When the disciples come to understand Jesus’s words and actions after his resurrection, it is because they understand that Scripture prophesied Jesus’s death and resurrection as the climax of redemptive history. John expressly tells us this: “When, therefore, he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the Scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken” (John 2:22). His point is that this retrospective illumination comes through the Spirit, whom the Father sends to instruct and remind them concerning all Jesus’s deeds and words (John 14:26).[8]

Scripture as Mystery
We all enjoy well-written novels entailing a mystery.[1] Novelists imitate their Creator, who permeates his created order with mystery: “It is the glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out” (Prov. 25:2). Likewise, mystery saturates the biblical storyline. With the resurrection of Jesus Christ, this reality dawned upon individuals he called as his witnesses. Hence, the word “mystery” frequently occurs in the New Testament, mainly in Paul’s letters, and once in each of the Synoptic Gospels. Though the word is never used in John’s Gospel, the concept is present, as is often the case. But before we turn there, how exactly is the word “mystery” used in the Bible?
The closing of Paul’s Letter to the Romans captures the essential meaning: in times past, the gospel of Christ Jesus was simultaneously hidden and disclosed through the Law and the Prophets; now that Christ Jesus has come, by God’s command, the gospel has been made known to people everywhere through those same concealing-revealing prophetic Scriptures (Rom. 16:25–27).
The Bible’s storyline is a mystery; it’s the true story of the whole world, from creation to restoration.[2] This story’s unfolding and transcription within history establishes the paradigm that every human story resembles, with renowned authors testifying to and replicating the Bible’s story in their masterpieces.[3] Their human stories underscore the reality that the Creator situated every one of us within the biblical storyline. Scripture’s storyline is fully written, so we read how the story’s climax in the advent of the Lord Christ already anticipates the not-yet final resolution. Consequently, we who enter as participants in the biblical storyline in the Last Days await the story’s prophesied consummation.

The concept of mystery aptly describes how the Old Testament prophetically presages the One who is to come and how Jesus reveals he is the Coming One, fulfilling Scripture’s prophecies concerning Israel’s Messiah. In the Four Gospels, we see Jesus revealing his identity through deeds and words that reenact events and reiterate prophecies from the Old Testament. Indeed, this is how the mystery is revealed.

Decades after the events took place, the four Evangelists masterfully replicate in literary form the unfolding drama of Jesus’s self-disclosure. He incrementally reveals himself before the eyes of the Twelve and other first witnesses whose sin-induced impaired vision and hearing encountered Jesus’s revelatory concealments with misunderstanding.[4] With awakened senses, they patiently retrace the unfolding mystery of Jesus’s veiled identity by recounting episodes selected from thousands of experiences (cf. John 21:25; 20:30–31). By judiciously refusing to superimpose their mature, post-resurrection faith and understanding onto their narratives, they achieve historically realistic and climactic developing self-disclosure concerning how Jesus fulfills the Old Testament prophecies of the promised Messiah.
For our consideration, John faithfully reproduces in a literary form a sequence of Jesus’s signs, teachings, and prophetic actions, all designed to prompt belief that the Christ, the Son of God, is Jesus of Nazareth (John 20:30–31).[5] Jesus’s acts and words foreshadow his sacrificial death and bodily resurrection. This article focuses on Jesus’s first sign as instructive for how we must read all of Jesus’s signs and discourse throughout John’s gospel.[6]

