The Bible as Literature

The functional path of oneness is not an abstract unity but a lived encounter of utter dependence. Western thought, enslaved by the grammar of the Anglo-Saxons, treats the human as an individual: a self-contained atom, an object unto itself. It imagines freedom as isolation, and isolation as freedom. But this supposed independence becomes sterility: the atomized person, cut off from the Shepherd’s breath, is lost in a sea of thorns, choked by its own irrelevance. True independence lies not in the language of atoms but in the biology of divine anatomies, in the irreducibility of God’s living functions. The Semitic root does not define a solitary “one” but a functional, dependent, and connected one. Every creature is undoubtedly one, yet cannot sustain itself any more than a cell can live apart from the body. As the body cannot live without its head, the tree without the earth withers. The triliteral root—three consonants binding the Tree of Life to the Master who gives it breath—embodies this living unity. Each consonant functions only in relation to the others; none can speak alone. Like branches drawing life through hidden roots, utility flows from dependence on him, not autonomy. In this linguistic body, the Semitic scrolls convey the unity of divine oneness: connection without possession, coherence without control. To be yaḥid is to be fragile, dependent, and open without self-reference: the earthen vessel through which the breath of ha-ʾEḥad flows. Western language, by contrast, breeds an unconscious polytheism of the self. When every person becomes an independent atom, the world fills with gods. Each will asserts its own dominion; each word competes for sovereignty. Polytheism, at its base, is war: the multiplication of possessive wills in endless collision. The Lukan crowd becomes a pantheon of thorns, a battlefield of competing gods. The soil of faith is twisted into a field of confrontation, where the multitude gathers against the Lord and his Christ to suffocate the one who brings the life-giving breath of his instruction. Yet within that suffocating crowd stands the yaḥid, Jairus, whose “only daughter”—his yeḥidah—lies dying. His lineage collapses; his name withers. Yet in this desolation, he does not press or grasp; he kneels before the “one.” There, in the stillness of dependence, the breath returns, and the Shepherd that the cares of this life cannot choke breathes life into the earthen vessel that has ceased to strive. μονογενής (monogenes) / י־ח־ד (yod-ḥet-dalet) / و-ح-د (wāw-ḥāʾ-dāl) One and only; single of its kind; only-born; only, only one, solitary, unique. “She was his only one [יְחִידָה (yeḥidah)]; he had no other son or daughter.” (Judges 11:34 )Here יָחִיד (yaḥid) expresses the fragility of the earthen vessel. In verse 34, the human line rests upon a single, irreplaceable life. Jephthah’s entire legacy depends on his yeḥidah; when she is offered, the limits of family and human continuity are laid bare. The father’s grief, bound to his only daughter, exposes the futility of lineage and the inevitability of dependence on God. The yaḥid becomes the mirror through which the insufficiency of man encounters the sufficiency of God. “Deliver my life from the sword, my only one [יְחִידָתִי (yeḥidati)] from the power of the dog.” (Psalm 22:21) LXX 21David cries from the edge of annihilation. His yeḥidati (“my only one”) refers to his only life (nefeš). He stands surrounded by predators, stripped of every defense, holding nothing but the breath that God alone can sustain. In that setting, ha-yaḥid encounters ha-ʾEḥad; the singular human breath encounters the One God who gives it breath. The weakness of the individual, the threatened “only life”, is the functional context of י־ח־ד (yod-ḥet-dalet) where triliteral replaces human vulnerability with God’s sufficiency. “Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am alone [יָחִיד (yaḥid)] and afflicted.” (Psalm 25:16 ) LXX 24Here, yaḥid is not emotional...

The obsession of Western spirituality with forgiveness—therapeutic forgiveness—is an obsession with the self. With control. With the usurpation of God’s throne by human power. It domesticates God, it drags wisdom into abstraction, it ties it down, it entangles it in comfort for the self, and multiplies suffering for others. But Scripture cuts the knot. Forgiveness from the cross is not therapy. It is release. Its root, ἀφίημι (aphiemi), to let go, to remit, to release, shatters settlement. It refuses possession. It suspends judgment. To release guilt through forgiveness. Nūḥ (نُوح) preaches divine مغفرة (maghfira), a release, a remission, the undoing of claim. The Gospels speak the same: ἀφίημι (aphiemi). And on the cross, Jesus says: “Father, ἄφες (aphes) them” (Luke 23:34). Not to soothe himself. Not to achieve “closure.” But to relinquish claim and leave unsettled judgment in God’s self-sufficient hand. Forgiveness here is no possession. It is gentle rain: falling, renewing, moving on. It cannot be held by the hand of man. It cannot be domesticated. It unsettles the settlement itself. It leaves all things provisionally in the hand of God. “Who is a God like you, who pardons wrongdoing and passes over a rebellious act of the remnant of his possession? He does not retain his anger forever, because he delights in mercy.” (Micah 7:18) This week, I discuss Luke 8:51. “When he came to the house, he did not allow [οὐκ εἴασεν, ouk eiasen] anyone to enter with him, except Peter, John, and James, and the girl’s father and mother.” (8:51) ‎ἀφίημι (aphiemi) / נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) / ن-و-ح (nūn-wāw-ḥāʾ) The root נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) in Hebrew, ἀφίημι (aphiemi) in Greek, and ن-و-ح (nūn-wāw-ḥāʾ) in Arabic share a core function: to rest, to let be, to release. But in the Bible and Qurʾan, this rest is always provisional: never possession, never settlement. Settle, Remain “The man, the lord of the land, said to us, ‘By this I will know that you are honest men: leave [נוּחוּ (nuḥu)] one of your brothers with me and take grain for the famine of your households, and go.’” (Genesis 42:33) To settle or remain as a pledge. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as “leave behind.” One brother must stay behind while the others travel. The act of settling is temporary, an enforced pause, not ownership. “So the Lord allowed those nations to remain [וַיַּנַּח (wayyannaḥ)], not driving them out quickly; and he did not hand them over to Joshua.” (Judges 2:23)To let stay means to permit settlement. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) signifies God’s intentional suspension of conquest. The nations remain unsettled alongside Israel in the land. It is a pause in divine judgment that disallows human presumption. Transient Rest, Repose “Then Samson said to the boy who was holding his hand, ‘Let me feel the pillars on which the house rests [הַנִּיחֵנִי (hanniḥeni)], so that I may lean against them.’” (Judges 16:26)To rest or relax physically. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) signifies bodily relief. Samson leans for support. Rest is not a possession but a temporary dependence. “From men with your hand, Lord, from men of the world, whose portion is in this life. You fill their belly with your treasure; they are satisfied with children, and leave [הִנִּיחוּ (hinniḥu)] their abundance to their infants.” (Psalm 17:14; 16:14 LXX)To rest in satisfaction and to leave behind. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as the fullness of life’s portion as rest represented in inheritance. Yet, this rest is transient: what remains passes to children, never held permanently. Leave Behind, Let Go, Abandon “So I hated all the fruit of my labor for which I had labored under the sun, for I must leave [אַנִּיחֶנּוּ (ʾanniḥennu)] it to the man who will come after me.” (Ecclesiastes 2:18)To leave or give up as an inheritance for someone else. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) indicates relinquishment. What one works for cannot be held permanently but must be released. “In the morning sow your...

