"The ‘True Light which Enlightens Everyone’ (John 1:9): John, Genesis, the Platonic Notion of the ‘True, Noetic Light,’ and the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s Republic" by George H. van Kooten in The Creation of Heaven and Earth: Re-interpretations of Genesis 1 in the Context of Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, Christianity, and Modern Physics (Brill, 2005):
As I already mentioned, Plato uses initiation language in the story of the prisoners in the cave.It has long been noted by scholars that the opening of the Prologue to John’s Gospel runs parallel to the opening of Genesis. John’s well known statement that ‘in the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’ (1:1) resembles and summarizes the choice of words in Genesis: ‘In the beginning God made the heaven and the earth (…) and God said …’ (1:1–3a). This speaking of God is now rendered abstract and conceptualized as the activity of God’s Word, his Logos. Plenty of attention has been paid to the Graeco-Roman background of this conceptualization. Generally, this concept of divine Logos has been understood as a Stoic notion, though it is in fact attested in ancient philosophy at large, whether in Stoic, Middle Platonist or other traditions.
However, the similarities between John’s Prologue and the start of Genesis do not end here. Less well known, perhaps, is the fact that John also draws on what Genesis tells about the light, and this issue will be the central focus in this paper. According to Genesis, ‘God said: Let there be light, and there was light. And God saw the light that it was good, and God divided between the light and the darkness’ (1:3b–4). John, having dwelled for a moment on the creation by the divine Logos, continues by remarking that ‘in this Logos was life, and that life was the light of mankind. ‘This light,’ John continues, ‘shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not seized it’ (1:4–5).
What I shall argue in this paper is that John’s interpretation of the opening of Genesis involves a particular Greek-philosophical understanding of light, which is as important for the understanding of his Gospel as is his notion of Logos. Maybe it reveals even more of the Graeco-Roman atmosphere in which the Gospel was written. In the first part of the paper I comment on John’s view on light in his Prologue. In the second part I inquire into its function in the Gospel which follows. Together, these issues will show us the scope and content of John’s interpretation of the light which God had created.
According to John, the light inherent in the divine Logos was the light of mankind. Soon he makes clear what he has in mind. The ‘light of mankind,’ which shines in the darkness, is paraphrased as ‘the true light which gives light to everyone’ and which, at the Logos’ incarnation, entered into the cosmos... at its incarnation the Logos-Light not only illuminated the world from without, but also entered and descended into it. But even after it has ascended again to the heavens, it still remains the true light which gives light to everyone, as it did before its descent into the world... What makes a human being into a Johannine Christian is his recognition of the true light’s radiation. But of what nature is this radiation? This question is not particularly difficult to answer, as the concept of true light is clearly defined in Graeco-Roman thought (1:9). The concept of true light in John’s Prologue can be traced back to Plato’s Phaedo... In the prelude to his account, Timaeus differentiates between the visible cosmos and the invisible paradigms after which God, its architect, constructed it. The cosmos has been constructed after the pattern of that which is apprehensible by reason and thought. This visible cosmos is in fact a copy of an invisible paradigm which underlies it (Timaeus 28C–29D)... This distinction between the paradigmatic reality and its visible copy is similar to that between the true heaven and the visible heaven, the true earth and the visible earth, and between the true light and the visible light... In the entire ensuing Platonic tradition, this true light is also known as the intellectual light or—alternatively—as the mental light as opposed to the visible, aesthetic light. This Platonic tradition will now be examined in more detail, as against this background John’s assertion that Christ is the true light which gives light to everyone gains much relief...
