2e uur van de Bijbelbespreking

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Deel 1 23/2/26

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One afternoon I sat in church long after everyone else had left. The pews were silent, as if they knew I was not only waiting, but also wanted to listen. I opened my Bible and read the story of Naaman. I don’t know why I keep coming back to it, but it’s as if his voice is my voice, as if his question is my question. And then I hope that the answer he received is also an answer for me.
Naaman knew that he had been healed by the God of Israel. He knew that from now on his heart belonged to that God. But his life was in Syria, his religion was in Beit Rimmon, in a world he could not easily leave. So he asked the prophet: “If I bow down in Beit Rimmon, will the Lord forgive me?" And Elisha said: Go in peace.

I read these words over and over again and I feel a pang of recognition. Because I too live in two worlds. My heart has reached more and more for the house of the God of Israel, for the simplicity of the Torah, for the wisdom of the rabbis, for the deep respect for life that I find there. Sometimes I think that my soul has always belonged there, that I recognize something older than my memories. But my body is in the church, in the liturgy, in the words that sometimes I still have to say even though I can no longer bear them in full.

I feel like Naaman: healed by the God I have come to know, I stand in the world I now live in—not the world my healing has opened up to me. I stand in a different place almost every Sunday, but among people I love, people who have been entrusted to me. I can’t just leave them. I don’t want to leave them. I feel a responsibility, even a mission, to serve them, to guide them, to help them come closer to the truth I have discovered for myself.

But sometimes it feels as if I am bowing down to another God in Beit Rimon. Not with my heart, but with my body. Not out of conviction, but out of love for the community. And then I wonder: Is this allowed? Is this loyalty or betrayal? Is this calling or self-deception?

This afternoon I tried to put it into words for my Jewish friends, for my Hebrew teacher, for my Talmud teacher, if only in my mind. I want to say: I am like Naaman. I was healed by your God—who is also my God. I found something that changed me, something that called me back to the source that I cannot prove, but I can feel.

What I have is the rumor in my family history: that my grandmother had two Jewish parents who converted to Catholicism in Germany. But that is not enough to confirm my identity and now it is too late for a formal conversion to Judaism. I live in a world that I cannot simply leave.

I also wonder if it is necessary. I have people who need me. I have a community that I love. And sometimes I have to move with forms that I can no longer believe in and speak words that have lost their truth for me, and I do it not because I believe in them or worship this image of God any longer, but because I want to serve these people.

I do not ask permission to bow to the foreign god. It is easier for me than for Naaman. After all, the God whose name is called in the church is the God of Israel—although the church is in danger of forgetting this forever. Thus I am now teaching people to see Jesus as a son of Israel who went to great lengths to free his people, took a great risk, and had to admit that his attempt to get God to intervene failed: “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

I speak and translate the words that the God of Israel spoke to his people, placing them on the hearts of the people in the church as they were placed on my own. I owe nothing to anyone but my Lord and my God. I only seek to understand that my life is determined by two families. My heart bows before the God of Israel. I want to serve him in the context of his people. “Your God is my God and your people my people”—I repeat after Ruth. But my feet are in the church. And I hope that my presence there—my words, my love, my faithfulness—can illuminate some of the truth that I myself have received.

Maybe that’s what Elisha meant by “go in peace.” Not that everything is simple, but God is greater than our broken ways. That he knows where our hearts are, even when our feet are somewhere else.

I close my Bible. The church is empty. But someone whispers: I know who you are. I know where you belong. Go in peace.

היום אחר הצהריים ישבתי בכנסייה הרבה אחרי שכולם עזבו. הספסלים עמדו בשקט, כאילו ידעו שאני לא רק מחכה,
 אלא גם רוצה להקשיב. פתחתי את התנ"ך שלי במהלך סיפורו של נעמן. אני לא יודע למה אני כל הזמן חוזר לזה, אבל זה כאילו הקול שלו הוא הקול שלי, כאילו השאלה שלו היא השאלה שלי. ואז אני מקווה שהתשובה שהוא קיבל היא גם תשובה בשבילי.
נעמן ידע שהוא נרפא על ידי אלוהי ישראל. הוא ידע שמעתה והלאה לבו שייך לאלוהים ההוא. אבל חייו היו בסוריה, דתו הייתה בבית רימון, בעולם שלא יכול היה לעזוב בקלות. ועל כן שאל את הנביא: "אם אשתחוה בבית רימון, יסלח לי ה'". ויאמר אלישע: לך לשלום.
אני קורא את המילים האלה שוב ושוב ואני מרגיש כאב של הכרה. כי גם אני חי בשני עולמות. ליבי הגיע יותר ויותר לבית לאלוהי ישראל, לפשטות התורה, לחכמת הרבנים, לכבוד העמוק לחיים שאני מוצא שם. לפעמים אני חושב שהנשמה שלי תמיד הייתה שייכת לשם, שאני מזהה משהו ישן יותר מהזיכרונות שלי. אבל הגוף שלי נמצא בכנסייה, בליטורגיה, במילים שלפעמים אני עדיין צריך לומר למרות שאני כבר לא יכול לשאת אותן במלואן.
אני מרגיש כמו נעמן: נרפא מאלוהים שלמדתי להכיר, אני עומד בעולם בו אני חי עכשיו-ולא בעולם שהריפוי שלי נפתח בפניי. אני עומד במקום אחר, כמעט בכל יום ראשון, אבל בין אנשים שאני אוהב, אנשים שהופקדו בידי. אני לא יכול פשוט לעזוב אותם. אני לא רוצה לעזוב אותם. אני מרגיש אחריות, אפילו שליחות, לשרת אותם, להדריך אותם, לעזור להם להתקרב אל האמת שגיליתי בעצמי.
אבל לפעמים זה מרגיש כאילו אני משתחווה לאלוהים אחר בבית רימון. לא עם הלב שלי, אלא עם הגוף שלי. לא מתוך שכנוע, אלא מתוך אהבה לקהילה. ואז אני תוהה: האם זה מותר? האם זו נאמנות או בגידה? האם זו קריאה או הונאה עצמית?
היום אחר הצהריים ניסיתי לנסח זאת במילים עבור חבריי היהודים, עבור המורה שלי לעברית, עבור המורה שלי לתלמוד, גם אם רק במוחי. ברצוני לומר: אני כמו נעמן. נרפאתי על ידי אלוהיך-שהוא גם האלוהים שלי. מצאתי משהו ששינה אותי, משהו שקרא לי לחזור למקור שאני לא יכול להוכיח, אבל אני יכול להרגיש.
מה שיש לי היא השמועה בהיסטוריה המשפחתית שלי: שלאמא של אמי היו שני הורים יהודים שהמירו את דתם לקתוליות בגרמניה. אבל זה לא מספיק כדי לאשר את הזהות שלי וכעת כבר מאוחר מדי למעבר הפורמלי ליהדות. אני חי בעולם שאני לא יכול פשוט לעזוב.
אני גם תוהה אם זה נחוץ. יש לי אנשים שצריכים אותי. יש לי קהילה שאני אוהב. ולפעמים אני צריך לנוע עם צורות שאני כבר לא יכול להאמין בהן, ולדבר במילים שאיבדו את האמת שלהן בשבילי, ואני עושה את זה לא בגלל שאני מאמין להן או סוגד לרימון הזה, אלא בגלל שאני רוצה לשרת את האנשים האלה.
אני לא מבקש רשות להשתחוות לרימון. זה אפילו יותר קל לי מאשר לנעמן. הרי האל ששמו נקרא בכנסייה הוא אלוהי ישראל-למרות שהכנסייה בסכנה לשכוח זאת לצמיתות. כך אני לומד כעת לראות את ישוע כבן ישראל שהרחיק לכת כדי לשחרר את עמו, לקח סיכון גדול ונאלץ להודות שניסיונו לגרום לאלוהים להתערב נכשל: "אלוהים שלי, למה עזבת אותי?"
אני מדבר ומתרגם את המילים שדיבר אלוהי ישראל לעמו, שם אותן על ליבם של האנשים בכנסייה כפי שהונחו על ליבי. אני לא חייב כלום לאף אחד מלבד אדוני ואלוהים שלי. אני רק מבקשת להבין שהחיים שלי נקבעים על ידי שתי משפחות. לבי משתחווה לפני אלוהי ישראל. אני רוצה לשרת אותו בהקשר של עמו. "אלוהיך אלוקי ועמך עמי"-אני חוזר אחרי רות. אבל הרגליים שלי בכנסייה. ואני מקווה שהנוכחות שלי שם-המילים שלי, אהבתי, הנאמנות שלי-יכולה להאיר חלק מהאמת שאני עצמי קיבלתי.
אולי לזה התכוון אלישע ב"לך לשלום". לא שהכל פשוט, אלא שאלוהים גדול מהדרכים השבורות שלנו. שהוא יודע איפה הלב שלנו, גם כשהרגליים שלנו נמצאות במקום אחר.

אני סוגר את התנ"ך שלי. הכנסייה ריקה. אבל מישהו לוחש: אני יודע מי אתה. אני יודע לאן אתה שייך. לך בשלום.


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The 38th commandment of Sefer HaChinuch is the prohibition against coveting. It is based on verse 14 of Exodus 20. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that belongs to thy neighbor. The Torah expresses this commandment twice, using different terms. Here in the first presentation of the Ten Commandments it says: lo tachmod, thou shalt not covet. Later, when repeating the Ten Commandments in Deuteronomy 5, verse 18, it says: lo titave, you shall not covet. The Sefer HaChinuch considers these verses to be two separate prohibitions. The last thing you should not covet is Mitzvah 416. As Chinuch explains there, "thou shalt not covet" forbids even harboring in one's heart the desire to possess another, while "thou shalt not covet" in Exodus 20 forbids pursuing a plan to acquire the object of one's desire by legal or illegal means. Essentially, desire leads to lust. But the Torah prohibits each of these stages independently of the other. If anyone covets his neighbor's property, he transgresses: do not covet. And if because of this desire he carries out a plan by which he acquires an object, he has, moreover, transgressed: do not covet. Chinuch further explains in commandment 416 that both prohibitions are a continuation of the prohibition against theft found in Leviticus 19, verse 13, which is commandment 229 in Sefer HaChinuch. This is because desiring and lusting for something often leads to theft if the person desiring the item cannot rightfully acquire it. Moreover, in this mitzvah he explains that thirst can sometimes lead to murder, hence this prohibition falls into the same category as the previous mitzvahs regarding possible capital crimes. The Sefer Ha-Chinuch says the following. We are commanded not to think in our minds about how to carry out a plan, to obtain for ourselves something that belongs to others among our brothers. As it says in Exodus 20 verse 14: lo ahmod beit recha vgomer: You shall not covet your neighbor’s house, you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, nor his male or female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that belongs to your neighbor. Now it would be appropriate for the Ten Commandments to include a prohibition against theft of property. And the commandment “not to steal” refers to the kidnapping of people, not the theft of property, as explained in Mitzvah 36. Instead, the Torah chose to include the prohibition against greed in the Ten Commandments to indicate the greater distance one must maintain from the property of others. Not only actual theft is prohibited, but even wishful thinking. The term “desire” itself does not imply that the action is performed. The sages have already proven on the basis of another verse, Deuteronomy 7 verse 25, in which it is written: burn the images of their gods in
Ira, you will not covet the silver and gold that is on it, but you will take it for yourself. So they �They showed that violation of the prohibition “Thou shalt not covet” is completed only when a person performs an action leading to obtaining the desired object. And even if he gave money to his neighbor, that is, the owner, for the item he wanted, if his neighbor did not want to sell it, he still violates the prohibition “thou shalt not covet.” For the prohibition “thou shalt not covet” is not corrected by giving money for an object, but in any case is violated as long as a person receives it from his neighbor by force. This is the true interpretation of this commandment, transmitted by our sages of blessed memory. The commandment applies in any place and at all times and applies to both men and women.
Is it possible to correct the violation of the law “Thou shalt not covet”? The prohibition against craving ceases when a person acts to obtain a desired object, and this applies even if the person paid for the object, provided that he obtained it by force. However, there is disagreement about the scope of this law. The Rambam in Hilchot Gezela 1, verse 9 states that even in the case where the owner finally agrees to the transaction, if the buyer forces him to sell it by pursuing him excessively or allowing others to influence him, he has violated: "Thou shalt not covet." However, Raawad, commenting on this statement by the Rambam, argues that if the owner ultimately relents and agrees to the sale, then the buyer has not violated this prohibition. Instead, the prohibition applies if the owner does not agree to the sale, and the one who covets the item simply takes it and leaves the payment in its place. This act, which is similar to theft, is subject to prohibition.
How can you avoid lust for other people's property? Lust and desire for other people's things is prohibited by the Torah. Now an obvious difficulty arises. How can the Torah prohibit desire if that desire seems almost automatic? Because when one sees a unique item in his neighbor's possession, the natural desire to obtain that item arises. How can this desire be the subject of a ban?
The most famous answer to this question is given by Ibn Ezra in his commentary on Exodus 20, verse 14, who explains it with a deep understanding of human nature. He points out that although a person may desire something that he can theoretically obtain, he will never desire something that is completely beyond his reach. For example, a simple peasant who might desire the wife of his countryman would never lay claim to a princess. Recognizing the fact that it is unnatural for a person to desire something that he clearly cannot obtain, the Torah prohibits coveting the possessions of others. Man must recognize that it is God who has and must bestow property on his fellow men.
Understand that God's will is not�to be discussed. Having mastered this realization, a person will consider every property that God has given to another person to be as far from himself as a peasant princess. In this way, a person will be protected from the desire to receive what belongs to others. Reyes Halevi, in his commentary on Exodus 20, verse 14, offers a different perspective. He notes that even the strongest desire that a person experiences disappears due to fear. If a person longs for a beautiful object that he sees, and when approaching it, he loses his balance and falls into a ravine, then his fear for his life will completely overcome his desire for this object. Likewise, Reyes Halevi explains, a person's fear of God must be so great that it overcomes any desire that is inconsistent with God's will.
In the same way, selfish thoughts can pass through a person's mind, and without prohibition he will not be able to control them. But once the Torah has prohibited such thoughts, fear of sin gives the Jew the opportunity to erase them from his memory.


