—echoing the Old Testament tabernacle where God's presence dwelt among Israel. Jesus is the new tabernacle, the meeting place between God and humanity. The glory that filled the tabernacle now radiates from a human face.
This glory is characterized by grace and truth. Grace—unmerited favor, generous giving beyond what's deserved. Truth—reality as it actually is, revelation of God's nature and purposes. These aren't contradictory attributes. In Jesus, we see both how far short we fall (truth) and how lavishly God loves anyway (grace).
Verse 18 concludes: "No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father's side, he has made him known." The invisible God has made Himself visible in Jesus. Want to know what God is like? Look at Jesus. Want to understand God's heart? Watch Jesus interact with sinners, heal the sick, challenge the self-righteous, and ultimately die for His enemies. "He has made him known"—exegeted, explained, revealed the Father.
The autistic part of me appreciates John's prologue because it's theologically precise. It doesn't rely on vague religious feelings or mystical experience. It makes specific, logical claims about Jesus's nature, origins, and mission. The Word was God. The Word created everything. The Word became flesh. These are clear propositional truths, not fuzzy spirituality.
But John's prologue also contains profound mystery. How can the Word be both "with God" and "God"? How can the infinite Creator become finite flesh? How can divinity and humanity unite in one person? These questions pushed the early church toward Trinitarian and Christological doctrines—not speculation for its own sake, but necessary inference from what John clearly states.
The prologue shapes everything that follows in John's Gospel. When Jesus says "I am," echoing God's self-revelation to Moses, we understand He's claiming divine identity. When He performs signs—turning water to wine, multiplying bread, raising the dead—we see the Creator working within creation. When He teaches with authority, we hear the Logos speaking. When He dies and rises, we witness the life-source of all creation defeating death.
For apologetics, John's prologue is crucial. It establishes that Christianity's central claim isn't "Jesus was a great moral teacher." It's "Jesus is God incarnate." Christianity stands or falls on this claim. If Jesus is the eternal Logos made flesh, then Christianity is true and deserves universal allegiance. If He's not, then Christianity is false regardless of how inspiring its ethics or comforting its promises.
C.S. Lewis's famous trilemma—Jesus is either Lord, liar, or lunatic—rests on texts like John's prologue. Jesus claimed divine status (or His followers did immediately after His death, which requires explaining why). Either those claims are true (Lord), deliberate deception (liar), or sincere delusion (lunatic). The "great moral teacher" option isn't available for someone claiming to be the divine Logos through whom all things were made.
John's prologue also grounds Christian confidence in natural theology. If Jesus is the Logos through whom all things were made, then studying creation is studying His handiwork. Science isn't opposed to faith; it's investigating the works of the Word. Mathematics describes reality because reality is structured by the divine Reason. The intelligibility of the universe points to the intelligence of the Logos.
When I study Mars geology or quantum physics, I'm not doing something separate from theology. I'm exploring what the Logos made. When I code or build systems, I'm faintly echoing the creative work of the Word who spoke reality into existence. All truth is God's truth because all reality is the Logos's creation.
John's prologue in eighteen verses establishes who Jesus is, what He's done, and why it matters. It's among Scripture's most theologically dense passages—every phrase carries weight. It's also among Scripture's most beautiful—the prose has a poetic rhythm that makes it memorable and moving.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." This isn't how you introduce a biography if you're making things up. It's how you introduce a biography if you're convinced you've encountered the Creator in human flesh. John saw the Word made flesh, touched Him, heard Him teach, watched Him die and rise. And he's telling us: this person we encountered is the eternal God who made everything.
That's either the most important truth in the universe or the most outrageous lie. There's no middle ground.