It is noteworthy that Philo already links up this concept of the intelligible light to the other important concept, that of Logos, as John does. According to John, in the Logos was life, and that life was the true light which gives light to everyone (1:4, 9). In Philo’s view, too, the intelligible light is closely related to the Logos. The invisible, intelligible light came into being as an image of the divine Logos. Together with the entire invisible cosmos, the invisible light can be said to have been firmly settled in the divine Logos (On the Creation 36). So the visible, aesthetic cosmos became ripe for birth after the paradigm of the incorporeal. Elsewhere, Philo stresses the fact that, whereas God is light and the archetype of every light, or rather, prior to and high above every archetype, holding the position of the paradigm of the paradigm, the Logos is indeed the paradigm which contained all God’s fullness— light, in fact (On Dreams 1.75). Philo is apparently of the opinion that the ‘Logos is light, for if God said “let there be light,” this was a λγς in the sense of a saying.’ Given this interpretation of Genesis, Philo can say that the Logos, spoken as it was when God ordered the creation of light, is itself light. The same implication seems to be drawn in John. The Logos contains the light of mankind (1:4); it is the true light which gives light to everyone (1:9). Logos and light are closely connected. Elsewhere Philo draws the conclusion that if people are unable to see the intelligible light, they have to wander for ever as they will never be able to reach the divine reasoning power (On Providence 2.19).
It is noteworthy, however, that Philo and John could hardly have experienced this notion as an unfamiliar, strange idea, as already the Septuagint offered an interpretation of Genesis which made it susceptible to Platonic ideas about the true, incorporeal light. It was the Septuagint which translated the very first words of Genesis as follows: ‘In the beginning God made the heaven and the earth. But the earth was invisible and unformed’. The notable difference from the Hebrew is that there the earth is not called ‘invisible and unformed,’ but: formlessness and voidness. The Greek phrase about the invisible earth in the beginning greatly encouraged an extensive Platonizing interpretation of the creation account in Genesis (see also Dillon, this volume, §2). In this way, Philo and John understood the light which was created in the beginning, when there was an invisible earth, as the true, intelligible light. Below, we will reflect on the relation between this intellectual light and the visible light of the sun, but for now we are concerned wholly with the mental type of light...
Now the Platonic background of John’s true light has been established, it is time to have a closer look at its description in John as the true light which enlightens every man. This further characterization also makes much sense in a Platonic context. Although Plato’s digression on the intellectual light in his Republic will be discussed in detail below, let me already draw attention in passing to Plato’s explicit statement that the prisoners in the cave should turn upward the vision of their souls and fix their gaze on that which sheds light on all (Republic 540A)... According to Plato, it is a matter of true philosophy when the prisoners are released from their subterranean cave with its shadows cast from the light of a fire, and ascend to the true light outside the cave. Although there would be some need for habituation, finally these prisoners would be able to look at the sun, i.e. they attain to the vision of the good; it is the good in the intelligible world which is the authentic source of truth and reason (Republic 514A–520D). As Plato had already explained earlier in his well-known Sun simile in book VI of his Republic, ‘As the good is in the intelligible region to reason and the objects of reason, so is this (the sun) in the visible world to vision and the objects of vision’ (Republic, book VI, 508B–C). In Plato’s Republic it is the task of true philosophy to release man from his bondage in the cave so that he may ascend to the true, intellectual light... The alternative for this philosophical life-style, as Philo makes quite clear, is darkness. In a passage which resembles John’s Gospel very closely, Philo says that those who betray the honour due to the One ‘have chosen darkness in preference to the brightest light and blindfolded the mind which had the power of keen vision’ (On the Special Laws 1.54). This is very similar to Jesus’ statement in his dialogue with Nicodemus to the effect that the light has come into the world, but that people preferred darkness to light (John 3:19–21)...
A similar contrast between light and darkness can be found in Plutarch’s polemics against the Epicureans who prefer to ‘live unknown.’... For that reason the Epicurean predilection for ‘living unknown’ amounts to a life turned away from the light, the life of those who cast themselves into the unknown state and wrap themselves in darkness and bury their life in an empty tomb. This life very much resembles the life of those who have lived a life of impiety and crime and whose souls are eventually thrust into a pit of darkness... Slightly later in the Gospel, the true light is spoken of explicitly for the first time since its mention in the Prologue. In his discourse with Nicodemus, Jesus talks about the light’s descent into the world, and remarks that most people prefer darkness to light, but those who live by the truth come to the light. As we have already noted, this dichotomy between those who take heed of the true light and those who do not is an integral part of Greek philosophical theory about the true light and people’s attitudes to it. The right attitude of mind towards the true light is subsequently demonstrated at the centre of the Gospel, in two extensive healing stories which constitute the climax of John’s reflection on the true light. One is concerned with the healing of a blind man, the other with the raising of Lazarus, and neither is paralleled in the Synoptic gospels...