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The following is the abridged version and English translation of chapter 2 of my dissertation “The Law of Christ” (Maastricht, 2000), published separately as chapter 2 in “Fulfillment of the Law” (2005).
Matthew 5:17–20 is not an isolated statement, but the hermeneutical center of the entire Gospel. In Matthew, the fulfillment of the law does not mean its abolition, but a confirmation of the תורה as a lasting norm, read from its deepest intention. Jesus does not stand outside or opposite the halachic tradition, but within its most vital areas of tension: the discussions between Hillel and Shammai, the prophetic criticism of empty rituals, the search for the core of the commandments, the question of the correct application of the Sabbath and the bill of divorce, and the eschatological expectation of a community that truly lives according to God's will. In his approach to divorce, the Sabbath, justice, and mercy, Jesus shows a halacha that is not less, but more law: a halacha that reveals the origin and purpose of the תורה. In comparison with Qumran, it appears that the Messiah does not restrict the law to an exclusive elite, but opens it up to a community that lives by love for God and neighbor. The Didache confirms that early Christian tradition continued this line: the way of Jesus is the way of the law that leads to life. Finally, Matthew 23 shows that the criticism of the Pharisees is not a rejection of halacha, but a defense of its heart: הַמִּשְׁפָּט וְהָרַחֲמִים וְהָאֱמוּנָה. Thus, the entirety of Matthew's Gospel bears witness that the Messiah fulfills the law by confirming it, deepening it, and bringing it to its destination, so that the community that follows Him can walk on the path that was intended from the beginning as the way to life.

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This episode includes AI-generated content.

This episode explores the deep, often misunderstood relationship between Judaism and Christianity — two traditions born from the same root, yet shaped by radically different histories. We trace how the idea of a cosmic, divine Messiah emerged not from the Hebrew Bible alone, but from a fusion of Jewish apocalyptic hope, Greek philosophy, Roman imperial ideology, and the spiritual climate of the ancient Mediterranean world.

We then examine the Jewish critique of Christian theology: why Judaism never recognized Jesus as the fulfillment of its Scriptures, and how Christianity’s reinterpretation of those Scriptures created a lasting asymmetry between the two faiths.

From there, we ask a challenging but necessary question: what would it mean for Christianity to take that critique seriously? Could it rediscover the historical, Jewish Jesus — a teacher whose messianic mission ultimately failed — and still find meaning in its own tradition?

The surprising answer is yes. Christianity’s greatest contribution may not be the fulfillment of prophecy, but the unexpected way it carried the God of Israel to the nations. In that realization lies the possibility of a renewed, humble, historically honest Christianity — one that no longer claims to replace Judaism, but seeks a mature relationship with it.A journey through history, theology, and identity — and a vision for a future where both traditions can finally meet as equals.


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Het is onmogelijk om de relatie tussen jodendom en christendom werkelijk te begrijpen zonder de rol van Paulus onder ogen te zien. Want wie de evangeliën leest, ziet een Jezus die volledig binnen het joodse erf blijft: een leraar van de Torah, een profeet in de lijn van Jesaja en Jeremia, betrokken in halachische discussies die zich bewegen binnen de kaders van het levende jodendom van zijn tijd. Maar wie Paulus leest, ziet een totaal andere beweging: een apocalyptische visionair die de Hebreeuwse Schrift niet uitlegt, maar herinterpreteert vanuit een overweldigende religieuze ervaring. De vraag die dan opkomt, is of Paulus eigenlijk niet buiten beschouwing moet worden gelaten wanneer we het Oude Testament willen verstaan zoals het bedoeld is, en wanneer we Jezus willen verstaan zoals hij zichzelf verstond.