Every dynasty insists on its permanence. Every people clings to the hollow echo of its own voice. Every generation invents its own despair and dares to call it light. Yet Scripture unmasks the fragility of these human building projects. The voices of despair rise in the camp, soothing themselves with stories of morality, while kings and judges build false legacies and nations carve idols in the light of their own eyes. Again and again, the words of God cut across this chorus, splitting the false consolation of narrative with the constellation of Abrahamic function: exposing human futility with divine riddle, and announcing what no human voice can summon: the surplus of grace and light. Or perhaps, when hope is gone and the fall seems final, it descends for you not as light but as despair. Can you even tell the difference? Are you still confused about the Shepherd’s identity? Yes, you are. Because you are a Westerner. And now even the East has turned West. All of you are talking about yourselves. Catch up quickly, ḥabībī. God is written. God does not forget. God does not turn. And God, as the Apostle said, is not mocked. This week, I discuss Luke 8:41. Ἰάϊρος (Iairos) ‎/י־א־ר (yod-alef-resh, “light”) ‎י־א־ש (yod-alef-shin, “despair”) /‎ي־ء־س (yāʾ-hamza-sīn) The functions י־א־ר (yod-alef-resh, “shine”, “light”) and י־א־ש (yod-alef-shin, “despair”) share the same first two letters (י + א). Only the last letter is different: resh (ר) for shine, shin (ש) for despair. In Semitic languages, this kind of overlap often forms a word-family or cluster where similar-looking roots embody opposite meanings. The placement and structure leave the door open to hear and see them as two edges of the same blade—one edge to shine, the other to despair. The Arabic cognate يَئِسَ (yaʾisa, “to despair”) expands this constellation of function, confirming the polarity as it treads across the breadth of Semitic tradition. (HALOT, pp. 381-382) The Double-Edged Sword of Semitic Function: Despair and Light 1. The Voice of the People: Despair to despairtayʾasu2. The Voice of God: Light and Hope yaʾirٱسْتَيْـَٔسَ (istaʾyasa) Surah Yūsuf In both the Gospel and the Qur’an, the sword of Pauline Grace hangs above the scene. On one edge is the people’s despair: sharp, cutting, self-inflicted, and final. On the other edge is God’s light: sharper still, decisive, and life-giving. Scripture allows no compromise between the two. One voice must be silenced: the word of the people falls, and the word of God stands, forever. ‎πίπτω (pipto) / נ־פ־ל (nun-fe-lamed) / ن־ف־ل (nūn-fāʾ-lām) The root carries the function “to fall, fall down, be slain, collapse, fail; to fall in battle, collapse in death, or prostrate,” and in its semantics it denotes a sense of finality, the collapse of life or order. According to Lane’s Lexicon, the root ن-ف-ل (nūn–fāʾ–lām) indicates “he gave without obligation, akin to Pauline grace as a free gift” (نَفَلَ nafala), “that which falls to a man’s lot without his seeking it” (نَفْل nafl), or “booty, spoil, bounty” (أَنْفَال anfāl), while Tāj al-ʿArūs describes it as “that which falls (يَقَعُ yaqaʿu) to someone’s portion.” This resonates with Paul’s use of χάρις (charis, grace), where salvation is not earned but freely given: “For by grace [χάριτί (chariti)] you have been saved through faith; and this is not of yourselves, it is the gift of God” (Ephesians 2:8). Likewise, Paul stresses that justification comes “being justified as a gift [δωρεάν (dorean)] by his grace [τῇ αὐτοῦ χάριτι (te autou chariti)] through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus” (Romans 3:24). nafelahepesanIn the Qur’an, Paul’s teaching is carried forward from Luke, and the function of the fall is inverted: human failure becomes a gift, a “surplus”, not the false surplus of the billionaire abundance mafia, but what God allots beyond human expectation. Where Hebrew נ־פ־ל (nun-fe-lamed) and Greek πίπτω (pipto) establish the fall as collapse, ruin, and death,...

All of Scripture comes to this: hope and trust. Not in the work of our hands, but in the righteousness of God. He alone vindicates the poor, he alone tends the needy. He is the Good Shepherd, the breath in the night, the voice that calms the storm, the hand that keeps the wolf at bay. Will we close the gates? Will we bind ourselves in chains? Will we send him away? To wait is to hope. Yet waiting is also a test, a scrutiny that ends in failure or in faith, in ruin or in steadfastness. Who can endure? Who will remain when the King returns— ignoring the mockery of nations, turning only for his guidance, submitting to his Command before the Hour, trusting in the Day? “Lift up your heads, you gates, And be lifted up, you ancient doors, That the King of glory may come in! Who is the King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, The Lord mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, you gates, And lift them up, you ancient doors, That the King of glory may come in! Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory.” (Psalm 24:7-10) This week, I discuss Luke 8:40. Καὶ ἐν τῷ ὑποστρέφειν τὸν Ἰησοῦν ἀπεδέξατο αὐτὸν ὁ ὄχλος· ἦσαν γὰρ πάντες προσδοκῶντες αὐτόν.“And as Jesus returned, the crowd welcomed ἀπεδέξατο (apedéxato) him, for they were all waiting προσδοκῶντες (prosdokôntes) for him.” Show Notes ἀποδέχομαι (apodechomai) ἀποδέχομαι (apodechomai) is a compound (ἀπό + δέχομαι) constructed on the core usages of “receiving, welcoming, taking in.” The prefix ἀπό (apo) heightens the action, not just marking reception but sharpening it into a decisive acceptance: an acknowledgment that leans toward submission rather than casual receiving. Its itinerary begins in the Greek text with the notion of hospitality and reception: the gates opened for Judith, the honor paid in Joppa, the joyful welcome of brothers in Jerusalem, and the warm acceptance of a report. From there, its usage expands into the realm of acknowledgment and recognition: the acceptance of terms, the granting of petitions, the understanding of a matter, the admission of information, the acknowledgment of divine sovereignty, the cognitive recognition of realities, and the formal acknowledgments offered in speech. Finally, in the New Testament, the term reaches its full significance in submission to the divine words: those who receive the apostolic proclamation do not merely admit or recognize but firmly accept it as God’s own words, surrendering themselves in baptism. Judith 13:13:apedexanto1 Maccabees 9:71:apedexatoapedexatoapedexatoapedexatoapedexatoapedechthēapedexantoapodechesthaiapodexamenoiapedechthēsanapodexasthaiapedexantoapodechomethaapedechetoparalabontes προσδοκάω (prosdokaō) Expect, wait for, look for. From δοκάω (think, suppose) with the prefix πρός- (towards). To look toward in expectation. ע־ר־ף (ʿayin–resh–fe) / ع-ر-ف (ʿayn–rāʾ–fāʾ) “May my teaching drip [יַעֲרֹף (yaʿarof)] as the ra...

The function ש־ו־ב (shin–waw–bet) is not the sigh of remorse in a cloistered heart, but the pivot of a sword’s edge; the turn God commands into the place where his name has been denied. Abraham returns from the valley of kings; Moses returns to the mountain, still breathing the smoke of the calf’s golden stench; Gideon returns to the camp with the dream of victory burning in his ears. None turns to hide—all turn to face him. And ח־נ־ן (ḥet–nun–nun), to plead, is no bowing before the courts of men. The human reference vanishes. Job’s feeble plea to his servant falls into the void. Malachi mocks the lips that beg for favor while the hands bring defilement. Proper pleading is stripped of flattery and calculation, bare as incense in the wind, carrying no name but his. In Luke’s Gerasene plain, the return is marked by absence. The swine are gone, the crowd is gone, the man’s former companions erased. He stands alone, clothed and found, with no community left to shield him, no filth left to hide him, no power left to reference but the one who sent him. This is the Day when the disbeliever is given back his own deed, when tribe and city and oath are dust, and a man stands naked before the Face that made him. This is the Day that the Lord has made. To return is to step into that bareness now, ahead of the Hour, with only obedience in your hands. “Return to your house, habibi, and describe what great things God has done for you.” This week, I discuss Luke 8:39. Show Notes δέομαι (deomai) / ח־נ־ן (ḥet–nun–nun) / ح–ن–ن (ḥāʾ–nūn–nūn) BEGGING IN VAIN The itinerary of ח־נ־ן (ḥet–nun–nun) / ح–ن–ن (ḥāʾ–nūn–nūn) opens with righteous entreaty to God in Deuteronomy 3:23 — “I pleaded [וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן (waʾetḥannan)] with the Lord at that time” — and proceeds to submission before his prophet in 2 Kings 1:13 — “he bowed down on his knees before Elijah and begged [וַיִּתְחַנֵּ֗ן (wayyiṭḥannēn)] him.” It is upheld as the correct course in Job 8:5 — “if you will search for God and implore [תִּתְחַנָּֽן (titḥannan)] the compassion of the Almighty” — but falters in Job 19:16, when Job seeks compassion from a human servant: “I called to my servant, but he gave me no answer; I pleaded [חִנַּ֖נְתִּי (ḥinnantī)] with him with my mouth.” Here, the root meets the same fork in the road as מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph) / و–ج–د (wāw–jīm–dāl) “to find.” To plead in the wrong direction is the verbal equivalent of being found in the wrong place—misoriented, exposed, and powerless. Job is “found out” in his misdirected appeal. The itinerary returns to proper alignment in Psalm 141:2 — “may my prayer be counted as incense before you” — where the supplication is again oriented toward God, the one who truly “finds” his slave. But the arc terminates with Malachi 1:9 — “will you not plead [חִנַּנְאֵל (ḥinnū-ʾēl)] for God’s favor…with such an offering…will he receive any of you kindly?” Here, the prophet exposes the futility of petition without obedience. Even the correct address is worthless if the one who pleads is “found” corrupt. In Luke, δέομαι (deomai) follows the same itinerary. As with מ־צ־א, the point is not the act itself — searching, pleading, finding — but the reference. Mercy is not secured by human initiative, whether in seeking or in supplication, but by being found by God in faithful submission. To plead wrongly is to be found wrongly; to plead rightly is to be found rightly. Luke’s use aligns with Malachi’s charge: misplaced faith or hypocritical worship is no more effective than Job’s appeal to his unresponsive servant. Deuteronomy 3:23waʾetḥannanI also pleaded with the Lord at that time, saying,2 Kings 1:13wayyiṭḥannēnSo the king again sent the captain of a third fifty with his fifty. When the third captain of fifty went up, he came and bowed down on his knees before Elijah, and begged him and said to him, “O man of God, please let my life and the lives of these fifty servants of yours be precious in your sight.”Job 8:5weʾel-shadday titḥannanIf you...

In Scripture, to “find” is never mere discovery. It is encounter— a turning of the text where mercy meets rebellion, where favor walks hand-in-hand with wrath. In Gerasa, the people find the healed man—clothed, sane, silent— and they tremble. He is a mirror, a testimony they cannot bear. Restoration becomes a scandal. Mercy, a threat. As well it should be. They send away the one who scattered their demons because he disturbed their peace. The Scriptures whisper: To find a man is to stand at the edge of wrath— to be weighed, watched. Will you be spared? In Hebrew: to find, to meet, to expose. In Arabic: to find—yes— but also to be found out. To be found wandering. To be guided. The disbeliever finds God waiting— and no one can shield him. Every expectation collapses under the weight of divine wisdom. Everything found is double-edged: Grace, if received. Judgment, if refused. So—finders, beware. The light of instruction burns. This week, I discuss Luke 8:35-37. Show Notes εὑρίσκω (heuriskō) / מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph) / و–ج–د (wāw–jīm–dāl) find; reach; meet accidentally; obtain, achieve FOUND THE MAN The people “find” the healed man—מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph)—and become afraid, encountering divine judgment. He stands as a sign of both judgment and mercy: restored and sent out as a witness. In Scripture, finding a man—whether by apparent chance, deliberate search, or divine appointment—often precedes divine entrapment: a moment of redirection, confrontation, or exposure. Their encounter with this man echoes a biblical pattern in which finding a man signals the onset of divine action. wayyimṣaʾēhuwayyimmāṣēʾ wayyimṣaʾēhuwayyimṣaʾFOUND FAVOR In Luke 8:35–37, after Jesus casts out Legion, the people come and find the man “sitting at Jesus’ feet, clothed and in his right mind.” Rather than rejoicing in the mercy extended, they are seized with fear. They do not celebrate the restoration but instead beg Jesus to leave. This rebellion—typical of the עֵדָה ʿ(ēdāh) that Jesus scatters throughout the Gospel of Luke—reveals a tragic irony: grace is offered, but rejected. This moment echoes a recurring biblical pattern centered around the root מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph), which signifies finding, meeting, or encountering. When someone “finds favor” [מָצָא חֵן (māṣāʾ ḥēn)] in God’s sight, it often leads to intercession on behalf of others—even the wicked: māṣāʾtīmāṣāʾlōʾ māṣāʾtīmāṣāʾtīmāṣāʾtīIn all these examples, those who found favor stood in the breach for others—unlike the people of the Gerasenes, who reject the one who intercedes against the Roman Legion. Their response echoes Israel’s rebellion in the wilderness, when the people grumbled against Moses and said: “If only the Lord had killed us in the land of Egypt when we sat by pots of meat and ate our fill of bread! But you have brought us out into this wilderness to make us all die of hunger.” (Exodus 16:3).Though they had been delivered, they longed for the security of slavery rather than trust in the provision of God. So too in Luke 8, the people, confronted with divine mercy in the healed man, recoil in fear and send Jesus away. Bloody cowards. They cannot bear the grace that unmasks their allegiance to the 1%—the settled urban elites who love injustice. As in the wilderness, favor is offered—but refused. Grace stands before them, confronting their false peace—and they choose Pharaoh. Cowardice draped in civility. In the end, refusing to take a stand is the most wicked stand of all. May their dinner parties be found worthy of the price. FOUND JUDGMENT The people “find” judgment—מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph)—not by seeking it, but by standing in the way of divine mercy. In Luke 8:35–37, those who witness the healed man respond with fear rather than submission. The grace shown to the possessed becomes a sign of judgment for those who reject it. This reversal echoes throughout Scripture: to “find” is to be found out by God—exposed, weighed, measured, and...

Examining the history of nomadic pastoralism across Asia—from the Caucasus and Central Asian steppes to ancient Mesopotamia—reveals a consistent pattern: settled elites have repeatedly waged war against pastoral peoples. Both the Bible and the Qur’an emerged from nomadic pastoral societies, yet these same texts were later weaponized by sedentary civilizations against the very peoples once nurtured by them. We are witnessing this tragic pattern unfold again in real time—perhaps in its most brutal form yet—with escalating consequences that now reach into the heart of the West, the heir of Greco-Roman hubris. Even in pre-biblical East Asian traditions, such as the Confucian Book of Odes, herdsmen arrive with their flocks to establish an unnamed prince—a figure who emerges not from the city but from the periphery to usher in an era of divine justice. This archetype, consolidated in the Bible and the Qur’an, becomes active in the world whenever and wherever the voice from the pasture rises against the corruption of the palace. This is the Voice of the Scriptural God— The Voice of the Shepherd. It will not be silenced. It cannot be bought. It does not serve a throne. It does not belong to anyone. It roams freely upon the earth, calling its flock from the outlands, out of the city to the wilderness. The Biblical Jesus is near, habibi— And it’s time for the Lord to act. It’s time for Ibrahim’s Discords. سُبْحَانَ مَنْ جَعَلَ فِي الْحَمْدِ نُورًا (subḥāna man jaʿala fī al-ḥamdi nūran) “Glory to the one who placed light within praise.” This week, I discuss Luke 8:32-34. Photo by Cajeo Zhang on Unsplash Show notes ἀγέλη (agelē) / ע־ד־ר (ʿayin–dalet–resh) / غ–د–ر (ghayn–dāl–rāʾ) In the Gospel of Matthew, we are warned that God will separate the sheep from the goats. Mishearing this, the rule-followers among us foolishly turn their gaze outward, seeking to teach others which rules to follow. In doing so, they become goat-finders and goat-fixers—lions and bears who come not to protect the flock but to steal sheep from it. But in Luke’s application of ע־ד־ר (ʿayin–dalet–resh) from the Song of Songs, this dichotomy is flipped on its head. When the mashal unfolds at the Decapolis in Luke, the Song’s poetic use of ἀγέλη (agelē)—interchanging goats and sheep—reveals the Bible’s mockery of human rule-followers. The constant switch between goats and sheep in the Song of Songs reflects a deliberate poetic symmetry: the goats evoke movement and allure (hair), while the sheep evoke purity and precision (teeth). This imagery, drawn from real pastoral life, is repurposed to undermine self-righteous Hellenistic legal constructs. There is no intent in the text to constrain the beloved or to define her by a boundary. Rather, it moves freely—dark and light, wild and ordered, descending and ascending—a complete pastoral image that cannot be systematized. The beloved is named not to be limited, but to be delighted in—not judged, but adored. David said to Saul, “Your servant was tending his father’s flock [הָעֵדֶר (hā-ʿēder)], and when a lion or a bear came and took a sheep from the flock…” (1 Samuel 17:34)Know well the condition of your flocks [עֲדָרִים (ʿădārīm)], and pay attention to your herds; (Proverbs 27:23)Tell me, you whom my soul loves, where do you pasture your flock [עֵדֶר (ʿeder)], where do you have it lie down at noon? For why should I be like one who veils herself beside the flocks of your companions? (Song of Songs 1:7)Your hair is like a flock [כְּעֵדֶר (kə-ʿēder)] of goats, coming down from Mount Gilead. (Song of Songs 4:1)Your teeth are like a flock [כְּעֵדֶר (kə-ʿēder)] of newly shorn sheep, which have come up from their watering place… (Song of Songs 4:2)Your hair is like a flock [כְּעֵדֶר (kə-ʿēder)] of goats that have descended from Gilead. (Song of Songs 6:4)Your teeth are like a flock [כְּעֵדֶר (kə-ʿēder)] of ewes which have come up from their watering place… (Song of Songs 6:5) Still, even in the open...

Human beings are evil. We are hardwired to curate our self-image, excuse our failures, and cling to the stories that make us feel good about ourselves. The truth is, we are hypocrites—fluctuating between condemning unspeakable horrors, often hidden from public view, and idolizing the very politicians and institutional cowards who cause or permit them. The same psychological games we play to deceive ourselves work flawlessly when we’re told to choose the “lesser of two evils” during election season. Listen to yourselves, habibi. You reject Scripture—yet somehow affirm its judgment against you when you call one of your human choices the “lesser of two evils.” You hypocrite. Most people will never acknowledge their complicity in the killing fields of Gaza. It’s far more comfortable to live in self-deception than to face the truth about the monsters we really are. Evil functions under a triple constraint. First: your reflection, shown in a natural mirror, not of your own making. You want to look away, to forget what you see. So, you rush to the second constraint: the mirror of your fairy tales—the one that says you are the “fairest of them all.” Or worse, the artificial mirrors in your data centers, which regurgitate what everyone wants to hear, calibrated to the desires of monsters. Between these two lies the third constraint: your neighbor. The neighbor who also sees your reflection, not in the natural mirror of Scripture, but in how you behave when you follow yourself, even though they are as blind as you. In the end, the natural mirror does not care if you “speak the truth.” It already knows that you, like your virtue-signaling, murderous, failed politicians, are blind, arrogant, and evil. The mirror has only one objective: to force you to see the truth it reflects about you, and not to let you look away. Can you accept this? Can you sit with it? Or will you, once again, project your truth onto someone else caught in the same triple constraint? You hypocrite. You blind fool. On that day, no amount of pleading will bring you comfort. This week, I discuss Luke 8:31. Photo by Kyle Johnson on Unsplash Show Notes “They were imploring him not to command them to go away into the abyss.” Lk 8:31. “For if anyone is a listener of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror; (τὸ πρόσωπον τῆς γενέσεως — literally, “the face of birth” or “natural face”) for once he has looked at himself and gone away, he has immediately forgotten what kind of person he was.” (James 1:23–24)παρακαλέω (parakaleō) / נ–ח–ם (nūn–ḥet–mēm) / ن–ح–م (nūn–ḥāʾ–mīm) Encourage, exhort, and comfort. Feel regret, be sorry, and console yourself. Provide comfort. Saul disobeyed God’s command by sparing King Agag and taking spoils from the battle. God, through Samuel, declares that he regrets [נִחַמְתִּי (niḥamti)] making Saul king: “I regret [נִחַמְתִּי (niḥamti)] that I have made Saul king, because he has turned back from following me and has not carried out my commands.” And Samuel was furious, and he cried out to the Lord all night. (1 Samuel 15:11)Later in 1 Samuel 15:30, Saul, like Legion, makes a self-serving plea, concerned with his reputation rather than divine obedience. David’s so-called consolation [נִחַם (niḥam)] in 2 Samuel was not repentance or discernment—it was political sentimentality disguised as pastoral care. It resembled the rhetoric of a liberal American politician who publicly laments starving children in Gaza, yet quietly approves weapons sales, enforces food embargoes, and suppresses dissent. David had a soft spot for Absalom, even though Absalom murdered his half-brother Amnon in a revenge killing for the rape of their sister Tamar. Instead of submitting to God’s instruction, David inserted himself as judge and jury, led not by divine command but by personal affection and public image. This sentimental indulgence led to Absalom’s exile, his orchestrated return, and eventual rebellion—a...

In Dark Sayings, I explain how Emperor Justinian stands as a striking example of imperial harlotry. Like all rulers, he filtered Scripture through his own agenda—much like what we see in 2025, with elites twisting the biblical text to justify the very actions it condemns. Today’s world leaders are effectively reenacting the sins of the Bible’s villains. If it weren’t a tragedy, it would be a comedy. I’d sit with Jonah beneath the vine—bag of popcorn in hand. What came of Justinian copying the sins condemned in Scripture? A massive stone temple—still longed for today. This longing betrays a rejection of the preaching of the story of the Gerasene demoniac, where God himself, through his anointed Slave, rejects Roman law and silences the Greek intellectual tradition. In defiance of this witness, Justinian—praised even now—translated Roman law into Greek, a move that flatly contradicts the biblical text. O foolish Galatians. You asked for a king, and you got one. Justinian’s reign was marked by a bloody attempt to resurrect Rome’s former glory: the North African campaign against the Vandals, the prolonged and ruinous Gothic Wars in Italy, and a brief incursion into southern Spain. These campaigns were catastrophically expensive, devastating to local populations, and—like all imperial games—ended in failure. Far worse was the Justinianic Plague, a lethal epidemic that ravaged both the population and the economy. Together, these calamities fractured the region’s future. Though the Western Roman Empire had already collapsed in the 5th century, Justinian’s ambitions destabilized its successors and hindered the organic development of local societies. Things might have turned out differently. We might have avoided the first Dark Age—or at least the first one we know of—had Justinian not tried to impose a new civilization atop the ruins of the old. Dear friends: There is no God but One. He is the Heavenly Shepherd. He claims no embassy, joins no assembly, and takes no seat at your councils. He casts no vote, answers to no electorate, and has no constituents. He occupies no office, nor does he dwell in any capital. He is beholden to nothing and answers to no one. His throne is in the heavens, far beyond your reach, where maps are not drawn. Be afraid oh nations. Tremble with fear, oh bordermongers, for he is not mocked— Not by you, nor your puny gods, nor your counterfeit leaders. I place all my hope in his Slave who trusted in his command to subdue the Latin-lex and silence the Greco-lego at the Decapolis in Luke. Everything I do, I do for this Slave’s Rebellion. This week, I discuss Luke 8:30. Show Notes ἐρημόω (erēmoō) / ח־ר־ב (ḥet–resh–bet) / خ–ر–ب (khāʾ–rāʾ–bāʾ) To dry up, to be desolate, or to be destroyed. To be devastated, often referring to lands, cities, or nations. Greek examples in the LXX include: ξηραίνω (xērainō - to dry up), ἐρημόω (erēmoō - to make desolate), ἀφανίζω (aphanizō - to destroy). In Hebrew חָרַב and Arabic خَرِبَ both describe the undoing of cities, structures, or human systems—especially in the wake of divine judgment. In both the Bible and the Qur’an, ruin is not random—it is the consequence of injustice, arrogance, or rejection of divine instruction. hamaḥărébet yukh’ribūnayukh’ribūnakhar·ra·baBanu NadirThe function ח-ר-ב (ḥ-r-b) appears in Scripture to prescribe the destruction of cities and the downfall of kings—figures aligned with human systems of law and control. This same root functions in the name Mount Horeb, the site where divine law is given. It also functions as “sword,” an agent of God’s judgment. In Exodus 32:27, Moses commands the Levites at Horeb to take up their swords ח-ר-ב (ḥ-r-b) and execute judgment within the camp after the sin of the golden calf, connecting the themes of lawgiving and purifying violence. ח-ר-ב (ḥ-r-b) highlights the biblical tension between the collapse of human law and the assertion of divine will through biblical instruction and...

In Isaiah, Cyrus the Great emerges as a unique figure chosen by the God of Israel to fulfill a specific historical task: the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple and the liberation of the Judahites from exile in Babylon in direct fulfillment of the prophecy spoken by Jeremiah. Cyrus’s rise to power is depicted not as a product of his strength but as the result of God stirring his spirit and granting him authority over all nations. God bestows upon Cyrus exceptional titles: “my shepherd,” a nomadic-pastoral, Bedouin-styled function typical of prophetic literature, signifying his role in guiding the people of Israel back to God’s land, and “my anointed,” indicating a special divine commissioning that parallels, though does not equal, the messianic expectations normally associated with Israelite kings. Through Cyrus’s conquests, especially the subjugation of Babylon, the Lord demonstrates his universal sovereignty, demonstrating to all nations that he alone is the Unipolar Hegemon that directs the course of history and holds ultimate authority over the kingdoms of the earth. While Cyrus plays a pivotal role as a pawn on God’s political chessboard, Isaiah carefully distinguishes him from the Slave of the Lord. The Slave—often wrongly identified with Israel itself—points to a future messianic figure who carries a broader, more enduring mission: to establish justice, bring light to the nations, and embody God’s ultimate purpose. Unlike Cyrus, whose mission is temporal and political, the Slave’s work is a universal call to the path of the Lord, extending beyond the restoration of Jerusalem to the transformation of the human race. Thus, Isaiah presents Cyrus as a divinely appointed instrument for a limited, though critical, historical role. At the same time, the Slave of the Lord stands as the ultimate fulfillment of God’s plan of victory and liberation for his people and the entire world. Then, in Luke, the Slave landed on the beaches of the Gerasenes. Everything I do, I do for the Slave. This week, I discuss Luke 8:29. Show Notes παραγγέλλω (parangellō) order, summon, command, send a message shin-mem-ayinس-م-عsīn-mīm-ʿaynsubmit!ע-ב-ר (ʿayin-bet-resh) / ع-ب-ر (ʿayn-bāʼ-rāʼ)ʿubūrmaʿbartaʿbīrʾaleph–mem–reshʾalif-mīm-rāʾʾamrmaʾmūrMatthew Cooperamar (emir),ṣade-ayin-qofsīn–ʿayn–qāfṣāʿaqṣaʿaqayod-ayin-ṣadewāw-ʿayn-ẓāʾwaʿẓwāʿiẓtawʿīẓ“Call to the path of your Lord with wisdom and the beautiful exhortation (الْمَوْعِظَةِ ٱلْحَسَنَةِ al-mawʿiẓati al-ḥasanati), and discuss with them in that which is best. Indeed, your Lord is most knowing of who has strayed from his path, and he is most knowing of the guided.” Surah An-Nahl (16:125) ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