Jesus sees a man who has been blind from birth. Because this blind man will be shown to be the prototype of everyone who comes to see the true light, it is no coincidence that he is called ‘blind from birth'... There are two things particularly noteworthy about this healing. First of all, although Jesus is the true, intellectual light and has just spoken of himself as the light of the world, this story clearly states that the normal vision of the blind man was restored so that he could see the physical light; he came back able to see. Only on closer scrutiny is this story revealed to be about the restoration of spiritual vision. It is not just about inserting vision into blind eyes. At first hand, however, Jesus, the world’s true light, imparts physical light to the eyes of the blind man. This presupposes some continuity between true, intellectual light and normal physical light. That seems indeed to be the case and becomes understandable if Greek philosophical thought on this matter is taken into account. According to ancient philosophers, the continuity between true, intellectual light and physical light is not just a metaphor.
According to Philo, the incorporeal and intellectual light is in fact the paradigm of the sun and of all luminaries... As a matter of fact, God, as the archetype on which laws are modelled, is the sun of the sun; he is ‘the noetic of the aesthetic:’ he is in the intellectual realm that which the sun is in the perceptible realm... Against this background,22 one can more easily discern why in John’s Gospel Christ, the true, intellectual light, can at the same time impart physical light to the eyes of the blind man; the true light is simultaneously the physical light of this world. Secondly, it is indeed noteworthy that this healing story is not just about physical light and physical vision. As we already surmised, the blind man functions as the prototype of those who come to be born from God, born from on high, and who thus receive spiritual enlightenment. This is not only implicit in Jesus’ dual identity as the light of the world, but is also rendered explicit in Jesus’ remark that he has come into this world, to give sight to the sightless, but to make blind those who claim to see (9:39–40). This confirms our impression that the healing of the blind man is in fact a prototypical example of spiritual enlightenment. Soon this illustration of the true light’s activity is followed by another healing story which features another prototype, who is not merely healed from blindness but is even raised from his grave in a cave.
The prototype who figures in the other healing story is Lazarus. In many respects, Lazarus is an even more powerful exemplar of life turned towards the true light than is the blind man, as he is first raised from the dead and then regains his power of sight when a cloth, wrapped around his face, is finally removed. According to John, Jesus was informed early on of the serious illness of his friend Lazarus, yet deliberately delayed his visit to him, so that he would indeed die. Jesus explains his delay by stating: ‘Anyone can walk in the daytime without stumbling, because he has this world’s light to see by. But if he walks after nightfall he stumbles, because the light fails him’ (11:9–10). The point Jesus apparently wants to demonstrate is that because he—the light of the world—is away from Lazarus, Lazarus is short of this light and stumbles to his death... Only after Lazarus’ death and funeral does Jesus arrive...They [the crowd] ask themselves: ‘Could not this man, who opened the blind man’s eyes, have done something to keep Lazarus from dying?’ The answer to this question is given by Jesus, who goes to the tomb, which is in a cave—as John explicitly says—, and orders Lazarus to come out. In response, ‘the dead man came out, his hand and feet bound with linen bandages, his face wrapped in a cloth. And Jesus said, “Release him; let him go”’(11:37).
