When the Gospels Don’t Agree on an Opening Scene
When I sat down to read Luke 1 and John 1 today, I was struck by how differently each gospel chooses to begin. Both are telling the story of Jesus, yet the tone, scope, and starting points could not be more distinct.
Luke: The Biographer with a Pen and a Plan
Luke opens like a careful historian. The first verses read almost like the introduction to a well-researched biography: “Many people have set out to write accounts about the events that have been fulfilled among us” (Luke 1:1, NLT). There’s a sense of method—Luke says he has investigated “everything from the beginning” and is now setting it down in an “orderly account.” From the very start, Luke positions himself as someone who values eyewitness testimony, structure, and clarity.
Then the story dives immediately into personal, intimate moments: an elderly priest named Zechariah burning incense in the temple, an angel appearing to announce a long-awaited child, a young woman in Nazareth receiving unexpected news about a miraculous birth. Luke gives us a family tree of sorts—introducing relatives, household settings, and the small-town geography of Judea and Galilee. It’s grounded, detailed, and tangible.
John: The Philosopher Who Starts Before Time
John’s beginning could not be more different. His opening lines sound more like poetry than a report: “In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1, NLT). Instead of setting the scene in a particular year or city, John starts before time itself, speaking about existence, creation, and light. There are no angels delivering news to expectant parents. There are no named villages or temple rituals. Instead, John begins with cosmic scale—something almost beyond visualization.
Two Roads to the Same Story
It’s fascinating to consider how these two openings might shape a reader’s expectations. Luke’s start makes me anticipate a story that unfolds in human terms: people meeting in kitchens, walking dusty roads, and navigating family relationships. John’s introduction makes me anticipate a story about deep concepts—truth, light, and life—presented in a way that might blur the lines between literal and symbolic.
These different starting points also reflect something about storytelling itself. Some stories invite you into a world through small details you can touch and see. Others begin by expanding your mind to the biggest questions possible, asking you to consider the meaning of existence before introducing any characters. In reading these two chapters side by side, I’m reminded that both approaches can be powerful—they simply pull the listener into the narrative from different directions.
Reading Luke 1 and John 1 together is a bit like listening to two musicians play different openings to the same song. One starts with a simple melody you can hum along to; the other begins with a sweeping overture that fills the room. Both are leading toward the same composition, but the journey there feels entirely unique.