It is Easter. Every church I have attended has read John 20 at the climax of their Easter service. John 20 is the story of how Mary Magdalene found Jesus’s tomb empty, beginning a cascade of revelations.

First, Mary Magdalene gathers Simon Peter and a famously unnamed disciple to see the empty tomb. But they don’t know what to do with it and decide to leave. Then, Mary Magdalene encounters a gardener who reveals to her that he is Jesus. Overjoyed, she tells the disciples. That evening, Jesus goes to the disciples-who are in hiding after his arrest and execution-and reveals himself to them. But, one disciple, Thomas, isn’t there when Jesus first arrives and doesn’t believe. But a week later, Thomas is with the rest of the disciples when Jesus returns again and shows the physical wounds from his execution. And finally, John 20 ends with a small epilogue stating that there is a lot of stuff that isn’t being included in the book, but that this book is written so that you-and here it literally shifts to second person-can believe in God.

What strikes me about John 20 is how it blends literature and classical rhetoric to make a profound argument about faith. Jesus was part of a movement called Hellenism in which the people of the Levant were adopting Greek ideas in the wake of Alexander the Great’s invasion. So-called Hellenic Jews sought to reform Jewish law by incorporating elements of Greek philosophy, particularly traditions from Plato and Aristotle. The historical figure of Jesus is often compared to Socrates, and for good reason. Jesus would have been well aware of Socrates’s teachings. Read through a lens of classical rhetoric, John 20 shows how to both construct and disguise an argument.

The construction of the argument appears most clearly at the end, where it is written

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.

This is a thesis statement, and a pretty clear one at that. The argument is that if you read this book, then you will believe in Jesus’s divinity. And, if you believe in Jesus’s divinity, you will overcome death as he did. All the rest of the Bible may be forgotten, for now, if you just remember this one concept.

But it is a pretty extreme concept. Why should I believe some random guy is not only the Son of God, but actually one with God himself? Aren’t there plenty of people who claim that anyway? Well, this is where the argument kicks in.

As we back up from the final verse, we encounter characters who think and feel the way that we, as readers encountering this argument for the first time, would likely feel. There are several to choose from. Either we are miraculously overcome with belief like Mary Magdalene, or we are shown the truth like the other disciples, or we are skeptical doubters like Thomas. Using literary techniques such as narration, dialogue, and imagery, the Bible humanizes these characters. Their journeys each end in belief. And in moving this way, the reader is brought along as well. It is an argument based not on logos but rather pathos, and far more powerful for it.

Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.” And Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”

You can feel Thomas’s awe. There’s a subtle miracle shown here in the fact that Jesus can apparently pass through locked doors, but the main point is that Thomas, our earlier doubter who said that he needed to see the wounds, is shown. The phrase “in my side” is doing a lot of work. And in a moment of minimalist glory, the wounds are shown to us only by the implication of dialogue.

There is nothing in John 20 that is not furthering the thesis. We could know more about Simon Peter’s life, but it is unnecessary. There are other miracles, but they are unnecessary. And of course, this conciseness means that a huge amount of attention has been paid to that opening paragraph in which Mary Magdalene brings Simon Peter and the unnamed disciple to the tomb.

Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” So Peter went out with the other disciple, and they were going toward the tomb. Both of them were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. And stooping to look in, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen cloths lying there, and the face cloth, which had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen cloths but folded up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not know the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples went back to their homes.

So what is this business with having a second, unnamed disciple? If the writer is clearly going for efficiency, then why include a third, seemingly unnecessary character? Well, the answer here is simple and profound: the unnamed disciple is John, the very same writer. He references himself in an early passage.

This means that the “unnamed disciple” really stands in for the first person I. This lends the opening passage an immense ethos, essentially saying, “I personally attest that I saw these things happen.” It serves the combined roles of exordium and narratio in establishing the credibility and circumstances of the resurrection.

Our own writing can benefit a lot from close reading John 20 in particular. There is a clear progression, a building tension, and a climax-Thomas touching Jesus’s open wounds-that directly brings the central conflict of belief into crisis. And while it seemingly comes down with a divine command to believe without seeing, it still leaves open the idea that this kind of faith is not humanly possible. After all, is not this book written to show evidence for Jesus’s divinity?