The prototypical value of this story of the raising of Lazarus springs to mind very easily. Again John applies the concept of true light, and this time there appear to be notable parallels with Plato’s parable of the cave. This seems no coincidence, since after all John’s Prologue had already explicitly introduced Jesus as the true light. This concept is derived from Plato’s Phaedo, but is worked out in full in book VII of his Republic, in the well-known parable of the prisoners in the cave, who are gradually introduced to the real light of the sun outside the cave... At the beginning of book VII of his Republic, Plato depicts men who dwell in a cave-like dwelling which, over the entire width of the cave, is open to the light. This specific combination of the terms ‘light’ and ‘cave’ reoccurs later, when Socrates tells Glaucon, his discussion partner, that as part of their education the best pupils, who had once been liberated from the cave, should be sent down into the cave again. After a fifteen-year period, they should be brought out again and required to "turn upwards the vision of their souls and fix their gaze on that which sheds light on all, and when they have thus beheld the good itself they shall use it as a pattern for the right ordering of the state and the citizens and themselves throughout the remainder of their lives" (539E–540A). This explicit contrast between cave and light also features in John’s story about Lazarus. Because Jesus, the light of this cosmos (11:9), is away from Lazarus, Lazarus lacks this light (11:10), stumbles to his death, and is buried in a cave (11:38). After Jesus has awakened him, in his final public teaching in Jerusalem, Jesus exhorts his audience to be receptive towards the light (12:35–36, 46) and to become children of light (12:36).
The combination of ‘light’ and ‘cave’ is a clear echo of Plato’s parable. The change from the ‘normal’ prisoners’ cave of Plato’s parable into the burial cave in the Lazarus story can be explained as the outcome of some further associative thought... In Plato’s cave parable, the ascension from the cave upwards signifies the soul’s ascension to the intelligible region, and the sunlight it encounters outside the cave is emitted by the idea of good. This idea, according to Plato, is indeed the cause for all things of all that is right and beautiful, giving birth in the visible world to light and its author (the sun), whereas in the intelligible word it itself is the power of truth and reason (517B–C). Implicitly, Plato draws a distinction here between the physical light, which is emitted by the visible sun, and the non-physical, true, intelligible light—the distinction we have come across before and which evolves from the mention of the true light in Plato’s Phaedo... One can scarcely fail to notice the close parallel between this light that enlightens all and ‘that which sheds light on all’ in Plato’s Republic (540A). Both the distinctive contrast between cave and light, and this light’s identity as the true, non-physical light seem to point to John’s familiarity with the simile of the cave in Plato’s Republic.
"Plato and the Language of Mysteries: Orphic/Pythagorean and Eleusinian Motifs and Register in Ten Dialogues" by Bianca M. Dinkelaar in Mnemosyne: A Journal of Classical Studies (Brill, 2020):
So Plato uses initiation language to describe the experience of the prisoners in the cave. What's interesting is that John also uses initiation language to describe the raising of Lazarus. I think the raising of Lazarus story is based on the Egyptian mortuary ritual which Egyptian texts refer to as an "initiation into the mysteries of the netherworld". This mortuary/initiation ritual seems to be the first form of the mysteries and influenced the initiation ritual in the Greco-Roman era mysteries of Isis and possibly the initiation rituals in the cults of Dionysus and Demeter/Persephone (Eleusinian mysteries).Despite Plato’s repeated criticism of both µῦθοι and mystery cults, Orphism/Pythagoreanism and the Eleusinian Mysteries feature frequently in his dialogues... At various points in his dialogues Plato criticizes or mocks the Eleusinians, Orphics and Pythagoreans (notably R. 363c-d, 364-366, 378a, 560e; Tht. 155e-156c). Yet he repeatedly refers to their doctrines and often employs language associated with these mystery cults. To what purpose? According to Plato, µῦθοι are ‘on the whole false, but contain some truth’ (R. 377a) and believing them is ‘worth the risk’ (καλὸς γὰρ ὁ κίνδυνος, Phd. 114d). Their main function is generally agreed to be to illuminate the theories he expounds in his dialogues and to promote the practice of philosophy in an accessible way... My examination aims to address the inconsistency between the way Plato appears both to endorse and to disapprove of mystery cults, and ultimately to show how Plato makes use of an established set of doctrines and linguistic registers to promote his own philosophical positions...
The Eleusinian Mysteries centred around the sanctuary of Eleusis, where each year a large procession of mystai arrived to be initiated... Clinton has moreover suggested that at the Greater Mysteries the same event, epopteia, was experienced by all initiates, but that the mystai were blindfolded, while the epoptai (those who participated as mystai the year before) were allowed to see... The more private part of the festival, the initiation and epopteia, took place for a select group of initiates in and around the Telesterion. It is supposed that this secret rite was a visual experience, likely involving bright light... The ‘mystery’ of Eleusis was thus not the bestowing of some secret knowledge or set of ideas, but a unique experience, an encounter with the divine itself...
