What do you think?
Rate this book
The Dionysian Gospel: The Fourth Gospel and Euripides
MacDonald observes that the Fourth Gospel sounds themes proper to the Greek god Dionysos (the Roman Bacchus), not least as he was depicted in Euripides's play The Bacchae. A divine figure, offspring of a divine father and human mother, takes on flesh to live among mortals, but is rejected by his own; miraculously provides wine; includes women as his close devotees; dies a violent death—and returns to life. The Johannine Evangelist not only imitated Euripides but expected his readers to recognize Jesus as greater than Dionysos.
270 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 1, 2017
8 people are currently reading
229 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
September 30, 2023
The divine son of the supreme God by a mortal mother takes on a human body and sojourns among his own people, bestowing life upon those who would partake of his sacred wine and water. He works miracles of abundance and rejuvenation, attracting followers—women foremost among them—and provoking the jealous rage of the authorities, who deny his divinity and repeatedly seek to kill him. Scoffing at witnesses who give testimony of his divine power, the authorities have him arrested with the intent of putting him to death. Voluntarily surrendering himself and ensuring the survival of his followers, he transforms his seeming defeat into an ultimate victory over his persecutors, at last shedding his mortal “disguise,” ascending above the world in an unqualified display of his divinity, and putting to shame those who denied him and his father.
Such is the story of Dionysus, as portrayed in Euripides’ play, the Bacchae; and such is the story of Jesus as portrayed in the Gospel of John, the earliest stratum of which Dennis MacDonald believes to have been modeled on the great tragedy, drawing parallels that would have been immediately recognizable to his readers in order to portray Jesus as the true life-giving God, superior to his pagan counterpart both in his power and in his benevolence.
The Bacchae is a grisly tale of numinous vengeance. Spurned by the relatives who rule his own city of origin, twice-born Dionysus (first from Semele, and second from the thigh of Zeus) vows to conquer Thebes for his worship and destroy those who mock him and deny that Zeus is his father. Disguising himself as a mortal priest, he drives the women of the city to madness, enticing them to partake of his ecstatic rites at Mount Cithaeron, which he miraculously transforms into a paradise flowing with wine, water, milk, and honey. Pentheus, the king of Thebes, attempts to quash this subversive new “god” (who also happens to be his cousin) by sending his men to arrest the “priest” who is the god himself in disguise.
Dionysus voluntarily hands himself over, but when Pentheus orders him imprisoned in the stables with plans to stone him to death, he is set free by a miraculous earthquake and fire. When a herdsman arrives in town to report that the maenads—Dionysus’s crazed female followers—have torn his cattle to pieces with their bare hands and plundered nearby villages, Pentheus decides to gather the army to crush the Dionysian cult and restore order. The disguised Dionysus, plotting to humiliate Pentheus before subjecting him to a brutal death, and exerting a kind of hypnotic power, convinces him that instead of resorting to bloodshed he should disguise himself as a woman and spy on the maenads.
The transvestite king is led out of the city to Mount Cithaeron. Approaching the maenads, Dionysus helps Pentheus get a better view by miraculously bending the top of a tree to the ground, allowing Pentheus to climb on, and then letting it swing back up into the air. Dropping his disguise, Dionysus alerts the maenads that an enemy of the gods is hiding in the tree. The maenads—led by his mother Agave and his aunts Ino and Autonoë—pull Pentheus down from the tree and rip him to shreds. Believing in her divine stupor that she has just hunted a lion, Agave fixes Pentheus’s head onto her staff and returns triumphantly to Thebes. Presenting her trophy to her father Cadmus, she is confused when he reacts with horror instead of pride. Cadmus gradually talks her out of her insanity, and Agave’s joy turns to grief and terror when she realizes that she is holding the severed head of her own son. Dionysus appears in his true, “ascended” form (the actor was suspended above the stage by a pulley system) and announces the consummation of the vengeful work for which he took his mortal disguise. Agave, her sisters, Cadmus, and his wife Harmonia are condemned to exile; a “scattering” that parallels the dismemberment of Pentheus as well as the general Dionysian theme of sparagmos.