People choose personal relationships and personal fulfillment over duty. Most often, they place the latter ahead of the former, which is why you see all these ridiculous posts on social media about “toxic relationships.” It’s a big joke. I live among people who do not inhabit the same reality as I do. It used to frustrate me, but now I smile and move on, knowing that most people are not willing to make hard choices. They—and those who enable them—form Caesar’s political base. The blind leading the blind. Scripture has taught me, the hard way, that I have no right to judge. Neither do others, yet we all persist in doing so. All of you should watch the Star Wars series Andor in full—it’s just two seasons—and then watch Rogue One, and you’ll understand what the writers of the New Testament were doing in the shadows of “empire.” Unlike the arrogant cowards sitting on the Rebel Council at Yavin IV, the biblical writers weren’t building anything new to replace Rome or Jerusalem. They had no secret plans for a “new” Republic. The gospel was not a hero’s journey or a strategy for institution-building under the protection of a solipsistic Jedi order, nor was it fighting for “freedom.” It was, however, about hope, against all hope. Rehear Galatians. The New Testament ends where it begins—with the sword of instruction wandering the earth in God’s broad encampment, moving from place to place with an urgent message of permanent, perpetual rebellion: “Caesar is not the king!” Long before Paul, Jeremiah, too, had joined the Rebellion. He understood the price. Jeremiah was not James Dean. You cannot be a rebel unless you have a cause. Unless, of course, you, like most Americans I know, want to remain a teenager for the rest of your life. Adults, however, have to make a choice: “Cursed be the day when I was born; Let the day not be blessed when my mother bore me! Cursed be the man who brought the news to my father, saying, ‘A baby boy has been born to you,’ and made him very happy.” (Jeremiah 20:14-15) This much I know: “Everything I do, I do for the Rebellion.” This week, I discuss Luke 8:28. Show Notes ἀνακράζω (anakrazō) / ק-ר-א (qof–resh–aleph) / ق-ر-أ (qāf–rāʾ–hamza) Cry out. Read aloud. “When the three units blew the trumpets and broke the pitchers, they held the torches in their left hands and the trumpets in their right hands for blowing, and shouted, ‘A sword for the Lord and for Gideon!’” (Judges 7:20) Gideon’s story is part of the cyclical narrative structure that characterizes the Book of Judges. In this recurring pattern, Israel turns away from God and does evil, prompting God to give them into the hands of their enemies. In their suffering, the people cry out to God, who then raises up a deliverer—a judge—to rescue them. This deliverance brings a period of temporary peace until the cycle begins again. In the case of Gideon, Israel is oppressed by the Midianites. God chooses Gideon to lead a small and unlikely force, emphasizing that the victory is not the result of human strength but a demonstration of the Lord’s power and faithfulness. “Then he cried out in my hearing with a loud voice, saying, ‘Come forward, you executioners of the city, each with his weapon of destruction in his hand!’” (Ezekiel 9:1 ) In Ezekiel 8–11, the prophet is shown a vision of the abominations taking place in the Jerusalem temple, including idolatry, injustice, and ritual defilement. As a result of this widespread corruption, the glory of God departs from the temple. In chapter 9, the vision shifts from exposing sin to executing judgment. God summons six angelic executioners, each carrying a weapon and a seventh figure dressed in linen holding a writing kit. This scribe is instructed to mark the foreheads of those who mourn over the city’s sins, while the others are commanded to kill the rest without mercy, beginning at the defiled sanctuary. “So the angel who was speaking with me said to me, “Proclaim, saying, ‘This is what...

Situated opposite Galilee, the “earth” of the Gerasenes marks the site of God’s first tactical strike against Greco-Roman assimilation in Luke. The Greco-Roman rulers who possess and enslave the land impose violence and havoc, sowing death where God’s many flocks were meant to roam freely, without interference. Like the abusers in Jerusalem, the occupying forces in Decapolis do not want to live and let live. They seek to assimilate, to convert, to impose, to kill—to force others to become like them, “twice as much the sons of Hell as themselves.” Sure, they may be interested in learning something from those they conquer, but ultimately, everything must be “melted down” and absorbed into something of their own making. It’s called a “god complex:” “…the logic of American liberalism is a barely warmed-over Hellenism. The world-embracing, universe-striding Hellenic ideology under Alexander was an assimilationist one. In the Alexandrian ideology, it doesn’t matter what tribe your parents are from, what your lineage is, or in what area of the world you were born. If you speak Greek, eat like a Greek, dress like a Greek, walk like a Greek, shit like a Greek, think like a Greek—then you’re a Greek. It’s exceptionally difficult for an American to consider this ideology and not think of the ‘melting pot’” (Matthew Franklin Cooper, And the Lamb Will Conquer) They do not submit to God, who made the heavens and the earth. They do not accept what was made, as it has been made, by his making. His name alone be praised! Unlike every other revolution in human history, the socio-political rebellion of the biblical tradition—be ye not deceived, O man, it is indeed a political rebellion, though it is not about starting something new, it is a reversion—to accept the Bible is to revert to God as your King, your religion, your tribe, your city, and your homeland. To return to his land is to return not to what we build, create, perceive, synthesize, or formulate through our ideolocial or theological assimilations, but to what God himself provided in the beginning: an open field where all living creatures coexist in his care. This week, I discuss Luke 8:27. Show Notes δαιμόνιον (daimonion) / ש–י–ד (shin–yod–dalet) / ث–د–ي (thā–dāl–yāʼ) Demon, other deity, or god. From the root שדד (shadad), which means “to deal violently, despoil, or devastate.” Klein notes that the Arabic ثَدْي (thady), “breast,” reinforces his observation that שֹׁד (shōd) and שַׁד (shad) are two forms of the same biblical root meaning “breast.” In consideration of this link, and the fact that the original text is unpointed, it is difficult to ignore the consonantal link between chaos, havoc, militarism, and the function “demon,” vis-à-vis the field, and violence against the land, since the land is inherently matriarchal: sadā’utsadehshedahsadehThis intersection is intentional. Consider a related sub-function associated with δαιμόνιον in Luke: shin-dalet-daletsin-dalet-daletshadadsadadIn Semitic languages, the function “demon” likely originates from the Akkadian term šēdu, a protective spirit often depicted in Mesopotamian art as a bull-like colossus or a human-bull hybrid, for example, the bull effigy of Wall Street. The question is not what the demon šēdu protects, but whose interests it serves. Does it protect life in God’s field or wreak havoc on behalf of its human sponsors? Does it plow and harrow, or does it despoil? Demonic Evil “For [a] root of all evils is the love of money— which some, desiring, wandered away from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many griefs.” (1 Timothy 6:10)As it is written: “ῥίζα γὰρ πάντων τῶν κακῶν ἐστιν ἡ φιλαργυρία” “the love of money is [a] root of all evils”“πάντων τῶν κακῶν” unambiguously indicates “of all evils,” not “all kinds,” underscoring Paul’s deliberate rhetorical force in presenting the love of money not as a moral weakness but as a seed giving rise to every form of evil in God’s field. ἱμάτιον...

In Scripture, “earth” signifies more than just physical land; it functions as a literary sign that opposes human oppression. The biblical narrative presents the land both as a silent witness against human civilization and as one of its victims. In this context, the recurring phrase “heavens and earth” serves as a merism, expressing the totality of creation and affirming God’s sovereign authority and judgment: “Assemble to me all the elders of your tribes and your officers, that I may speak these words in their hearing and call the heavens and the earth to witness against them.” (Deuteronomy 31:28)Poet Mahmoud Darwish echoes this Abrahamic outlook by portraying the land as a woman—“the lady of the earth”—a figure of both suffering and resilience. Through this personification, Darwish critiques the domination of land by human civilization, portraying earth not as property but as a noble matriarch. His vision resonates with the biblical sabbatical and jubilee traditions, in which the land itself is granted rest and release from exploitation (Leviticus 25). In the Old Testament, Galilee is often marginalized or conquered. Yet, in Isaiah—and later in the New Testament—it is repurposed as the launching point for God’s mission to liberate the land from human abuse. In contrast to Jerusalem or Rome, which embody imperial tyranny cloaked in Hellenistic pluralism, Jesus reclaims Galilee as the new hub for Biblical Shepherdism—a direct challenge to the ideology of Hellenistic urban empire. Galilee becomes a scriptural threshold: a place of refuge, instruction, and mission. It embodies God’s cause, where divine law transcends political borders, and the land becomes a witness to divine justice against human violence, not a possession of empire. اللَّهُ مَالِكُ الْمُلْكِ allāhu māliku al-mulk “God is the Owner of Sovereignty”This week I discuss Luke 8:26. Show Notes χώρα (chōra) / ע-ר-ץ (ʿayin–resh–ṣade) / أ-ر-ض (ʾalif-rā-ḍād) The biblical Hebrew אֶרֶץ (’ereṣ) can denote: gēšāmayim’ereṣ “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” (Genesis 1:1) “May you be blessed of the Lord, Maker of heavens and earth.” (Psalm 115:15) “For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth; And the former things will not be remembered or come to mind.” (Isaiah 65:17) arḍal-samāʾ wa al-arḍthe heavens and the earthبَدِيعُ ٱلسَّمَٰوَاتِ وَٱلْأَرْضِ ۖ وَإِذَا قَضَىٰٓ أَمْرًۭا فَإِنَّمَا يَقُولُ لَهُۥ كُن فَيَكُونُ badīʿu al-samāwāti wa al-arḍi. wa idhā qaḍā amran fa-innamā yaqūlu lahu kun fa-yakūn. [He is] the Originator of the heavens and the earth. When he decrees a matter, he only says to it, “stand forth,” and it stands forth. In his poetry, Mahmoud Darwish uses the Semitic function أ-ر-ض in line with the anti-civilizational tradition of Abrahamic literature: عَلَى هَذِهِ ٱلْأَرْضِ ʿalā hādhihi al-arḍ on this earth Darwish refers to the earth (ٱلْأَرْض) both as a practical reality, literally, “on this earth,” this “ground,” and as the shared heritage of those who live on this ground, who come from the ground, from the same mother, “the lady of the earth.” This sovereignty is not imposed or “built” by civilization, but inherent. سَيِّدَةُ ٱلْأَرْضِ sayyidatu al-arḍ the lady of the earth In Semitic, earth as “lady” or “mistress” implies dignity and nobility: the land as a suffering yet powerful matriarch—both witness to and victim of human civilization. For Darwish, it evokes the Palestinian spirit of steadfastness (صمود – ṣumūd). It is not the human being, but the land that is steadfast: “Still, and perhaps more importantly, regarding the years as set times are the sabbatical year, set every seventh year, as rest for the land, and the jubilee year, set every fifty years, when everybody is set free and even the earth itself is set free from their subjugation by the human being (Lev 25).” (Tarazi, Paul Nadim. Decoding Genesis 1–11. Orthodox Center for the Advancement of Biblical Studies, St. Paul, MN. 2014. p. 82) أُمُّ...

In “Dark Sayings,” I explore how internalized racism destroyed my mother’s family. This psychological process, woven out of Hellenistic pluralism and anti-Scriptural platitudes about the so-called “Melting Pot,” reveals how systemic racism operates not only externally but within the immigrant’s self-conception. Internalized racism is more insidious than the inferiority complex from which it stems. Eventually, the immigrant—the stranger in a foreign land—overcomes fear by adopting the personality of the oppressor. “You shouldn’t give your children Arabic names, Marc.” “Stop listening to Arabic music, Marc.” “You need to assimilate into this culture, Marc.” “If you love the Middle East so much, Marc, why don’t you live there?” The last one is my favorite. It reveals the speaker’s true heart. They might as well say, “Go back to Africa, Marc.” My father is from Africa. Is Africa a punishment? Internalized racism explains why people from the West Bank see themselves as superior to people from Gaza. It’s why Arab Christians often identify with white Western Christians against their Muslim brothers. It’s why immigrants and minorities across backgrounds look up to those who marginalize them. This concept of “Stockholm Syndrome” reflects a fundamental truth about the human condition. The privileged and underprivileged who perpetuate internalized racism share something profoundly disturbing in common: both reject the God of Abraham, trusting not in him as King, but in themselves. Ironically, Pharaoh (or Caesar) is not their king, as they profess in John’s Gospel, but merely their locum tenens — their temporary substitute. They view themselves as the true sovereigns. This explains their enthusiasm for elections; they delight in proclaiming their chosen figurehead by acclamation: creatus imperator. They “create” (creāre) him. They “make” him. They “elect” him. They “bring him into being” and then they control him—but they can’t control the God who speaks out of the whirlwind. Providence, habibi, is rougher than a corncob. She’ll slap you sideways even if you’re careful. Though “internalized racism” isn’t a Scriptural term, it’s rooted in biblical notions of cowardice; in the absolute fear of the power of death and deep anxiety about what might happen if Jesus alienates the “wrong people” in Decapolis. God forbid he offend those “nice white people.” Very bad for business. Consider the disciples. What a bunch of cowardly, misguided fools. One almost wonders why Jesus didn’t let his Father finish what he began with the storm at sea. Oops! I am starting to sound like Jonah. See, there are no good guys! This week, I discuss Luke 8:25. Show Notes βουλή (boulē) / מ-כ-ר (meem-kaf-resh) / م-ك-ر (mīm-kāf-rāʾ) Purposeful plan, will, counsel. يَمْكُرُ (yamkurū) to plan, scheme, plot. מכר (makar) to sell. For example, Joseph being sold by his brothers (מָכְרוּ māḵərū Genesis 37:28). “But the Pharisees and the lawyers rejected God’s plan (τὴν βουλὴν τοῦ θεοῦ tēn boulēn tou theou) for themselves, not having been baptized by John.” (Luke 7:30) “For thus says the Lord: ‘You have sold yourselves (נִמְכַּרְתֶּם nimkartem) for nothing, and you shall be redeemed without money.’” (Isaiah 52:3) “Woe to the rebellious children,” declares the Lord, “Who execute a plan, but not mine, and make an alliance, but not of my Spirit, in order to add sin to sin.” (Isaiah 30:1) “And [remember] when those who did not believe made plans (يَمْكُرُ yamkuru) against you to restrain you, or kill you, or expel you. And they make plans (ۚ وَيَمْكُرُونَ wa yamkuruna), but God makes plans (وَيَمْكُرُ wa yamkuru) — and God is the best of planners (الْمَاكِرِينَ al-makirin).” (Surah Al-Anfal 8:30)πίστις (pistis) / אֱמֶת (ʾemet), from the root א-מ-ן (aleph-mem-nun), אָמֵן (ʾāmēn), and أمين (amīn) The root א-מ-ן (aleph-mem-nun) is functional with إيمان (īmān, “faith”) and آمن (āmana, “he trusted”), reflecting the biblical Hebrew concepts of trust, faithfulness,...

Theologians and philosophers love to talk about the meaning of life. They explore its purpose, justification, and value, questioning whether or not suffering has meaning. They sound like the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, wasting time viewing things from the wrong perspective: man’s point of view, the king’s point of view, Job’s point of view. This mirrors how Christians assess and then attempt to control the Holy Spirit through human words. Their version of the Holy Spirit—always friendly, gentle, and “inspiring”—bears little resemblance to the God of Scripture. This domesticated spirit, which makes people feel good with that telltale twinkle and misty look, becomes a false god they tame, groom, and adore like a pet. That’s why they’re confused when the same wind that filled Jesus’ sails at the beginning of the parable suddenly transforms into a fierce, wrathful storm—a whirlwind. But this is precisely how God’s breath, his wind, operates. Not only is it invisible to the eye, but it cannot be controlled. Sometimes cold, sometimes hot, and always unpredictable, it can turn against you on a dime, just like life’s events. As Jesus said in judgment of Job’s lament, “the rain falls on the just and the unjust.” (Matthew 5:45) This week, I discuss Luke 8:24. λαῖλαψ (lailaps) / ס-ע-ר (samek-ʿayin-resh) / ס-ו-פ (samek-waw-feh) Hurricane, tempest, furious storm. All three biblical references in Luke 8:23 invoke the Lord’s wrath against human arrogance: sû·fāhʹsû·p̄āhʹseʿā·rāhseʿā·rāhsǎʹ·ʿǎrsǎʹ·ʿǎrἐπιτιμάω (epitimaō) / ג-ע-ר (gimel-ʿayin-resh) / ج-ع-ر (jīm–ʿayn–rāʼ) Rebuke or speak insultingly, often with a firm or authoritative tone. It can also imply harsh or scolding speech; in divine usage, it can function as subduing or silencing through rebuke. The Arabic root also denotes the production of a loud, guttural sound, explicitly referring to the mooing or bellowing of cattle. In both Hebrew (גער) and Arabic (جعر), the shared Semitic root captures a raw, forceful vocalization. The waters in the Psalms represent a fundamental aspect of God’s creation, serving as a metaphor for his dominion and kingly victory over all opponents. They are the chaotic forces under his control. The Psalms consistently depict God as the supreme authority over all the waters of creation—a realm teeming with life and human activity, overcome by God, the only true hegemon. “You have rebuked (גָּעַ֣רְתָּ gā·ʿǎrʹ·tā) the nations, you have eliminated the wicked; You have wiped out their name forever and ever.” (Psalm 9:5)“Thus he rebuked (יִּגְעַ֣ר yiḡ·ʿǎrʹ) the Red Sea and it dried up, and he led them through the deeps, as through the wilderness.” (Psalm 106:9) “You rebuke (גָּ֭עַרְתָּ gāʹ·ʿǎr·tā) the arrogant, the cursed, who wander from your commandments.” (Psalm 119:21) “And the Lord said to Satan, ‘The Lord rebuke you, Satan! Indeed, the Lord who has chosen Jerusalem rebuke (יִגְעַ֨ר yiḡ·ʿǎrʹ) you! Is this not a log snatched from the fire?’” (Zechariah 3:2) ἀπόλλυμι (apollymi) / א-ב-ד (ʾalef-bet-dalet) / أ-ب-د (ʾalif-bāʼ-dāl) Perish, get lost, go astray; destroy, kill. In Arabic, أَبَدَ (ʾábada) can indicate “it ran away”, especially concerning animals, in line with the function lost, gone, destroyed, or vanished beyond recovery or control. “Then Pharaoh’s servants said to him, ‘How long shall this man be a snare to us? Let the men go, so that they may serve the Lord their God. Do you not yet realize that Egypt is destroyed? (אָבְדָ֖ה ʾǒḇ·ḏāhʹ)’” (Exodus 10:7)“As for any person who does any work on this same day, that person I will eliminate (הַֽאֲבַדְתִּ֛י hǎ·ʾǎḇǎḏ·tîʹ) from among his people.” (Leviticus 23:30) “But you will perish (אֲבַדְתֶּ֖ם ʾǎḇǎḏ·těmʹ) among the nations, and your enemies’ land will consume you.” (Leviticus 26:38) “On that day a great trumpet will be blown, and those who were perishing (אֹֽבְדִים֙ ʾō·ḇeḏîmʹ) in the land of Assyria and who were scattered in the land of Egypt will come and worship the Lord on the holy mountain...

In every age, empires create words to describe the people in the societies they seek to dominate and exploit. Eventually, these terms are turned inward and used against themselves. The Greco-Romans—and their eastern heirs, whom modern scholars call the Byzantines—labeled those outside their empire as barbarians. The colonials who settled the Americas, after dismantling the peaceful coexistence of Semitic peoples in Southern Spain, referred to the inhabitants of this supposed “new” land as savages. Whether communists, leftists, or terrorists, from age to age and generation to generation, we rely on the notion of the alien or foreigner to demonize the other. Humanities scholars, clinging to the illusion of progress, speak as though they have just discovered this problem, but wisdom literature has tackled this since before Hellenism emerged as a blot on humanity’s historical record. When Jesus sets out to make a pilgrimage to Decapolis, he does so under the control of his Father’s will, who breathes into his sail and sends him on a mission—not to trample underfoot the barbarians at the edge of Constantine’s empire, but to confront Constantine himself. It is Constantine, Habibi, who is the problem. The Emperor is the barbarian from whom the Lord’s inheritance must be saved. This week, I discuss Luke 8:22, which exposes the true enemy of God, not the outsiders, but the emperor himself. Show Notes πλέω / מ-ל-א (mem-lamed-alef) / م-ل-أ (mīm-lām-hamza) That which fills, makes full; fullness, full amount, measure, extent: “Sing to the Lord a new song, Sing his praise from the end of the earth! You who go down to the sea, and all that fills it (וּמְלֹאוֹ umelo'o), You islands, and those who live on them.” (Isaiah 42:10)The root مَلَأَ (malaʾa) in Arabic can be found in words such as: malaʾamalīʾmamlūʾimtalaʾamilʾtamlīʾmalaʾἄνεμος / ר-ו-ח (resh-waw-ḥet) / ر-و-ح (rāʾ–wāw–ḥāʾ) ἄνεμος (anemos, “wind,” 8:23) When the wind fully enters (מְלֹא / مِلْء) the sail, it takes shape, and the boat is propelled forward. Classical Arabic poetry often compares the full sail to a “breathing chest”—expanding, alive, and responsive to the unseen force of wind (رِيح rīḥ, which in Scripture functions as God’s breath or “Spirit.”) The biblical Hebrew term רוּחַ (ruaḥ) and the Arabic رُوح (rūḥ) both function as wind or divine Spirit. The Greek verb πληρόω (plēroō), meaning “to fill,” “make full,” or “complete,” also corresponds to מ-ל-א and appears numerous times throughout Paul’s letters, notably: καὶ μὴ μεθύσκεσθε οἴνῳ, ἐν ᾧ ἐστιν ἀσωτία, ἀλλὰ πληροῦσθε ἐν Πνεύματι, “And do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit.” (Ephesians 5:18)Paul deliberately chooses a second term in 1 Corinthians—not πληρόω, but κορέννυμι—to convey sharp sarcasm, mocking the leaders in Roman Corinth for being full of themselves and smug in their self-satisfaction. The only other appearance of this Pauline term, which does not occur in the Septuagint, is in Acts 27, which corresponds to Luke by way of authorship: “καὶ ἐμπλησθέντες τροφῆς ἐκούφισαν τὸ πλοῖον ἐκβαλλόμενοι τὸν σῖτον εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν.” “And when they had eaten enough (ἐμπλησθέντες), they lightened the ship by throwing out the wheat into the sea.” (Acts 27:38)See also: ب-و-ء (bā-wāw-hamza) / ב-ו-א (bet-waw-alef) πλέω also corresponds to בוא (Jonah 1:3), which aligns with Acts 27:38. الْمَلَأ (al-malaʾ) “ruling council, community leaders, chiefs, the elites” is a recurring function in the Qur’an, where prophets confront the elite power structures in their communities. The malaʾ are gatekeepers of institutional norms and the status quo, resisting the prophets’ calls for repentance and submission to God.قَالَ الْمَلَأُ مِن قَوْمِ فِرْعَوْنَ إِنَّ هَـٰذَا لَسَاحِرٌ عَلِيمٌ qāla al-malaʾu min qawmi firʿawna inna hādhā lasāḥirun ʿalīm “The elite of Pharaoh’s people said, ‘Indeed, this is a learned magician.’” Surah al-Shuʿarāʾ 26:34 (ref. to Moses)فَقَالَ الْمَلَأُ...