The Symposium starts at the outer layer of Apollodorus’ conversation, then moves inwards to Agathon’s symposium, then to yet another layer in Socrates’ speech, to finally reach Diotima’s narrative, much like the mystes reaches the epopteia after moving through the different stages of initiation. Diotima’s speech itself is full of mystery terminology and mirrors the structure of the Eleusinian Mysteries, starting with muesis (her elenchos of Socrates) and then processing through to the epopteia, of which Diotima says: "Into these mysteries of love, Socrates, even you may be initiated: but I don’t know if you could be (initiated) into those rites and epoptika, for which these, if pursued correctly, are a preparation." Interesting here is the word τὰ τέλεα, cognate with τέλειος, ‘perfect’, highlights the belief that through initiation the mystai became complete. By using this word in addition to ἐποπτικά Plato suggests that true knowledge of the forms makes one perfect and complete... µυηθείης need not be taken to refer, as Edmonds has claimed, specifically to the ritual of muesis, but can also denote the general act of being initiated. Following this interpretation we may either, along with Riedweg, compare the initiation into the erotika with the Lesser Mysteries, or alternatively with the first initiation into the Greater Mysteries. In this way the stages in Diotima’s speech (purification, instruction and revelation) correspond with the stages in the Eleusinian Mysteries (muesis, Lesser and first-time Greater Mysteries, epopteia). The Ladder of Love itself, where the philosopher moves through the different types of love towards the highest love of the Beautiful, also reminds us of these stages, and of the physical ascent up to the Telesterion at Eleusis...
Phaedrus is similarly structured in terms of the Eleusinian Mysteries. The dialogue takes place on the banks of the river Ilissos near Agrai (Phdr. 229), which is the site of the Lesser Mysteries. Socrates relates Agrai to a myth concerning the ravishment of a nymph by Boreas: the Lesser Mysteries are believed to be celebrated in honour of Kore, who was kidnapped by Hades and whose reunion with Demeter was celebrated at Eleusis. It is evident, then, that Plato wants his listeners to connect the dialogue with the Eleusinian Mysteries... In this way Plato presents the speech as a kind of purification ritual, a muesis, in order to regain his vision and be able to behold the forms, just like the Eleusinian mystes had to be purified in preparation for the epopteia. Socrates unveils his head prior to the palinode (243b), just as the Eleusinian initiates are thought to have removed their veil after the purification, as a symbol of renewed vision... The most well-known motif of the Eleusinian Mysteries is that of the epopteia and visual experience. Due to this focus on the visual aspect of the mysteries, the language associated with Eleusis encompasses many terms related to sight, as well as to light (the ritual in the Telesterion is said to have incorporated bright lights). Plato’s use of such terminology is found in the aforementioned passage of Phaedrus about the vision of the forms: "At that time Beauty was shining bright, when with a blessed chorus they saw a blissful and divine sight … and were initiated into the mysteries … initiated into and beholding in the pure sunlight the perfect, simple, calm and happy apparitions". Plato could not be more obvious in his allusion to the Eleusinian Mysteries here, as we find the motifs of sight, bright light, initiation, blessedness and purification all in one passage. Diotima’s speech in the Symposium too is full of such language of vision...
A final example may be taken from Plato’s Myth of the Cave in the Republic, which is thought by some to refer to a cave at the sanctuary of Eleusis which was associated with the underworld deities, where perhaps the initiates were led before ascending to the bright light of the Telesterion. The following passage describes the experience of one of the prisoners after leaving the cave... In all these examples Plato describes the experience of gaining knowledge of the forms as the visual ritual of beholding wondrous sights and bright light, which took place in the Telesterion at Eleusis. Since the forms in themselves were not necessarily visual, but rather abstract concepts, we may wonder why Plato repeatedly chose to use this particular religious metaphor. The most obvious reason is the strong emotional impact of images, conjured by the sensuous language of the Eleusinians. Since people by nature associate the good with light and beauty, and the bad with darkness and unattractiveness, it makes sense for Plato to want his readers to associate philosophy and the forms with the former, and the unphilosophical and ignorant with the latter, ensuring that they feel more affinity for the philosophical ‘good’ and are therefore more likely to follow his advice. This contrast is most clearly depicted in the Myth of the Cave, where the prisoners spend their life in darkness, ignorant of reality, until after ascending into the light they can behold the true forms: philosophical knowledge, here, is a bright and beautiful enlightenment, whereas a lack thereof is a dark and gloomy prison. Moreover, by making his entire description of the philosophical process a journey from darkness into the light, perfused with religious terms of vision, Plato actually presents the myth as a religious experience itself, alike to that of Eleusis... In this way Plato tries to demonstrate the intimate, overwhelming nature of acquiring knowledge of the forms: one does not merely understand the forms in an intellectual way, but experiences some sort of direct acquaintance with them, an almost physical contact that affects the senses, as the divine vision in the epopteia affected the senses of the Eleusinian initiates.
"John’s Counter-Symposium: “The Continuation of Dialogue” in Christianity—A Contrapuntal Reading of John’s Gospel and Plato’s Symposium" by George van Kooten in Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity: Politico-Cultural, Philosophical, and Religious Forms of Critical Conversation (Brill, 2019):
"The Baptismal Raising of Lazarus: A New Interpretation of John 11", Bernhard Lang, Novum Testamentum 58 (2016):Apart from the intermediary character and duality of love, Diotima’s speech also brings out another aspect of love that is echoed in John’s Gospel, namely the colouring of love in the tones of initiation into the mysteries. According to Diotima, the successive stages of spiritual generation constitute a progressive initiation into the mysteries, an initiation that takes the form of a gradual ascent on “the ladder of love,” from physical love to spiritual love, at the end of which—as we shall see shortly—awaits the full attainment of purity, contemplation of the divine unity, truth, and immortality. With an allusion to the difference between lower and higher mysteries in the contemporary mystery cults, the higher levels of this ladder are seen as “the final perfection (i.e., initiation, τὰ τέλεα) and full vision (καὶ ἐποπτικά)”—that is, “the highest mysteries” (τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά; 209e–210a)... As I will now indicate, this language of “perfection” and “vision,” as expressed in the phrase τὰ τέλεα καὶ ἐποπτικά (“the final perfection and full vision”) and denoting “the highest mysteries,” is also present in John’s Gospel. Firstly, with regard to the language of perfection, in his final prayer at the conclusion of the last symposium, Jesus states his intention to his divine Father, that his pupils “will be perfected into one” by experiencing the same divine love that the Father has for Jesus... As those who ascend the ladder of love in Plato’s Symposium become perfected—that is, initiated into the mysteries—so the pupils at the last symposium are also perfected into one, and into the divine love...
Is it a coincidence that Lazarus, who is described to Jesus as “him whom you love” (ὃν φιλεῖς; 11:3), is also ambiguously described as “the one who has finished” (ὁ τετελευτηκώς; 11:39)—meaning “the one who has finished life, who has died,” “the deceased”—but, in a sense, only apparently so, because he “has fallen asleep” and needs to be awoken from his sleep, as Jesus says (11:11–14), and thus seems to be the one who is initiated into death and resurrection? Hence the beloved pupil (inasmuch as he seems to be identical with Lazarus) is not expected to die again (21:21–23), and he is also the first who, seemingly from his own experience (if he is indeed identical with Lazarus), understands upon seeing the empty tomb (and especially because he notices the separate position of the σουδάριον, the facial covering that he himself had worn when he walked out of his tomb; 20:7, cf. 11:44) that Jesus has been brought to life again (20:8). Consequently, there seems to be a wordplay between “being perfected” or “initiated” (τετελειωμένος; 17:23) and “having finished” or “died” (τετελευτηκώς; 11:39), between τελειόω and τελευτάω.