Some of the connections MacDonald suggests between the Bacchae and the Gospel of John seem to me a bit spurious, or else are so vague as to be devoid of real meaning. There are, however, several illuminating parallels between the Gospel and the drama—as well as Dionysian worship in general—that undoubtedly speak to direct influence. The Wedding at Cana is an obvious example, in which Jesus supplants Dionysus as a limitless source of life-giving wine: a wine which, unlike that of the old god, bestows eternal life rather than a mere temporary reprieve from life’s hardships. In pagan temples, three jars were supposedly set out overnight during the feast of Dionysus, which were then found the next morning to be full of wine. Jesus transforms six jars of water into wine of such quality that the master of the feast thinks the best wine has been saved for last. When Jesus tells his disciples, “I am the true vine,” he implies the existence of a “false vine,” which the Gospel’s first readers in early second-century Asia Minor would surely have recognized as Dionysus, whose cult was popular in the region.
The story of Christ’s encounter with the Samaritan woman is a particularly intriguing case. Just as Dionysus first establishes his cult in Thebes by leading the women out of the city to Mount Cithaeron, so the first Samaritan Jesus meets is a woman at a well outside the city near Mount Gerizim. Just as Pentheus suspects the maenads of promiscuity, so does Jesus reveal the “promiscuity” of the Samaritan woman by pointing out that she has been married several times and the man she is currently living with is not her husband. Just as Dionysus provides water to his maenads, so Jesus offers himself as the living water, “welling up into eternal life.” Just as the men of Thebes come to recognize the divinity of Dionysus after he enacts his revenge on Pentheus, so the men of Samaria, hearing of Jesus from the woman at the well, acknowledge him as “the savior of the world.”
Compare the interrogation of Jesus by the Pharisees to that of the disguised Dionysus by Pentheus:
John 8:12-19:
Bacchae (498, 500-502, and 505-6):
In both cases, a god is present at the interrogation, but is invisible to the interrogators because of their impiety. In both cases, the interrogation is followed by a failed attempt to have the subject stoned to death.
Most fascinating of all, perhaps, are the parallels to be found in John’s passion narrative, which subverts the Dionysian story of vengeance and wrath by shifting the characterization of Jesus from Dionysus to Pentheus. Both Pentheus and Jesus change their attire before facing death in a manner that encourages mockery: Pentheus dresses as a woman, and Jesus is dressed in a purple robe and donned with a crown of thorns, mockingly proclaimed King of the Jews by the soldiers. John’s Gospel uniquely identifies Jesus’s attire as a himation, a type of mantle in which Dionysus was commonly depicted, along with his signature laurel crown. Both Pentheus and Jesus are led out of the city to a mountain, both are “lifted up” on a “tree,” and in both cases a group of women are present; though of course in the Gospels they are merely spectators while in the Bacchae they are the very instruments of death. MacDonald insists that when Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener after his resurrection, this is an allusion to Agave mistaking Pentheus’s head for that of a lion; but I think the symbolic connection with the Garden of Eden is far more obvious, even though for some unknown reason MacDonald completely dismisses it.
Likewise, it’s worth pointing out that the Bacchae is not the only story with which the passion narratives, and particularly that of John, share a number of parallels. King David endures mockery as he flees Jerusalem in the face of Absalom’s rebellion. He weeps on the Mount of Olives just as Jesus does. He wants to fight Absalom’s army, but his followers restrain him on the grounds that he can’t be spared; the Gospels reverse this by having Jesus stand his disciples down and voluntarily face his trial alone. Jesus then goes on to suffer the fate of Absalom: he is suspended above the earth on a tree and pierced three times. Who’s to say that the Bacchae was more prominent in mind of this supposed Dionysian Evangelist (or any of the other Evangelists) than the story of David and Absalom?
At any rate, Dionysus achieves his ascent and glorification by sacrificing others and avenging himself on his enemies, while Jesus does so by sacrificing himself: offering life even to his persecutors as the benevolent savior of the world. I know which one I prefer.
Such is the story of Dionysus, as portrayed in Euripides’ play, the Bacchae; and such is the story of Jesus as portrayed in the Gospel of John, the earliest stratum of which Dennis MacDonald believes to have been modeled on the great tragedy, drawing parallels that would have been immediately recognizable to his readers in order to portray Jesus as the true life-giving God, superior to his pagan counterpart both in his power and in his benevolence.