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Zie ook: https://koinoniabijbelstudie.nl/waarom-jesaja-53-niet-gaat-over-het-lijden-van-de-messias-jezus/

In deze aflevering duik ik diep in een van de meest omstreden teksten uit de Bijbel: Jesaja 53. Maar niet zoals je het misschien gewend bent. Ik leg de christelijke bril even weg en begin bij de Hebreeuwse tekst zelf — woord voor woord, vers voor vers — om te ontdekken wat er werkelijk staat. De beroemde zinnen over “onze ziekten”, “onze ongerechtigheden” en het zogenaamde “schuldoffer” blijken bij nauwkeurige lezing iets totaal anders te betekenen dan vaak wordt aangenomen. Door de grammatica, de woordkeuze en de literaire structuur van Jesaja 53 te analyseren, wordt duidelijk dat de tekst geen plaatsvervangende verzoening beschrijft en geen stervende Messias voorspelt.

Ik laat zien hoe Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Radak en Ramban — de grote joodse exegeten — de dienaar lezen als Israël, niet als Christus, en hoe hun uitleg naadloos aansluit bij de Hebreeuwse tekst. Vervolgens onderzoek ik waarom het christendom, vanaf Augustinus tot Luther, Jesaja 53 is gaan lezen als een profetie over Jezus’ dood, en waarom die lezing theologisch begrijpelijk is maar exegetisch niet houdbaar. Daarbij komt ook het offerbegrip uit Leviticus aan bod: wat is een asham eigenlijk? Wat doet een offerdier wel — en vooral: wat doet het níet? En waarom kan Jesaja 53:10 onmogelijk verwijzen naar een plaatsvervangend sterven “volgens het systeem van Leviticus”?

Deze aflevering is een uitnodiging om opnieuw te kijken naar een doorgaans misbruikte en verkeerd begrepen  tekst. Om te ontdekken hoe een tekst die eeuwenlang is gebruikt als bewijs voor een christelijke verzoeningsleer, in zijn oorspronkelijke context iets heel anders zegt. Het is een aflevering over tekst en traditie, over misverstanden en over hermeneutiek — maar vooral over de vraag wat er werkelijk staat wanneer we Jesaja 53 lezen zoals Jesaja het bedoeld heeft. Als je ooit hebt willen weten waarom joodse en christelijke lezingen zo radicaal van elkaar verschillen, en wat er gebeurt wanneer je de Hebreeuwse tekst serieus neemt, dan is dit een aflevering die je niet wilt missen.


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In deze aflevering kijken we naar een boeiende discussie uit Berakhot 9b over de buit die de Israëlieten uit Egypte meenamen. De Thora zegt dat de Egyptenaren ‘hen gaven wat ze vroegen’, maar de rabbijnen vragen zich af: wiens wil werd eigenlijk terzijde geschoven? Sommige wijzen beweren dat de Egyptenaren hun kostbaarheden onvrijwillig gaven, en ze ondersteunen dit met Psalm 68, waarin wordt beschreven hoe de buit van een vijand wordt verdeeld. Anderen suggereren dat het Israël was dat de voorwerpen ongewild accepteerde, omdat ze niet graag zware voorwerpen mee de woestijn in wilden nemen.

De Talmoed gebruikt Psalm 68 om de Exodus niet als een beleefde uitwisseling te herkaderen, maar als een moment van goddelijke triomf: de Israëlieten verlaten Egypte als overwinnaars die oorlogsbuit ontvangen. Tegelijkertijd benadrukt de alternatieve visie de kwetsbaarheid van Israël en de praktische lasten van verlossing. Samen laten deze interpretaties zien hoe de rabbijnen bijbelse teksten verweven tot een diepere reflectie over bevrijding, goddelijke gerechtigheid en de betekenis van het vertrek van Israël uit Egypte.

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In this episode, we look at a fascinating discussion from Berakhot 9b about the spoils the Israelites took from Egypt. The Torah says the Egyptians “gave them what they requested,” but the rabbis ask: whose will was actually overridden?

Some sages argue the Egyptians gave their valuables unwillingly, and they support this with Psalm 68, which describes dividing spoils taken from an enemy. Others suggest it was Israel who accepted the items unwillingly, reluctant to carry heavy objects into the desert.

The Talmud uses Psalm 68 to reframe the Exodus not as a polite exchange, but as a moment of divine triumph: the Israelites leave Egypt like victors receiving spoils of war. At the same time, the alternative view highlights Israel’s vulnerability and the practical burdens of redemption. Together, these interpretations show how the rabbis weave biblical texts into a deeper reflection on liberation, divine justice, and the meaning of Israel’s departure from Egypt.

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