A similar wordplay between τέλειος / τέλεος (“perfect,” “initiated”), τελευτάω (“to finish,” “to come to an end”), and τὸ τέλος (“the end”) is made in Diotima’s speech, as the final perfection (τὰ τέλεα; 210a) and full vision of the highest mysteries consist in the fact that those who are initiated into them and ascend the ladder of love “end” their former forms of knowledge and love, “come to an end,” “issue in,” and are thus fully initiated into the highest form of knowledge and love, which focuses on the very essence of beauty itself... A similarly playful combination of cognate forms such as τελέω, τελειόω, τελευτάω, and τὸ τέλος also occurs in the Gospel of John, not only with regard to the pupils who are perfected and initiated into one, and with regard to Lazarus, but also with respect to Jesus himself: he loves his pupils “till the end” (εἰς τέλος), as the author notes in his description of the last symposium (13:1), and it is at this symposium that he talks about his pupils’ perfection and initiation into one (17:23) before he finishes his life by exclaiming, again in marked difference from the Synoptic Gospels: “It has been finished, it has been perfected” (Τετέλεσται; 19:30). Both Lazarus’s and Jesus’s deaths are described in the ambiguous terminology of finishing, perfection, and initiation, and thus understood as initiations into a death that is followed by a resurrection, just as in the mystery religions. It seems that Jesus’s final exclamation, “It has been finished” (Τετέλεσται), signals the end of such an initiation, thus putting the event of his death on a par with the place of initiation at the Eleusinian mysteries, which—as becomes clear in Plutarch’s description of the building of the Eleusinian sanctuary—is called a τελεστήριον, a place for initiation...
Interestingly, in the appropriation of the Eleusinian mysteries by the Christian sect of the Naassenes, as described in the anonymous early thirdcentury CE Refutation of All Heresies (which used to be ascribed to Hippolytus), the hierophant who officiates at the Eleusinian mysteries is said to be a eunuch, who is “detached from all fleshly generation” (πᾶσαν ἀπηρτημένος τὴν σαρκικὴν γένεσιν). Announcing that “the Lady” (i.e., Persephone) has given birth to a child means that “the higher, spiritual, celestial generation” (ἡ γένεσις ἡ πνευματική, ἡ ἐπουράνιος, ἡ ἄνω) has given birth to “the one celestially begotten” (ὁ οὕτω γεννώμενος, i.e., Dionysus; Refutation of All Heresies 5.8.40–41; trans. Litwa). In this account of the Eleusinian mysteries, important themes of Plato’s Symposium and John’s Gospel come together, including notably the interest in non-physical, spiritual generation. This either shows that Plato drew this theme from the (secret) Eleusinian mysteries, or that interpretations of the Eleusinian mysteries have become Platonised...
This is by no means the only allusion to the Eleusinian mysteries in John’s Gospel. Just before his death, at the beginning of the last festival that he attends in the Jerusalem temple, it is the very Greeks who wish to see Jesus whom he answers with a reference to his approaching death, cast in a hidden allusion to the Eleusinain mysteries, which revolve around the contemplation of an ear of wheat that was seen as the fruit of the resurrection of Aphrodite/ Kore: “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (12:24)... What the Gospel of John reveals is that its author follows Diotima’s speech even in its use of initiation terminology and its reference to the Eleusinian mysteries. Whereas the annual festival of the Eleusinian mysteries at the τελεστήριον of the sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone/Kore at Athens attracted religious seekers from the entire Greek-speaking world, the author of John’s Gospel mirrors and inverts this festival in the annual Passover festival at the Jerusalem temple, which is visited by Greeks who seek Jesus and see the Eleusinian mysteries accomplished in him, whose very body is a temple (2:19–21) and a place of initiation (τελεστήριον; 19:30)
Though well hidden, the theme of baptism informs the whole story of the raising of Lazarus (John 11). The note about Jesus’ sojourn at the very place where John the Baptist had previously been active (John 10:40-42) forms the introduction to the Lazarus story... Once readers are set on this track, they cannot miss the hidden point. Ritually, the person being baptised is pushed into the realm of death, so that he can emerge to a new life... One example of implicit commentary in John is his repeated use of light symbolism. Thus in our text, Jesus says, “If anyone walks in the day, he does not stumble, because he sees the light of this world” (John 11:9). What looks like a self-explanatory proverb, actually refers to Jesus who is the “light of the world.” The implicit commentary may consist in just one item—such as the word “light,” but it may also consist in a cluster of hints that all point in the same direction. Certain hints may actually be cross-cultural, and, as we shall see in what follows, this is the case with the motif of “the tomb chamber from which someone escapes alive.” We will start to explore this in an ancient novel...