Some concepts in the Bible are so crucial that if they aren’t properly understood from the outset, the text itself can be twisted from a guide that protects your steps into a snare that traps you in a cycle of endless folly. One such example is the idea of ownership or proprietorship. When you hear the Bible, even in the original languages, but especially in translation—for example, the colonial King James text—when you hear the Bible in that translation, you are hit over and over again with a notion of ownership that has as its reference not Scripture but, in fact, the King of England, who imagines that he owns things, just like those of us living in a capitalist society imagine that we own things. Just ask your child. Ask them about the shirt on their back, the shoes they wear to school, or the toys on the floor of the room where they sleep. Ask them to whom those things belong. They will likely tell you that they “own” those things. But that is not how ownership functions in Scripture. Even when it says, “your land,” in Scripture—even then—the underlying premise of the text is that God, not his children, is the sole proprietor. That”s how ownership works in the Bible. Everything is a temporary loan. No one “owns” anything except God. That is what the word “inheritance” means. It is not granted to you, so you can “possess” it in perpetuity. It is a temporary gift that can be reclaimed and lent to others at any time. You cannot claim it as property because you are not the Most High. You are not the Proprietor. This week, I discuss Luke 8:22. Show Notes ἀνάγω (anagō) / ع-ل-و (ʿayn-lām-wāw) / ע-ל-ה (ʿayin-lamed-he) This root carries the core function of “ascending” or “rising.” The same root is used to refer to pilgrimage in Jewish tradition, particularly in the phrase עֲלִיָּה לָרֶגֶל, (ʿaliyah la-regel) literally “going up” or “ascending by foot,” referring to three biblical festivals involving pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem: “For I will drive out nations before you and enlarge your borders, and no man shall covet your land when you go up (בַּעֲלֹתְךָ - baʿalotka) three times a year to appear before the Lord your God.” (Exodus 34:24)Religious and political ideologues routinely pervert this verse. The biblical understanding of land relationship can be described as patrimony (נַחֲלָה - naḥala). This concept frames the land as a divine inheritance or trust from God, who remains the sole owner. As Leviticus 25:23 explicitly states: “The land shall not be sold permanently, for the land is mine; for you are strangers and sojourners with me.”Other verses where the same root appears are also significant for Jewish tradition: “I was glad when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’” / “To which the tribes go up (עָלוּ - ʿalu), the tribes of the Lord—an ordinance for Israel—to give thanks to the name of the Lord.” (Psalm 122:1, 4)“And many peoples will come and say, ‘Come, let us go up (וְנַעֲלֶה - venaʿaleh) to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that He may teach us concerning His ways and that we may walk in His paths.’ For the law will go forth from Zion and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.” (Isaiah 2:3)“‘If this people go up (יַעֲלֶה - yaʿaleh) to offer sacrifices in the house of the Lord at Jerusalem, then the heart of this people will return to their lord, even to Rehoboam king of Judah; and they will kill me and return to Rehoboam king of Judah.’ So the king consulted, and made two golden calves, and he said to them, ‘It is too much for you to go up (מֵעֲלוֹת - meʿalot) to Jerusalem; behold your gods, O Israel, that brought you up from the land of Egypt.’” (1 Kings 12:27-28)Luke’s lexical use of ἀνάγω (anagō), the Greek parallel to Hebrew עלה (ʿalah), repeatedly functions as a direct reference to Exodus themes: the plagues, the movement out of Egypt with God into the wilderness, the people’s complaints, and constant reminders that it was God who brought them up,...

What is it like to be unaffected? How sad it must be to go to church, attend a class, interact with your neighbor, and be indifferent to what they say. What is it like to be unaffected? To be so confined to yourself that when you look at your natural reflection in the mirror, you see your flaws—you might even acknowledge them—but the moment you look away, you forget them. You carry on with your life. It’s a curiosity, an interest, a fleeting insight, perhaps. But it’s a compartment, a facet of your identity that you create that fits into something you control—a picture you paint that does not influence how you live. What is it like to be unaffected? To live in such a way that everything around you exists as an experience in service to you on your checklist—an item on your itinerary, your menu, your agenda. What happens when every member of society treats everything like a trophy wife? Their job, partner, children, friends, family, affiliations, and even the place they pray? Everything becomes a trophy wife. Even God—the god of their imagination—becomes a trophy wife. What happens when everything is the object of the reflection of their natural face? What is it like to be unaffected? To resolve the dissonance of your natural reflection with the comfort of forgetfulness. To return to what was left behind. To turn away from what lies ahead. To prefer a lie. To lie to yourself. What happens when you look away? This week, I discuss Luke 8:19–21. Show Notes Refer to Episode 548: Μαγδαληνή / ג-ד-ל (gimel-dalet-lamed) / ج-د-ل (jīm-dāl-lām) In Latin, creāre means “to create,” “to produce,” or “to elect.” In Rome’s political sphere, it referred to the act of appointing or electing officials, including Julius Caesar. Hearers Not Listeners “For if anyone is a listener of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror; for once he has looked at himself and gone away, he has immediately forgotten what kind of person he was.” (James 1:23-24)“Γίνεσθε δὲ ποιηταὶ λόγου καὶ μὴ ἀκροαταὶ μόνον…”“But be doers of the word and not listeners only…” (James 1:22)“Ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν πρὸς αὐτούς· Μήτηρ μου καὶ ἀδελφοί μου οὗτοι εἰσιν οἱ τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ ἀκούοντες καὶ ποιοῦντες.” (Luke 8:21) In James 1:22, ποιηταὶ λόγου (“doers of the word”) and ἀκροαταὶ (“listeners") correspond to the participial forms found in Luke 8:21: ἀκούοντες (“hearing”) and ποιοῦντες (“doing”). Notably, ἀκροαταὶ and ἀκούοντες come from different roots. ἀκροαταὶ from the root: ἀκρο- (akro-), meaning at “the edge” or “the extremity,” implying passive reception, or “listening” vs. ἀκούοντες “to hear.”) Someone who sees their natural face (πρόσωπον τῆς γενέσεως, “the face of his birth”) in a mirror and then forgets what he saw is the one who hears Scripture and neglects to act. He chooses to forget his appearance in God’s eyes. His knowledge of Scripture (the mirror) is overtaken by willful self-deception. He is a listener, not a doer. ἀκροατής (“listener to”) occurs only four times in the New Testament, all with the negative connotation of inaction: ,παραλογίζομαι / ر-م-ي (rā-mīm-yāʼ) / ר-מ-ה (resh-mem-he) To deceive, defraud. To desert, abandon, or betray. To cast, throw, to cast (blame), or shoot (arrows). The Arabic رَمَى (ramā) and the Hebrew רמה (rāmā) carry the same function. “So it came about in the morning that, behold, it was Leah! And he said to Laban, ‘What is this that you have done to me? Was it not for Rachel that I served with you? Why then have you deceived (רִמִּיתָנִי, rimmītānī) me?’” (Genesis 29:25)“But whoever earns an offense or a sin and then blames it (يَرْمِ yarmī) on an innocent has taken upon himself a slander and manifest sin.” Surah An-Nisa (4:112)James 1:24: ἐπιλανθάνομαι (“to forget”) "For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror; for once he has looked at himself and gone away, he has immediately forgotten (ἐπελάθετο)...

This week, Fr. Paul reminds us that a word does not carry meaning yet the words of Scripture make God’s instruction accessible. Likewise, it is the words of God to which we submit, not an abstract Torah in Deuteronomy, but the words of God, a point echoed in the letters of St. Paul. (Episode 333) ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

When people hear Luke 8:18, they assume it is talking about stuff. But Luke, like the Book of Job, is not about stuff. It is about darkness and light. When people evaluate others—their first mistake is that they evaluate at all—they measure what others have. That is how the Duopoly assesses Job. They love him because he was rich, pity him because he was poor, judge him because he was self-righteous, or cheer him because he did not give up. They experience the full range of human suffering, not through their own trials, but by observing and evaluating others. They think they are something when they are nothing—wolves in sheep’s clothing. Women and men who glory in the flesh; who glory in the suffering of others. They are the Duopoly—the "both-sidesies" people. Thus says the Lord: There is only one side; my throne in the heavens. It is mine, my kingdom rules over all, and I am not mocked. Even what they think they have is already gone, fading before they can grasp it—lost in their foolish desire to measure it. There is only one thing needful. And it cannot be counted as loss, because it does not come from them. That is why they think it has no meaning—because it is not of their making. Those who think like them, who act like them, will become like them. This week, I discuss Luke 8:18. Show Notes to havethinks he hasoudeis theos ei mē heislā ilāha illā huwa;shamaʿ yisra'il, yahweh [adonai] eloheinu, yahweh [adonai] aḥad; it will be givenit will be taken awayekkoptōkaf-lamed-heφανερός / ב-ח-ן (bet-ḥet-nun) / م-ح-ن (mīm-ḥāʾ-nūn)In Latin, “en-” and “ex-” are prefixes with distinct meanings: The word “encounter” comes from the Old French “encontre,” which means “meeting” or “opposition,” and is derived from the Latin “in-” (meaning “in” or “on”) and “contra” (meaning “against” or “opposite”). At its root, “encounter” literally means “to meet against” or “to face.” In contrast, the anti-biblical term “experience” signifies “going through a test” or “emerging from a trial.” It emphasizes the personal involvement and subjective perception of events, where meaning is drawn from one’s own reference point. This internalized perspective distinguishes experience from encounter, as it places the self at the center of interpretation, making it inherently self-referential. I appreciate Father Paul Tarazi for highlighting this distinction and Matthew Cooper for further exploring the Latin etymologies with us—over coffee. ☕ ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★