John’s Gospel as Mystery as Seen in Jesus’s First Sign

“On the third day,” Jesus performs his first sign at a wedding in Cana (John 2:1–11) at the end of his first week of ministry (see the day markers in John 1:19, 29, 35, 40, 43; 2:1). A brief conversation with seeming cross-purposes unfolds between Jesus and his mother, who at this point in John’s gospel is unnamed. She tells him, “They do not have wine.” He responds, “What does this have to do with you and me, woman? My hour has not yet come.” Undaunted, his mother gives an expectant directive to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you” (John 2:3–5).
Jesus directs the servants to fill with water six large stone jars, which were now empty after having cleansed guests’ hands and serving utensils in keeping with the Mosaic Law. The servants fill each jar with water “to the brim,” a significant detail John reports to eliminate any notion of sleight-of-hand trickery. “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the feast” (John 2:8), Jesus instructs the servants. The master of the feast tastes what is in his cup, and only by his astonished reaction do we learn that the six jars are full not of water but of wine—the best wine: “Everyone serves the good wine first, and when people have drunk freely, then the poor wine. But you have kept the good wine until now” (John 2:10). He confirms the miracle, though he has no knowledge of what took place. He speaks better than he understands. His praise for the speechless bridegroom unwittingly credits Jesus, who unobtrusively fulfills the role at which the silent bridegroom fails.
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A mark of Spurgeon’s preaching was his meditation on God’s word. Like the Puritans before him, Spurgeon turned the diamond of Scripture again and again to reflect the brilliance of its many facets. But his meditation on Scripture wasn’t only a public performance. It was the fruit of his private meditation on Scripture. We see glimpses of that practice in these poems. For example, in the poem “Obedience,” Spurgeon marvels at the way the angelic host tremble before God and fly to obey his word. And yet, their fear and readiness stand in stark contrast to human rebellion. 

Did you know that Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834–1892) was not only a preacher but a poet? In her husband’s Autobiography, Susie Spurgeon wrote, “If there had been sufficient space available, an interesting chapter might have been compiled concerning ‘Mr. Spurgeon as a Poet and Hymn-writer’” (Autobiography, 4:313). If you are at all familiar with his sermons, you’ll know something about Spurgeon’s love for poetry. He once wrote, “No matter on what topic I am preaching, I can even now, in the middle of any sermon, quote some verse of a hymn in harmony with the subject” (Autobiography, 1:43–44).
From Watts to Wesley and Luther to Cowper, Spurgeon used hymns to form much of his theological vocabulary. But beyond hymns, he also enjoyed other forms of poetry. He read through Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, “that sweetest of all prose poems,” at least a hundred times (Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit, 45:495). Often, after a long Sunday, he found refreshment by having his wife read to him the poetry of George Herbert, “till the peace of Heaven flows into our souls, and the tired servant of the King of kings loses his sense of fatigue, and rejoices after his toil” (Autobiography, 2:185–86).
But did you know that Spurgeon not only loved poetry but was a poet himself? To be sure, his primary calling was that of pastor and preacher, not poet or hymn-writer. But occasionally, we see his poetic gifts on display. When compiling his church’s hymnbook, Spurgeon didn’t mind composing a few hymns himself, especially when he couldn’t find one suitable for his church. From time to time, he published his poems in The Sword and the Trowel. But for the most part, poetry was not a part of his public ministry. Rather, like his prayer life, it was a part of his private devotional spirituality.
Lost Lyrics
Among the other treasures of the Spurgeon Library, we have a plain, time-worn notebook. There is no title page, but the spine reads,
PoemsSpurgeon
Inside are 186 handwritten devotional poems that were composed by the preacher throughout his forty-year ministry. What kind of poems are they? They are, first and foremost, prayers and meditations, reflecting Spurgeon’s theological convictions about God, creation, revelation, salvation, the Christian life, eternity, and much more.
These poems are also biographical, many of them drawn from events in Spurgeon’s life. Whether it be theological controversies, the dedication of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, the exhaustion of pastoral ministry, or many other chapters from his fruitful life, these experiences elicited poetry from Spurgeon. In other words, unique among all that he wrote, these poems provide a window into the private and poetic prayer life of the Prince of Preachers.
What can we learn from these poems?
Dependence and Prayer
When you read that Spurgeon preached as many as thirteen sermons a week, largely extemporaneous in delivery and yet full of theological truth and insight, it would be easy to assume that the task came very easily for him. A few hours of preparation on Saturday night, and — voilà! — the sermons are ready. But that’s not what we see in this volume. In poem after poem, we encounter a desperate plea for God to illumine his mind and heart to see Christ. In the poem “Christ Our All,” Spurgeon writes,
Shew us thyself, shew, dearest Lord,The beauties of thy grace;And let us in thy blessed word,Behold thy shining face.Reveal still more of all thy will,The wonders of thy law,And let us while with love we fill,Behold thee and adore. (Christ Our All, 77)
It is true that Spurgeon was an incredibly gifted and experienced preacher (at the age of nineteen, he had preached over seven hundred sermons!). But beyond rhetorical and homiletical skills, Spurgeon knew that his ministry and his own spiritual life depended on God’s grace to reveal Christ’s shining face in his blessed word. He did not take this sight of Christ for granted, but every time he opened God’s word, he prayed for illumination.
Perhaps one of the most painful reminders of Spurgeon’s dependence on God came through his frequent struggle with illness. Especially as he grew older, Spurgeon groaned under the crushing pain of gout and many other ailments that could knock him out for months at a time. In the poem “Sickness,” Spurgeon laments.
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In Edwards’s greatest sermon, “A Divine and Supernatural Light,” he depicts the beauty of the redemptive love of Christ as a light flowing from the center of reality. Since that light reveals the beauty of a loving person, it can be truly known only affectively. Someone might have just a rational knowledge about that love but not truly sense it. Edwards uses the analogy of our human loves. “There is a difference between believing that a person is beautiful, and having a sense of his beauty. The former may be obtained by hearsay, but the latter only by seeing the countenance” (Works, 17:414).

What about the theological insights of Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758) makes them so exhilarating for many who discover them today?
As a Reformed Christian who has long benefited from Edwards’s insights, I have been fascinated by that question. Sixty years ago, when I was a student, Edwards was respected in Reformed circles, but not often celebrated. Within thirty years, however, he had been rediscovered and had become widely revered as the one American theologian who might be mentioned in the same breath with Augustine and Calvin. So, in my studies of Edwards, I have kept asking which of his insights are most valuable for shaping Christian sensibilities today.
How does Edwards speak to us now in the twenty-first century?
Two Worlds Collide
As a historian of American religion and culture, I have been especially interested in how Edwards’s own cultural context helps us understand his continuing relevance. Especially important for that understanding is that Edwards lived at a dramatic turning point in Western culture.
As a precocious teenager, Jonathan struggled passionately with how to reconcile two very attractive worlds. The son of a strict and impressive New England Reformed pastor, he was heir to what had become one of the most formidable intellectual-spiritual traditions of the time. Yet he also was fascinated by the exciting new outlooks arising from the scientific revolution shaped by Isaac Newton, the philosophical insights of John Locke, and what we know as the Enlightenment. We might think of his close New England contemporary Benjamin Franklin, who also was confronted with these two worlds and embraced the Enlightenment.
Edwards recounted that, as a teenager wrestling with these two outlooks, he was full of objections to the “sovereignty of God,” which he thought was a “horrible” doctrine. But then, in a way he could not quite explain, he came to embrace that teaching as “a delightful conviction.” He then goes on to speak of his experiences of an “inward, sweet delight in God and divine things” (Works of Jonathan Edwards, 16:792).
In brief, I think the best explanation for this paradigm shift is that Edwards’s early view of God’s sovereignty was too small. He came to see that if God’s sovereignty is understood properly, it extends to the very essence of all reality. And not only that, but it means that the universe is essentially personal. God’s sovereignty, in biblical terms, is an expression of the language of God. “The heavens declare the glory of God” (Psalm 19:1).
God’s language is not identical with God, but it is nonetheless an intimately personal expression. And that language is the language of love. God created the universe and sustains it every microsecond ultimately in order to communicate love to creatures capable of love. And the supreme expression of that love is the sacrificial love of Christ for the undeserving.
Our Impersonal Age
Edwards’s view of the universe as essentially personal offers a view of reality opposite from the direction his enlightened contemporaries — and eventually the whole modern world — were moving.
For Isaac Newton, the physical universe could be understood as interacting impersonal mechanisms. One could add the God of Christianity to this outlook (as Newton himself did), or a vague Providence (as Franklin did), but practically speaking, most things could be understood as the operations of impersonal forces.
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