John spends thirteen verses establishing the largest possible claims — the Word was in the beginning, the Word was with God, the Word was God, all things were made by him. Then the sentence that turns it: And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.
Dwelt is literally pitched his tent. It is the language of the tabernacle, the tent God had once filled with his glory in the wilderness. John is saying that the presence which used to be behind curtains and guarded by priests has now moved into a body and walked around in the same dust as everyone else.
That word flesh is deliberately unglamorous. Not that the Word took a noble form or a shining appearance. Flesh — the tired, hungry, breakable kind. He got splinters. He needed sleep. He had a voice people could recognize at a distance.
This is why Christian faith is not finally a philosophy about God. It is a report about someone who showed up. We beheld his glory — John is claiming to have watched it. And the glory turned out to be full of grace and truth, two things we rarely manage to hold together. We tend to be truthful at the cost of kindness or kind at the cost of honesty. In him there was no trade.