Callirhoë is the eponymous heroine of an ancient Greek novel that dates from the mid-first century CE. Unfortunately, we know nothing but the mere name of the author, Chariton of Aphrodisias... Episodes that involve apparent death and an empty tomb are quite common in ancient Greek novels... Stereotypical plots such as the one found in Callirhoë may bore the modern reader, because he fails to understand their twofold religious meaning. On the surface, they indicate that the novel’s heroes are accompanied by the gods; these protect the pious and guide them through their adventures to a happy ending. In the case of Callirhoë, the heroine’s singular devotion to, and protection by, the goddess Aphrodite is particularly striking. But this is not the end of it, for the ancient readers also pick up the deeper meaning of such scenes. For them, they imply a reference to the ritual movement from death to life in the context of the mystery initiations... Thus when the heroine emerges from the tomb, the ancient author speaks pleonastically of her “second, new birth” an expression associated with mystery religion. The word παλιγενεσία means “return from death to life,” but also, in the mysteries, “renewal to higher existence,” the equivalent of what our religious language calls the “new birth.”...
Unfortunately, our ancient sources on mystery religions tell us very little about how the “second birth” was ritually staged, for initiates were required to remain silent about it. Nevertheless, some hints found in ancient sources give an indication. The magic papyrus of Paris provides a good example. Around eleven o’clock in the morning and in the presence of the magician, the candidate is supposed to mount the roof of a house and spread out a piece of cloth. Naked he places himself upon it. His eyes are blindfolded, the entire body wrapped like a mummy... When this occurs, possibly in the form of a draught of air felt by the candidate, the latter stands up. He dons a white garment, burns incense and again utters a spell. The rites completed, he descends from the roof. Now he knows that he has acquired immortality. Similar rites and symbolic representations of death and resurrection can be found in all ancient mystery cults. “When the candidate of the mysteries of Isis applies for initiation, he chooses the ritual death in order to gain true life,” explains Reinhold Merkelbach. In fact, according to the ancients, each initiation ritual involves the death of the old and the birth of a new person; there are no exceptions... The theme of mystery initiation has led us to understand an episode included in Chariton’s novel in a new way, and, as we shall see, the same theme will help us decode the meaning of the Lazarus story. In this case, we can rely on detailed information on the ancient rite—that of baptism.
Early-Christian baptism divides the lives of those baptised in a sequence of three phases. In the first phase, the human being is enslaved to sin and the world. The second phase means death: the baptismal candidate is killed—symbolically, but not actually drowned by being forced under water. This “drowning” is the actual rite of baptism... The ritual culminates in the candidate’s resurrection (vii) or—to use Johannine vocabulary (John 3:3)—rebirth to a new life, initiated by the call to leave the tomb (or to rise). The call, no doubt spoken by a presbyter, is understood as being uttered by Christ: “Truly, truly, an hour is coming, and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live” (John 5:25, alluded to in 11:25). The hour of which Jesus speaks is the hour of baptism. After coming out of the tomb, Lazarus is freed from the linen strips with which his arms and feet were bound. This unbinding may actually echo an idea dear to the Egyptian culture and depicted on the lid of an ancient sarcophagus: the resurrected human person stands erect, with outstretched arms from which the strips dangle, with which the dead body had been wrapped. The Egyptians wrapped the body with strips of cloth just for the transition period or travel from this world to the other world; once the person has arrived in the next world, the wrapping was taken off. The resurrected Lazarus, one may assume, also belongs to a new world—that of the Christian community.