Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you so long, and yet you have not known Me, Philip? He who has seen Me has seen the Father; so how can you say, ‘Show us the Father’? (John 14:9, NKJV).
This quote from Jesus has always struck me as something very special. It consists of a tender question followed by an earth-shattering statement, followed by what seems to be a very mild rebuke.
I have great love for the Apostles (except for one), but with all due respect, they were sometimes thick as a brick. That is good news for me personally, and frankly, for many people I know. Why? Because if I were Messiah, I would only want the best and the brightest in my entourage. I sure wouldn't want this gang, who frequently argued about who was the greatest among them (Mr 9:34; Lu 9:46; 22:24), sometimes connived against each other (Mr 10:35), and for the most part, had to have things repeated to them more than once (Mt 12:40; 16:21; 26:2; Mr 8:31). But Jesus loved them (Joh 13:1), and restored them, and cherished them.
The question he asked of Philip comes across to me as almost plaintive in tone. I hear in my mind God the Son Himself, grieved because the very men He had nurtured and taught for so long were still relatively clueless about who He really was, and what work He would so profoundly accomplish on their (and our) behalf. It's almost as if one moment dawn would break over their marble heads, and in the very next moment the bulb would flare out on their brief glimpse of understanding (Mt 14:25-31, Mt 16:15-23, Lu 9:51-56). I don't know about you, but I'm like that… a lot. One second I'm all like "I'm a spiritual genius", and the next it's like "I'm not gettin' it Lord." Despite my many, many failures, He loves me just like He loved them (Joh 17:20-26).
His plain, unadorned subsequent statement to the disciple must have shook the very foundations of the world. It destroys any arguments that someone might make that Jesus "never said He was God", or that He was just some "good moral teacher". C.S. Lewis argues this point best:
"I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: 'I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept His claim to be God.' That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic -- on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg -- or else he would be the Devil of Hell…" (Mere Christianity, pages 40-41).
And finally then comes the mild rebuke "…so how can you say…?" If I were Messiah, knowing I was about to lay down my life for these men so that they could spend all eternity with me, I think I might have been a bit less mild. In truth, I'd have gone ballistic on good old Philip. "Listen up you Hellenist! Were you hiding behind the door when I was handing out brains? After all you've seen me do and heard me say, you STILL can't figure this out! Just when I thought your thinking couldn't get any more shallow, you drain a few more hin of water out of the pool!" I forget, of course, how often I am worthy of a similar rebuke from my Lord: how can I say, or think, or feel, whatever it is, after I've read and heard and seen and experienced all the things He's done in my life?
But I know Jesus goes on loving me and saving me and conforming me into His image, despite all my apostle-like behavior, and every time I recite that verse in John, I become just a little more thankful. That is, of course, unless I'm being particularly hard-headed and clueless.
This quote from Jesus has always struck me as something very special. It consists of a tender question followed by an earth-shattering statement, followed by what seems to be a very mild rebuke.
I have great love for the Apostles (except for one), but with all due respect, they were sometimes thick as a brick. That is good news for me personally, and frankly, for many people I know. Why? Because if I were Messiah, I would only want the best and the brightest in my entourage. I sure wouldn't want this gang, who frequently argued about who was the greatest among them (Mr 9:34; Lu 9:46; 22:24), sometimes connived against each other (Mr 10:35), and for the most part, had to have things repeated to them more than once (Mt 12:40; 16:21; 26:2; Mr 8:31). But Jesus loved them (Joh 13:1), and restored them, and cherished them.
The question he asked of Philip comes across to me as almost plaintive in tone. I hear in my mind God the Son Himself, grieved because the very men He had nurtured and taught for so long were still relatively clueless about who He really was, and what work He would so profoundly accomplish on their (and our) behalf. It's almost as if one moment dawn would break over their marble heads, and in the very next moment the bulb would flare out on their brief glimpse of understanding (Mt 14:25-31, Mt 16:15-23, Lu 9:51-56). I don't know about you, but I'm like that… a lot. One second I'm all like "I'm a spiritual genius", and the next it's like "I'm not gettin' it Lord." Despite my many, many failures, He loves me just like He loved them (Joh 17:20-26).
His plain, unadorned subsequent statement to the disciple must have shook the very foundations of the world. It destroys any arguments that someone might make that Jesus "never said He was God", or that He was just some "good moral teacher". C.S. Lewis argues this point best:
"I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: 'I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept His claim to be God.' That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic -- on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg -- or else he would be the Devil of Hell…" (Mere Christianity, pages 40-41).
And finally then comes the mild rebuke "…so how can you say…?" If I were Messiah, knowing I was about to lay down my life for these men so that they could spend all eternity with me, I think I might have been a bit less mild. In truth, I'd have gone ballistic on good old Philip. "Listen up you Hellenist! Were you hiding behind the door when I was handing out brains? After all you've seen me do and heard me say, you STILL can't figure this out! Just when I thought your thinking couldn't get any more shallow, you drain a few more hin of water out of the pool!" I forget, of course, how often I am worthy of a similar rebuke from my Lord: how can I say, or think, or feel, whatever it is, after I've read and heard and seen and experienced all the things He's done in my life?
But I know Jesus goes on loving me and saving me and conforming me into His image, despite all my apostle-like behavior, and every time I recite that verse in John, I become just a little more thankful. That is, of course, unless I'm being particularly hard-headed and clueless.
