I picture an old, old man sitting at a table. He sits at a table near an open window.  He can see the hills of Ephesus through the window.  Another person sits with him, a person with vellum and ink.  He’s writing.  The old, old man, whose name is John, is telling a story, a story about a Saviour, a man named Jesus.  The word became flesh and dwelt among us. John has spent his life telling stories, telling about meeting Jesus by the sea, the years they spent together, the healings, the miracles, the teaching.  The terrible days when Jesus was crucified, and then about his rising from the dead, his appearances. John has been sitting in this chair, at this table, telling the story for days, weeks perhaps, trying to get it all down.  He’s been asked to have this story written down…