The Bacchae is a grisly tale of numinous vengeance. Spurned by the relatives who rule his own city of origin, twice-born Dionysus (first from Semele, and second from the thigh of Zeus) vows to conquer Thebes for his worship and destroy those who mock him and deny that Zeus is his father. Disguising himself as a mortal priest, he drives the women of the city to madness, enticing them to partake of his ecstatic rites at Mount Cithaeron, which he miraculously transforms into a paradise flowing with wine, water, milk, and honey. Pentheus, the king of Thebes, attempts to quash this subversive new “god” (who also happens to be his cousin) by sending his men to arrest the “priest” who is the god himself in disguise.
Dionysus voluntarily hands himself over, but when Pentheus orders him imprisoned in the stables with plans to stone him to death, he is set free by a miraculous earthquake and fire. When a herdsman arrives in town to report that the maenads—Dionysus’s crazed female followers—have torn his cattle to pieces with their bare hands and plundered nearby villages, Pentheus decides to gather the army to crush the Dionysian cult and restore order. The disguised Dionysus, plotting to humiliate Pentheus before subjecting him to a brutal death, and exerting a kind of hypnotic power, convinces him that instead of resorting to bloodshed he should disguise himself as a woman and spy on the maenads.
The transvestite king is led out of the city to Mount Cithaeron. Approaching the maenads, Dionysus helps Pentheus get a better view by miraculously bending the top of a tree to the ground, allowing Pentheus to climb on, and then letting it swing back up into the air. Dropping his disguise, Dionysus alerts the maenads that an enemy of the gods is hiding in the tree. The maenads—led by his mother Agave and his aunts Ino and Autonoë—pull Pentheus down from the tree and rip him to shreds. Believing in her divine stupor that she has just hunted a lion, Agave fixes Pentheus’s head onto her staff and returns triumphantly to Thebes. Presenting her trophy to her father Cadmus, she is confused when he reacts with horror instead of pride. Cadmus gradually talks her out of her insanity, and Agave’s joy turns to grief and terror when she realizes that she is holding the severed head of her own son. Dionysus appears in his true, “ascended” form (the actor was suspended above the stage by a pulley system) and announces the consummation of the vengeful work for which he took his mortal disguise. Agave, her sisters, Cadmus, and his wife Harmonia are condemned to exile; a “scattering” that parallels the dismemberment of Pentheus as well as the general Dionysian theme of sparagmos.
Some of the connections MacDonald suggests between the Bacchae and the Gospel of John seem to me a bit spurious, or else are so vague as to be devoid of real meaning. There are, however, several illuminating parallels between the Gospel and the drama—as well as Dionysian worship in general—that undoubtedly speak to direct influence. The Wedding at Cana is an obvious example, in which Jesus supplants Dionysus as a limitless source of life-giving wine: a wine which, unlike that of the old god, bestows eternal life rather than a mere temporary reprieve from life’s hardships. In pagan temples, three jars were supposedly set out overnight during the feast of Dionysus, which were then found the next morning to be full of wine. Jesus transforms six jars of water into wine of such quality that the master of the feast thinks the best wine has been saved for last. When Jesus tells his disciples, “I am the true vine,” he implies the existence of a “false vine,” which the Gospel’s first readers in early second-century Asia Minor would surely have recognized as Dionysus, whose cult was popular in the region.
The story of Christ’s encounter with the Samaritan woman is a particularly intriguing case. Just as Dionysus first establishes his cult in Thebes by leading the women out of the city to Mount Cithaeron, so the first Samaritan Jesus meets is a woman at a well outside the city near Mount Gerizim. Just as Pentheus suspects the maenads of promiscuity, so does Jesus reveal the “promiscuity” of the Samaritan woman by pointing out that she has been married several times and the man she is currently living with is not her husband. Just as Dionysus provides water to his maenads, so Jesus offers himself as the living water, “welling up into eternal life.” Just as the men of Thebes come to recognize the divinity of Dionysus after he enacts his revenge on Pentheus, so the men of Samaria, hearing of Jesus from the woman at the well, acknowledge him as “the savior of the world.”
Compare the interrogation of Jesus by the Pharisees to that of the disguised Dionysus by Pentheus:
John 8:12-19:
“Jesus then spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world.’ [12b]
The Pharisees then said to him, ‘You are giving testimony about yourself; your witness is not true.’
Jesus replied and said to them, [14b] ‘You do not know where I came from or where I am going. [15-16a] My judgment is true, because I am not alone—I and [with me] the Father who sent me. And in your own law it is written that the testimony of two people is true.’ [18]
Then they were saying to him, ‘Where is your Father?’
Jesus replied, ‘You know neither me nor the Father; if you had known me, you also would have known my Father.’”
Bacchae (498, 500-502, and 505-6):
Dionysus: …the god himself will free me whenever I want. . . . Even now he is near and sees what I am suffering.
Pentheus: Where is he? He is not visible to my eyes.
Dionysus: He is here with me; because you are impious, you do not see him.
[…]
Pentheus: I am more powerful than you—to tie you up.
Dionysus: You do not know what life you live, what you are doing, or what you are.
In both cases, a god is present at the interrogation, but is invisible to the interrogators because of their impiety. In both cases, the interrogation is followed by a failed attempt to have the subject stoned to death.
Most fascinating of all, perhaps, are the parallels to be found in John’s passion narrative, which subverts the Dionysian story of vengeance and wrath by shifting the characterization of Jesus from Dionysus to Pentheus. Both Pentheus and Jesus change their attire before facing death in a manner that encourages mockery: Pentheus dresses as a woman, and Jesus is dressed in a purple robe and donned with a crown of thorns, mockingly proclaimed King of the Jews by the soldiers. John’s Gospel uniquely identifies Jesus’s attire as a himation, a type of mantle in which Dionysus was commonly depicted, along with his signature laurel crown. Both Pentheus and Jesus are led out of the city to a mountain, both are “lifted up” on a “tree,” and in both cases a group of women are present; though of course in the Gospels they are merely spectators while in the Bacchae they are the very instruments of death. MacDonald insists that when Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener after his resurrection, this is an allusion to Agave mistaking Pentheus’s head for that of a lion; but I think the symbolic connection with the Garden of Eden is far more obvious, even though for some unknown reason MacDonald completely dismisses it.
Likewise, it’s worth pointing out that the Bacchae is not the only story with which the passion narratives, and particularly that of John, share a number of parallels. King David endures mockery as he flees Jerusalem in the face of Absalom’s rebellion. He weeps on the Mount of Olives just as Jesus does. He wants to fight Absalom’s army, but his followers restrain him on the grounds that he can’t be spared; the Gospels reverse this by having Jesus stand his disciples down and voluntarily face his trial alone. Jesus then goes on to suffer the fate of Absalom: he is suspended above the earth on a tree and pierced three times. Who’s to say that the Bacchae was more prominent in mind of this supposed Dionysian Evangelist (or any of the other Evangelists) than the story of David and Absalom?
At any rate, Dionysus achieves his ascent and glorification by sacrificing others and avenging himself on his enemies, while Jesus does so by sacrificing himself: offering life even to his persecutors as the benevolent savior of the world. I know which one I prefer.
March 21, 2023
Dennis proposes a hypothesis, that the first edition of the Gospel of John was written for those familiar with Greek polytheistic culture and presents Jesus as a compassionate alternative to the Greek gods. He then presents an overwhelming amount of evidence, some convincing some not. The gospel would then undergo several edits throughout it's lifespan before canonization. This book is an excellent read on early Christianity, the history of the gospels and the Johnian cannon, and the effects not only that the surrounding culture had on Christianity but that Christianity had on the surrounding culture.
Of the major criticisms I have: the author is a Christian and his own beliefs do get projected onto his academic works. Otherwise this book is an excellent, if not dry, read on the history of the world's largest faith. 6/10
Of the major criticisms I have: the author is a Christian and his own beliefs do get projected onto his academic works. Otherwise this book is an excellent, if not dry, read on the history of the world's largest faith. 6/10
July 1, 2025
How fitting, to buy the book without realizing it on January 6th? Not Epiphany, but the day of the wedding at Cana, where Jesus turned water into wine—such a Dionysian thing to do. His first miracle, according to John.
Research is magnificent. An exegesis, it dissects the Johannine tradition (you need to know your Gospels before tackling this little beast—I struggled greatly), expounding the differences between Gospel versions, letters, and Apocalypse, while tackling the main idea: John's Gospel is radically different from the earlier Gospels, because John's Jesus is Dionysus 2.0.
Phrase by phrase, the author shows how full sentences in the earlier version of the Gospel are almost verbatim copies of Euripides' work Bacchae. Sometimes, a word appears in the Gospel that doesn't appear in any other early Christian works—nowhere at all—but it's right there in Euripides, a tragedy about a story in which the god temporarily adopts a human form.
If you're not familiar with the parallels in their myths, they're mind-blowing. Both being born from virgins by the god in the form of a bird is just the start. The miracles (this is where we get the turning of water into wine, which was Dionysus' thing), the trials. He dresses like Dionysus, for the love of your favorite god (crown of plants, purple robe). Truth is, a lot of times, you replace characters' names in the Gospel and you have a scene from the theater piece.
John's genius, if you have it, is subverting the end—making the god die instead of the king, as in The Bacchae (and even then, crucifixion is eerily similar, when the king of Thebes is dismembered by the Maenads).
Research is magnificent. An exegesis, it dissects the Johannine tradition (you need to know your Gospels before tackling this little beast—I struggled greatly), expounding the differences between Gospel versions, letters, and Apocalypse, while tackling the main idea: John's Gospel is radically different from the earlier Gospels, because John's Jesus is Dionysus 2.0.
Phrase by phrase, the author shows how full sentences in the earlier version of the Gospel are almost verbatim copies of Euripides' work Bacchae. Sometimes, a word appears in the Gospel that doesn't appear in any other early Christian works—nowhere at all—but it's right there in Euripides, a tragedy about a story in which the god temporarily adopts a human form.
If you're not familiar with the parallels in their myths, they're mind-blowing. Both being born from virgins by the god in the form of a bird is just the start. The miracles (this is where we get the turning of water into wine, which was Dionysus' thing), the trials. He dresses like Dionysus, for the love of your favorite god (crown of plants, purple robe). Truth is, a lot of times, you replace characters' names in the Gospel and you have a scene from the theater piece.
John's genius, if you have it, is subverting the end—making the god die instead of the king, as in The Bacchae (and even then, crucifixion is eerily similar, when the king of Thebes is dismembered by the Maenads).
December 30, 2025
I enjoyed the central argument of the book — that the fourth gospel went through several editions and the first edition was modeled after Euripides’ Bacchae. I think Dennis McDonald makes a compelling case for that thesis. What I don’t like, however, is seeing scholars still referring to Q/a lost sayings source or speaking about communities (e.g. Johannine, markan, etc.), or bothering much with anything Papias wrote, especially as it concerns the authorship/source of the gospel traditions. I feel like M. Goodacre, H. Mendez, and R. Faith Walsh have basically put a nail in those hypothetical sources and shown why they don’t work/are better explained by alternate hypotheses. Thankfully, McDonald’s main arguments don’t depend much on these sources and in fact, are probably much stronger without them.
I think his argument that the Johannine epistles (or at least the first one) predates the gospel is worthy of consideration. The same argument I’d field for Mark’s use of Paul’s epistles can be used here. The author of the epistles does not cite Jesus as the source of many of his sayings. The evangelist (or at least, the one for the gospel’s 2nd edition) takes the language and wording of the epistles and turns them into sayings of Jesus. I’d dedicate more research into this, but I think I’d be interested in seeing this line of inquiry pursued.
I think his argument that the Johannine epistles (or at least the first one) predates the gospel is worthy of consideration. The same argument I’d field for Mark’s use of Paul’s epistles can be used here. The author of the epistles does not cite Jesus as the source of many of his sayings. The evangelist (or at least, the one for the gospel’s 2nd edition) takes the language and wording of the epistles and turns them into sayings of Jesus. I’d dedicate more research into this, but I think I’d be interested in seeing this line of inquiry pursued.
September 14, 2022
This not a comprehensive comparison of Jesus and Dionysus, but is restricted to the influence of Euripides on the earliest version of the Gospel of John. MacDonald makes numerous possible links, some of which I did not find convincing but many of which were truly eye opening. The initial chapter and last couple chapters focus on the first, second, and third versions of the Gospel and have little or nothing to do with Dionysus. It felt like reading 2 different books.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews