My mother was born in Bethlehem, Palestine, a land where hospitality is not sentiment, not a virtue to be cultivated, but obedience. It is not taught, debated, or defended. It is enacted. The land itself bears witness to a scriptural way of life that precedes institutions, borders, and claims of authority. The earth remembers what human beings forget. It remembers what it means to live under decree rather than under ownership.

Scripture itself is formed by this memory. It speaks in a Semitic grammar in which unity precedes sequence and must never harden into possession. Genesis opens not with “the first day,” but with yom eḥad, one day. Creation does not begin with order imposed over time, but with a complete, bounded unity named before anything is divided or accumulated. Wholeness precedes sequence. Unity precedes control.

Arabic preserves this same grammar. Like Biblical Hebrew, Arabic counting does not begin with an ordinal. One says yawm wāḥid, one day, not “the first day.” Ordinals only begin with “second,” al-yawm al-thānī. Linguistically, “one” does not mark position. It marks unity, closure, and intelligibility. Only once unity is given can differentiation follow. Counting does not produce wholeness. It presupposes it.

This is not a linguistic curiosity. It is a refusal written into the language itself. Scripture does not allow the world to be treated as an object assembled piece by piece. The land is first named as a whole before it is ever divided. Life is first declared worthy before it is ever administered. Unity is given, not achieved.

That is why in that land, people did not write treatises on coexistence. They did not construct ethical systems to justify themselves. They lived. They lived because Scripture was never an abstraction. It was not an idea to be mastered but a Command to be obeyed. Hospitality was not a moral accomplishment but a reflex, the uncalculated response of those who know that they are not masters. The outsider is received not because one has reasoned it to be good, but because this is what life looks like on land that belongs to someone else.

Israel in the Scriptural text is itself constituted according to this same grammar. Twelve is not a governing structure but a symbolic totality, the whole addressed by God for a purpose. The Twelve in the Gospels function the same way. They do not rule. They signify. They address Israel as a whole, not as an institution to be preserved. Once that address has been made, unity is not hardened into continuity. It is released.

Paul’s mission embodies this release. What was gathered symbolically is carried outward. Election is not converted into ownership. Unity is not turned into administration. It is sent, so that the nations may be addressed.

Scripture consistently contrasts this covenantal unity with another numerical grammar. The nations appear as ten, the number of human totality, the fullness of empire and power. Ten names what human beings claim when they totalize, when they consolidate, when they rule. Scripture does not resolve history by allowing twelve to rule ten. It resolves history by confronting ten through twelve, by addressing power without becoming power.

God alone remains uncounted and undissolved, because God is not one element within the sequence. God is the unity that makes all counting possible. God is not the first proprietor among others. God is the only Proprietor.

That is why what happened in Gaza was wrong. Not because one group could assemble better arguments about history or entitlement. It was wrong because mothers and children were killed. This is not political speech. It is witness. The decree that rendered the land worthy is the same decree that rendered every life upon it worthy. To violate that life is not to offend an ideology but to profane what was entrusted. Those who claimed the land while denying the life upon it testified against themselves. They forgot the one thing Scripture never negotiates.

There is only one Proprietor.

Scripture arose to interrupt such forgetting. When kings enthrone themselves and devour, when power names itself necessity, when land is reduced to possession rather than received as inheritance, Scripture speaks. It does not bargain. It does not flatter. It calls heaven and earth to witness. The land does not belong to those who conquer it, nor to those who administer it, nor to those who explain it away. It belongs to the One who provides it. Everything that breathes upon it is under his protection, whether rulers approve or not.

There is only one Ruler.

Those who lived there knew this without commentary or defense. When neighbors arrived from Europe, speaking other tongues and carrying other memories, the question was never whether they had a right to be there. They came. They were received. Some remained. That was not the transgression. The transgression came when the memory of Scripture was erased by claims of ownership, when inheritance was renamed possession, when sovereignty displaced obedience.

I was born in St. Paul, Minnesota. I am not formed by charters, statutes, or arrangements of power. What governs my path is older and heavier than law. My neighbor is not determined by documents but by encounter. Those who have come to this place, as others once came to the land of my mother’s birth, are my neighbors because they have been placed in my path by him and because they walk upon land that is not mine. This land too belongs to the same Proprietor. And because he has deemed it worthy, all who dwell upon it are worthy, whether they are welcomed or rejected, named or erased.

By his decree, I am a Minnesotan, just as surely as all who dwell herein, every fragile life bearing the terrible gift of his living breath.

Hear the word of the Lord. Every encounter is a divine summons. The mother. The child. The worker who serves your food. The one who teaches God’s children. Do not deceive yourself. It is not them you face. It is the One who holds their breath in his awesome and terrible hand.

Surely, he is not mocked.

You fools!

Who is like God?

This week, I discuss Luke 9:1. 

This episode is offered in memory of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti, whose voice the land itself lifts before God.

“Etching of two loons.” By John James Audubon, 1836. Minnesota Historical Society.

“And he called together [συγκαλέσας (sugkalesas)]
the twelve [τοὺς δώδεκα (tous dodeka)] and gave them power
and authority over all the demons and
to heal diseases [νόσους (nosous)].” (Luke 9:1)

συγκαλέω (synkaleo) / ק-ר-א (

Human beings move as a flock. What feels like freedom is motion inside a herd. People act the way they do because of pressure, habit, fear, desire, reward, or past experience. When we make decisions, we are responding to systemic forces already acting on us, even when theologians insist on calling this a free choice, the so-called “free will.” Long before a choice is named, the path is worn.

Governments, workplaces, laws, economies, religions, philosophies, ideologies, and social norms all rely on the same logic. If certain behaviors are rewarded and others punished, people will respond in predictable ways. Obedience inside these systems is never neutral. People comply because it benefits them, protects them, or helps them avoid loss. Even rebellion, blind to what it is building, follows recognizable patterns and is absorbed back into the systems it supposedly opposes.

But beneath these systems sits something deeper and more diabolical: the human logos. Explanation. Justification. Language itself as causality. Words that govern reality, binding reasons to actions, beliefs to outcomes, and sacrifices to meaning. This is how systems hold together. They are not only structures of power, but temples built of language, narratives, and shared explanations. Propaganda. A world where everything makes sense.

Belief, in this sense, is not faith. It is how humans explain themselves to themselves, a projection of the lamp of the body, quieting fear, justifying loss, making obedience reasonable. Over time, this explanatory language becomes a prison people inhabit. A Temple made of human hands, not of stone, but of coherence. An idol constructed from meaning.

Inside this Temple, every sacrifice is justified. Every command explained. Every loss serves a purpose. Even love is rationalized. Domesticated. Hope reframed as likelihood. Language does not merely describe the system. It sanctifies it.

These systems can even tolerate sacrifice, as long as the sacrifice is made for something abstract: the nation, the tribe, the future, the greater good, the “building” up or the “survival” of the community. Abstract loyalty is calculable. It can be taught, praised, rewarded, and demanded. A person who gives themselves for an idea or a cause is still operating inside logic the system understands and human language can defend.

Torah insists that a true command cannot arise from within this Temple or employ its language. Scripture does not perceive human beings as autonomous agents standing outside the flock, freely acting. It finds people as they are: already bound, already oriented, already enslaved to something. That is why Torah does not ask whether people are free, but whom they serve. Egypt is not replaced by false autonomy, but by covenant. Pharaoh is not replaced by the self, the builder of temples, but by the Voice of the Shepherd, that commands, calling us out of the temples that entomb us. 

According to Scripture, if a rule makes sense because it works, helps, or produces good outcomes, then following it is still a calculation. It may be wise or effective, but it is not obedience. It is sycophancy. That is why the Voice of the Shepherd is heard in the wilderness, away from stable systems and the human Temple of explanation. In the wilderness, people cannot rely on strategy or outcomes. They can only hear and respond. To those who live inside the system, this looks like slavery, or worse, insanity. Far from it.

It is trust.

This is where love of neighbor enters, and it does not enter as an idea, let alone a Platonic ideal. A neighbor is not humanity in the abstract. A neighbor is not the future, the cause, or the system. A neighbor is the real person who stands before you and whose claim cannot be translated into principle without being lost.

Your neighbor is not defined by worth, identity, or moral condition, but by proximity under obedience to the Command. 

Love of neighbor is irrational by decree. It does not weigh consequences. It does not ask whether the whole will survive. It does not justify itself in language the system can use. Systems assume that when forced to choose, people will sacrifice the one for the many. Love of neighbor refuses that exchange. It does not assume God’s purview. It does not control. It does not judge. It does not choose the right thing. It submits to the Command: love for the one encountered. 

This is why love of neighbor looks dangerous from inside the Temple. It threatens coherence. It interrupts explanation. It is willing to let the world burn rather than betray the one who stands before you. It does not argue. It does not explain. It does not rebel. The moment it does, it has already been absorbed back into the prison of the human logos. 

Hope enters here, not as optimism and not as confidence in success. Hope is what remains when explanation fails. Hope is the willingness to act without knowing whether the act will save or destroy everything. It interrupts causality by refusing to let outcomes or narratives decide what matters. Love of neighbor does not act because things will turn out well. It acts because of the Command.

The Command does not abolish cause and effect, but it interrupts it. Scripture introduces something causality and human language cannot produce: a binding word that is not an effect, not a tool, and not a story we tell ourselves. It is not obeyed because it succeeds or pays off, but because it is spoken and heard, through the claim of a real person, a flesh and blood prophet, rather than the demands of an abstract group.

When people live inside societies and institutions, this kind of hearing becomes difficult. Explanation returns. Outcomes take precedence. Faithfulness is measured by effectiveness. Hope is reduced to human belief in a future that can be imagined and defended. The Temple quietly rebuilds itself.

Scripture keeps pointing back to the wilderness to remind people that freedom is not about mastering systems or rejecting them, but about remaining able to hear and act when human language blinds and deafens us, to act with conviction when explanation fails, and to obey the Command of the Shepherd even when the world can no longer be justified.

This is the promise in which we hope, faith in things not seen: that through his Command God alone will achieve victory for his many flocks, which in his sight are one flock:

Episode 576 is a searching and uncompromising meditation on language, submission, and judgment, spoken from the land itself rather than from the safety of abstraction. Recorded in Jordan on New Year’s Day, the conversation between Father Marc Boulos and Father Timothy Lowe unfolds as both personal reckoning and scriptural indictment.

At its core, the episode argues that modern Christianity has betrayed the text it claims to serve by severing itself from the languages in which Scripture was spoken. Translation is not neutral, and reliance on English is not innocent. To speak in God’s name while neglecting Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic is to risk uttering words God never said. For the preacher, this is not an academic shortcoming but a spiritual danger, because every utterance stands under divine accounting.

The discussion presses further, insisting that biblical languages are not tools but living realities that carry wisdom through shared Semitic roots. By tracing these roots across the Torah, the Gospel, and the Qur’an...

Jairus appears as an administrator. He was named, titled, and located inside a functioning system. He knew how things worked, when to ask, when to stop, when a situation was resolved. When he knelt before Jesus, it was already a breach of role, but the text does not stop there. It presses him.

While he was still on the way, while the instruction was still unfolding, a message arrived from his own house: Your daughter has died. Do not trouble the Teacher.

It sounds compassionate. It sounds final. But it is not merely a report. It is a deception and a false command. Those who pressed Jairus pressed him to stop searching Scripture, to stop pursuing the call of the Prophet. They said: return to your place. Accept the verdict the system of human words has rendered.

But there is only one Judge.

Jesus answered without addressing death at all. He promised nothing. He uttered the command, Do not fear. Only trust.

With that command, the axis of the text shifts. Fear here is not panic. Fear is obedience to human reasonableness. It is enclosure within narrative walls built of human words. Trust is remaining under instruction, exposed to reality, out in the open, where only living, breathing divine words can give life, even when every visible sign says the moment has passed.

The crowd moves with them. They are practical. They know how death works. They know when grief must become resignation. They are not simply onlookers. They are the stone Temple outside the synagogue, walls built of human words, set against the living, breathing Word.

They do what walls always do. They mark the human boundary. They decide what may pass and what must stop. What they call wisdom is fear of man disciplined into respectability. What they call obedience is resignation taught to bow to something other than God. They are the domesticated gatekeepers of reasonableness, the infrastructure of Herod, the architecture of fear.

They are like the children in the marketplace who said:

They do not listen for the sound of God. They pipe their own tune. Whether the sound is mourning or rejoicing, their demand is the same: respond within our script. The problem was not his music. It was their refusal to hear.

They are the makers of garments, woven out of fig leaves. As Moses wrote:

Jesus emptied the room. Only Peter, James, John, and the parents remained. When Jesus said She is not dead but sleeping, they laughed. Their laughter was not a misunderstanding. It was fear covered, not by God, but by human craftiness. It restored their order. It set a guard around the girl’s tomb. It domesticated the moment. It said: this voice may sing only within the borders of our melodies.

No one expected what was about to happen. No one could later claim trust in his Command:

Jesus took the girl by the hand and spoke: Child, arise. The text is not Greco-Roman. It is not written that her “mind” returns. It is not written that her Platonic “soul” is restored. It is written that her pneuma, her ruaḥ, returns. Breath that had gone out came back in. Life does not rise from within the human system of words. It enters from outside, at the sound of his voice (Genesis 2:7; Ezekiel 37:2-10).

Peter, James, and John, like the parents, said and did nothing. They bore witness. Life does not come from parents. Wisdom does not come from disciples, let alone stone temples:

The living breath comes not from human words, but from him who commands the four winds, who commanded the Son of Man to breathe his living words upon her.

Immediately, Jesus commanded practical care. Feed her. Life is not human spectacle. It is divine instruction, followed by silent obedience:

Silence is not secrecy. It is judgment. To speak at that moment would rebuild the stone temple of human words in narrative form. It would turn instruction into explanation, breath into human property, life into idolatry.

Silence is the test.

Like Zechariah leaving the temple unable to speak, the witnesses were stripped of their voice so that God’s voice was no longer imprisoned.

Hearing must remain intact.

Come from the four winds, O breath!

The girl was raised and returned, not unto comfort but unto function under his command. As with the man freed from Legion, return to the path of Scripture is always the assignment. Living, moving breath restored from God cannot be managed by those who witness it. They too are sent back under his command, to love the neighbor.

Luke tears down every refuge at once. The crowd’s boundary-making, parental love, administrative reasonableness, and Jairus’s partial trust are all human shelters made of fear. Life, which came before man, will not be housed, measured, ruled, judged, explained, or secured by the words with which humans try to protect themselves.

Life, it is written, is not from men, nor through man, but from God, through God:

Fear, St. Paul explained, tries to build a platform over God. Fear builds. The gospel dismantles (Genesis 11:4).

This week, I discuss Luke 8:49-56.

Most assume that the difference between Greek literature and the Semitic Scrolls, written in Biblical Hebrew, Aramaic, and Qurʾanic Arabic, lies in narrative. It does not. Narrative is the veil, a carrier wave for what remains unseen. Everything hinges on lexicography. The decisive divide is grammatical.

Greek “meaning” is a conceptually “built” construct, grounded in philosophical abstraction and analytic inference. Semitic function emerges from triliteral consonantal roots that test, constrain, and judge the observer. Greek vocabulary operates within a narrow conceptual field, like a teenager wearing a VR headset, viewing an AI paradise while sitting in a garbage heap. Semitic vocabulary operates within an open functional field. The same teenager with the headset removed, discovering he sits in an open field among living, breathing things, where biblical roots carry behavioral consequences.

This becomes immediately visible in Luke 8:47. The single Greek verb λανθάνω (lanthano) activates a constellation of six distinct Hebrew roots:

That Scripture draws on such a wide Semitic field to express “not escaping notice” shows how seriously the biblical tradition treats hiddenness and uncovering. Each root contributes a different functional angle: what is hidden to humans, what is hidden in betrayal, what is hidden as hoarded, what is missing from the tally, what is concealed from authority, and what is seen by God. The phenomenon is not Greek versus Hebrew. Multiple Semitic operations of judgment underwrite a single functional moment in Luke. This density is lexical, not narrative, let alone speculative. It reflects how the Semitic system encodes the living, breathing reality around us.

Across the Abrahamic scrolls, these triliteral roots operate like living tissue. They replicate, invert, intensify, and map action to consequence. Hidden sin is traceable in Hebrew because ע־ל־ם (ʿayin-lamed-mem) is not a metaphor but a function. It moves. The Qurʾan does the same with خ-ف-ي (khāʾ-fāʾ-yāʾ) and غ-ف-ل (ghayn-fāʾ-lām). Luke’s Greek lexicon operates because a biological Hebrew bone structure undergirds the scroll. Without that structural field, no instance of λανθάνω (lanthano) conveys, or is able to convey, the full weight of divine accounting. However, once the field is “seen” Scripturally, “with the ears,” the semantics are relentless. The Pauline scales (not scales of measurement) fall off. (Acts 9:18)

Only a Hellenist, in our time a Westerner, is fooled by what they can see, or worse, by what they imagine they can explain. A true Semite has ears to hear. Through hearing, the blind learn to see, and the deaf and the mute are healed.

The unseen, الغيب (al-ghayb) and נֶעֱלָם (neʿlam), is not mysticism. It is judgment. It is the Lord’s test. Hiddenness is God’s domain. Covering belongs to God; uncovering belongs to God; the scales of measurement, المِيزَان (al-mīzān) belong to God; the tally belongs to God. The Qurʾan repeats the decree of Luke, that the Lord is not unaware of what you do. Previously, Ecclesiastes insisted the same. Every hidden deed is brought into judgment. (Ecclesiastes 12:14) Luke and Matthew proclaimed that what is concealed will be shouted openly. (Matthew 10:26; Luke 12:2) This mechanism is not literary ornamentation. It is the biological operating system of the Abrahamic scrolls, coded in living, breathing triliteral grammar.

The problem for the now dominant West is that Greek thought presupposes that meaning originates in the human mind. The human city becomes the center, the planted earth becomes a concretized static, or idolized center, human proportion becomes the measure, and vision, human sight, becomes epistemology. Once vision governs understanding, enlightenment becomes darkness, because the logos of the human being projects its categories outward.

Scripture dismantles this, not because the Greeks lacked intelligence, but because the entire Greek system assumes the human observer as the reference point.

Scripture forbids this. Every consonant is intentional. Greek has letters that should not exist because they collapse two sounds into a single symbol. To the Semitic ear, as Fr. Paul Tarazi explains, “psi, xi, and the Greek chi” expose that Greek writing is constructed, not found. The Greek alphabet was designed, not discovered. It is man-made. It does not correspond to what is heard in nature. 

The living and moving, breathing triliteral system prevents human projection by preventing morphological collapse. The scriptural lexicon forces the hearer to receive what is written in creation. In Scripture, projection is stripped away and reality is conveyed as inscribed. The effect is destabilizing. Idols disappear. The hearer is confronted by what is found, confronted by reality.

God is not mocked.

Hearing is the anchor. The Greek philosophical tradition debates whether vision originates in the eye or in the object, a question already speculative. Scripture never entertains such speculation. Hearing is unilateral. The hearer does not hear the self. The hearer receives. Scripture is heard, not inferred, not theorized, not constructed, not “built”. The Qurʾan operates the same way. قَرَأَ (qaraʾ, to recite), أَذَان (adhān, the call), أُذْن (udhn, ear, instrument of hearing). Sound poured into another’s ear. Scripture is submission through hearing what is found unbound by the logos of man. Cosmology heard, not seen, let alone imagined. Functional. Simple, not simplistic.

All of us are shaped by whatever language we hear in our environment from the time we are born, and Scripture is the only speech that shatters that formation, continually scattering us out of our own projection, the palaces and temples we build in our mind, into the hearing of the biblical God who speaks in the wilderness. It cannot and must not be “about” narrative. It must function as the living words themselves, the breathing lexicon of God. He must control our literal vocabulary.

Scripture is heard, not built.

It is found, not fashioned by man’s logos.

Western thought resists this simplicity because the God of Abraham leaves no hiding place for Greek temples. No hiding place for sin.

This week, I discuss Luke 8:47-48.

Human beings have always prided themselves on the advantage gained from possessing knowledge that others lack. We boast of being smarter, more informed, more enlightened—as if we were the elite guardians of some secret insight reserved for our sect, our institution, or our circle. Whether the advantage lies in religious doctrine, education, status, political ideology, or modern technology, it always devolves into the same pattern: insiders against outsiders, the few who “know” against the many who do not.

From ancient cults, esoteric associations, and manufactured religions (steeped in symbols wrongly appropriated from sacred texts) to modern marketing campaigns promising the “secret to success,” humanity’s obsession with exclusive knowledge endures. Yet all of it is vanity—corruption and folly dressed as wisdom. Whether through ritual, ideology, or playground-style cliques, every claim to possess hidden knowledge and to exercise control over others is sublime vanity, doomed to folly.

There is only one source of knowledge—the Father of all—and he alone is the fountain of might, power, and strength. Scripture repeats this warning at every turn, and when human beings ignore it, all things collapse in ruin. The arrogant, trusting in themselves, gleefully amplify human chaos in opposition to him, emboldened by misguided self-confidence.

Indeed, their knowledge springs from self-importance, and their strength from oppression. In their false eschaton, the work of men’s hands turns to dust, even as the God of Abraham remains—ever present, all-knowing, all-wise, and all-powerful. Moreover, as Matthew wrote, this God stands as the enemy of those among them who invoke his name, “Lord, Lord.”

But Yahweh, our Elohim, is always in control despite the schemes of Baal’s followers who deceive the devout who have fallen for the institutions he destroys.

Every time the human being seizes power or claims insight as his own, the result is the same: pride, decay, and judgment. Yet each collapse becomes Elohim’s opportunity to remind us of his immutable sovereignty. He alone commands and restores. As it is written by Paul’s right hand:

His wisdom is not ours to possess, let alone to control or co-opt. His dominion is written into the fabric of creation itself. The heavens do not father the earth; both submit to the patriarchy of the one God of Abraham, the Master of all things.

This is the reality encoded in Scriptural grammar and function and fulfilled in the obedience of Jesus. It is the recognition that knowledge and strength proceed only from God’s command, which has the power to heal even Israel.

This week, I discuss Luke 8:46.

“But Jesus said, ‘Someone did touch me, for I was aware [ἔγνων (egnon) / י־ד־ע (yod–dalet–ʿayin)] that power [δύναμιν (dynamin) / ח־י־ל (ḥet–yod–lamed)] had gone out of me.’”

(Luke 8:46)

γινώσκω (ginosko) / י-ד-ע (yod–dalet–ʿayin) / ع-ر-ف (ʿayn–rāʾ–fāʾ)

In its scriptural itinerary, יָדַע (yadaʿ) functions as relational recognition rooted in revelation and obedience. Gnostics invert this by treating knowledge as an object of possession: a secret commodity that grants status or liberation to a spiritual elite.

The Itinerary of Knowledge

When Adam and Eve transgress the divine command, their eyes are “opened,” and י-ד-ע (yod–dalet–ʿayin) marks the moment of realization. They do not gain divine insight; they recognize their separation and vulnerability.

In Egypt, Yahweh assured deliverance. Israel will know him as the mighty one who was victorious against the elite rulers who burdened his people. Knowledge comes through divine encounter (in this case, remembrance at the opportune time) and obedience, not human speculation.

The same Yahweh declares judgment upon Israel for their idolatry. Weyadeʿu means that through destruction and exile—the opportune time—through divine encounter, the people will come to recognize his immutable sovereignty.

Wisdom begins not in self-referential discovery but in submission. Daʿat, י-ד-ע (yod–dalet–ʿayin), denotes divine instruction. It is submission to God’s ordering of creation that begins with fear, that is, reverent submission to his command.

When the woman touches Jesus’ garment, ἔγνων (egnon) expresses not psychological awareness but recognition of divine power at work. In Genesis 3:7, Adam and Eve know [wayyedaʿu] only after breaking the divine command. What they perceive is separation, not illumination. In Exodus 6:7, Israel knows [widaʿtem] Yahweh because at the opportune time, they remember his act of deliverance; the exiles know [weyadeʿu] Yahweh through judgment. In every case, knowledge is not a self-referential human discovery but an encounter with God’s judgment. Even in Proverbs 1:7, daʿat signifies not human moral or ethical insight but awareness of divine instruction grounded in reverent fear.

When Jesus knows that power has gone out from him (Luke 8:46), the same dynamic unfolds: divine initiative, human encounter, recognition, and restoration. The “knowing” is God-referential. It is an acknowledgment of divine operation rather than an act of introspection.

This same itinerary and literary pattern continues in the Qurʾan, where the Arabic triliteral root ع-ر-ف (ʿayn–rāʾ–fāʾ) appears frequently. Its core function is to know, recognize, acknowledge, or make known. It parallels the Hebrew י-ד-ע (yod–dalet–ʿayin) and the Greek γινώσκω (ginosko) in expressing knowledge as submission to God rather than human possession.

The Prophet is commanded to proclaim divine praise. God will reveal his آيَات (āyāt, “signs”), and humans will recognize them. تَعْرِفُونَهَا<...

The thorns in Luke press and threaten. They are the self-referential swarm posing as a flock: the so-called “community” that gathers to its own voice, circling death, mistaking its stench for sweetness, even as it strangles the one bearing the seed.

These are the thorns.

But the roots are of another kind. They spring up from the seed itself. A daughter of Israel, fruit of the Master’s vine, afflicted for twelve years, who cannot live apart from him. She is not self-referential. She does not reach out to harm, nor to press her point, nor to insist upon herself. Though she is a daughter, she does not presume the right to cross the boundary set by what is sacred. She does not assume she is equal, much less above.

The threat that governs this boundary is the same one given to the priest in the wilderness:

It is the earth of creation itself under his Command. Life and death hinge on reference to him, which becomes submission. Absent reference, submission collapses into the “crowd of thorns”—the ʿedah swarming carrion, the lynch mob, the beloved neo-pagan “community.” The priest stands at the edge of that body: assigned to draw near, yet living under the same threat that borders the sanctuary. For proximity to what is holy is not possession of it. To approach on one’s own terms is to perish; to be drawn near in obedience is to live.

Pressure exposes the heart of this law. In Numbers, Balaam’s donkey pressed his foot against the wall because she saw what he could not. The pressure revealed the blindness of the man and the sight of the donkey. In Luke, the crowd presses upon Jesus, but he perceives what they cannot: the deliberate touch of the one who steps forward in faith. The same pressure that blinds the self-referential reveals the one who truly sees.

The thorns in Luke do not understand this law. They confuse nearness with ownership and approach with entitlement. Like the outsider who encroaches upon the altar, they rush forward without Command: pressing, consuming, swarming as if circling carrion. Their nearness is self-initiated; therefore, they take life.

But the daughter, like the biblical root sprung from the seed of the Sower, is drawn near by the Command. She approaches not to take but to receive. Unlike the thorns, she does not presume to cross the boundary by “right.” She draws near as an offering, not as an invader.

Now she stands in the center, and he is her circumference: her shield in the time of strife.

Hear, O daughter of Israel: draw near and see.
Do not be afraid.
The Lord is your Shepherd.

This week, I discuss Luke 8:43-45.

ἅπτω (hapto)

“But those who were to camp before the tabernacle eastward, before the tent of meeting toward the sunrise, were Moses and Aaron and his sons, performing the duties of the sanctuary for the obligation of the sons of Israel; but the outsider who comes near [הקרב (ha-qareb)] shall be put to death.” (Numbers 3:38)

“Everyone who comes near [הקרב (ha-qareb)], who comes near [הקרב (ha-qareb)] to the tabernacle of the Lord, must die. Are we to perish completely?” (Numbers 17:13)

In Numbers 3:10, 3:38, and 17:13, the Hebrew term הקרב (ha-qareb), from the root ק-ר-ב (qof-resh-bet), “to draw near, approach”, defines the law of approach that governs creation. The warning that “the outsider who draws near shall be put to death” does not protect tribe, identity, or privilege; it names the biblical principle of the open field itself.

The sanctuary, like God’s field, is an open expanse, not an enclosure. Yet, his Command governs its openness. Life exists only by reference to his instruction. His Command orders the heavens and the earth.

The priest stands at the edge of God’s field, where hearing and obedience hold the ground together. To cross without hearing is to move without reference, to “gather” for God’s judgment; to press, as the thorns do, devouring what cannot be possessed. The danger is not in being outside, but in stepping forward on one’s own terms, mistaking freedom for ownership. Even the appointed priest lives under this sentence. Closeness is not possession. The clearest lexical example of this in Luke is Judas:

Judas embodies unauthorized closeness, the New Testament fulfillment of הקרב (ha-qareb) in Numbers: the one who draws near and dies. Luke 22:47 is the clearest example of a self-referential disciple.

The tabernacle, like the open field, is the earth of creation under his Command: its boundaries invisible yet absolute, its center defined by hearing. To be drawn near by instruction is to live within the Lord’s circumference; to come near unbidden is to dissolve into dust. Life and death hinge upon reference within the open field of his Command.

προσέρχομαι (proserchomai)

Here, ק-ר-ב (qof-resh-bet) indicates a rare instance of righteous petition. In Numbers, the daughters of Zelophehad step forward to the entrance of the tent: not to make a claim, but to submit. This reflects the function of the root itself, in which the one who draws near becomes interfunctional with the offering. Their nearness stands in sharp contrast to the ʿedah of Korah, who also “came near” (yiqrebu) and were swallowed by the earth. Where the rebellious qareb ends in death, the obedient qareb bears fruit: law and inheritance take root and blossom through submission. Their approach reveals the womb of nearness, rightly ordered by the Command—an approach that gives life rather than takes it.
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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.

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.

David 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.

Here, yaḥid is not emotional loneliness but martial isolation: the condition of a soldier or supplicant with no human ally, no support, no constituency. The psalmist is cut off from every network of defense; he stands as the yaḥid before ha-ʾEḥad. His solitude is not inward melancholy but strategic exposure. He is a man encircled and undone, left with no strength but God’s. In that position, the oneness of God supplants the weakness of the individual, and dependence itself becomes the ground of divine action.

The psalmist again names his life (nefeš) his yeḥidah: his one, irreplaceable self surrounded by devouring forces. This cry is not heroic but helpless; the yaḥid has no shield, no strength, no tribe. He stands as the fragile earthen vessel awaiting rescue from the ʾEḥad who alone grants and restores the breath of life.

The yaḥid stands before al-Wāḥid as a fragile vessel, emptied of pretense, whose worth lies not in possession or inheritance but in exposure. To be yaḥid is to stand alone—not because one has chosen solitude, but because every other support has failed. It is the state of Jairus in Luke 8:42, David in Psalm 22:21, and Jephthah in Judges 11:34—each reduced to dependence, each holding a single, irreplaceable life before the one who gives it.

Yet the religious mind, ancient and modern alike, mistakes the vessel for the seed. It clings to fleeting human breath instead of to the one who gives breath. This is what Qurʾan 9:31 exposes in its indictment of clericalism: those who mistake the earthen vessel, which passes away, for the words of God, which do not.

This is also the folly of the crowds in Luke 8. They gather not to hear the divine instruction but to choke it—to smother the seed because it threatens their economy of possession. They are the ʿedah, the swarm around death. They handle Jesus like a toy, fascinated with what can be held, pressed, traded, and measured; they prefer the earthen vessel to the living seed. They worship the perishable container rather than the imperishable Word, the finite dust rather than הָאֶחָד (ha-ʾEḥad), the one from whom all life flows.

But the yaḥid—the one left with nothing—sees through the mirage. Standing before al-Wāḥid, Jairus discovers that what endures is not clay but command. The earthen vessel passes away; but the Word of God abides forever.

συμπνίγω (sympnigo)

To press in so tightly that one can barely breathe; to crowd around or press hard against; to suffocate.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

To wait, but not passively. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) acts under pressure: not to stop but to stay active in anticipation without assurance or any sense of control over the outcome. Rest here is paused in darkness, waiting without certainty.

Abandon / Let Be

To abandon in peace, to let be. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as non-interference. Even in death, the prophet’s word is beyond the king’s aegis. Death, rest, etc., indicate non-possession. The bones are not to be moved or claimed. Be warned, Josiah, God Almighty has spoken the truth. Do not disturb what God has already settled.

To abandon violently. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) does not function peacefully but instead signifies forsaking, leaving someone vulnerable. Rest in this context indicates exposure, the lack of protection.

Discipleship as Non-Settlement

To deny even the minimal rest that other earth mammals are granted. Here, Jesus embodies נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) denied: no pause, no place of repose, only constant motion. Discipleship is a nomadic way of life without settled ground.

To release family obligations, ἀφίημι (aphiemi) signifying “let go” is reflected in the command: let the dead bury their dead; you must be on the move. The function is about detachment: not settling in family, friends, tribe, nation, institution, or inheritance.

To release possession and ties. Here, discipleship repeats the law of Sabbath rest: travel light, claim nothing, do not bind yourself. Forgiveness as release becomes life as release. Forgiveness is not psychological or therapeutic, let alone internal or spiritual. It is pragmatic. Yalla. There is work to do. Settle it quickly, but do not settle. Move on.

To release debts, whether economic obligations during the sabbatical year (c...

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

• Luke 8:49 “Your daughter is dead; do not trouble the Teacher any longer.”
  • The crowd speaks. The household voices despair.
  • This is not faith, not trust, not light, not life. It is the voice of the human being declaring finality. It is the voice of war in the camp, of the cruelty of throwing children away.
• The Hebrew/Arabic root י־א־ש / ي-ء-س (to despair) captures this perfectly. Across Semitic tradition, despair is the word of man: resignation, futility, darkness.
  • “None despairs تَيْأَسُوا (tayʾasu) of the mercy of God except the disbelieving people.” (Qurʾan, Surah Yūsuf سورة يوسف “Joseph” 12:87)
  • Again, despair is attributed to the people.
  • Human communities, when confronted with death, loss, or trial, give voice to hopelessness.

2. The Voice of God: Light and Hope

• Luke 8:50 “Do not fear; only trust, and she will be saved.”
  • This is not the voice of the people. It is the word of the Lord, cutting through human despair.
  • The name Jairus (יָאִיר, yaʾir “he will shine”) itself belongs not to human commentary but to God’s proclamation. The child will live; light will shine.
    • “Until, when the messengers despaired ٱسْتَيْـَٔسَ (istaʾyasa) and thought that they were denied, our help came to them, and whoever we willed was saved. But our might cannot be repelled from the guilty people.” (Qurʾan, Surah Yūsuf سورة يوسف “Joseph” 12:110)
    • The human limit is despair. God’s instruction interrupts where human beings fail. His mercy and help arrive at the point where human voices collapse.

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).

• “She has fallen [נָפְלָה (nafelah)], she will not rise again, the virgin Israel. She lies neglected on her land; There is no one to raise her up.” (Amos 5:2)
• “They fell [ἔπεσαν (epesan)] on their faces before the throne.” (Revelation 7:11)

In 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, Arabic ن-ف-ل (nūn-fāʾ-lām) reshapes the same constellation into grace: what falls to one’s portion without effort, the unearned bounty. Thus, the Jairus mashal, where the daughter falls into death yet rises as a surplus of life, finds its perpetuation in the term’s Qur’anic itinerary: the fall itself becomes the site of God’s grace.

• Luke 8:49-50: “Your daughter has died; do not trouble the Teacher anymore.” But He answered, “Do not be afraid any longer; only believe, and she will be saved.”
• Romans 3:24: “Being made righteous as a gift [δωρεάν (dorean)] by his grace [χάριτι (chariti)] through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus.”
• Qurʾan, Surat al-Anfāl سورة الأنفال “The Spoils of War” 8:1: “They ask you about the spoils [ٱلۡأَنفَالِ (al-anfāl)]. Say, ‘The spoils belong to God and the Apostle.’”

Judges were intended to function as earthen vessels: temporary saviors raised up by God to deliver Israel, re-establish order under the Torah, and cultivate dependence on him and him alone. Instead, like all dynastic bureaucrats, they mistook the spoils of God’s victory as their own possession, converting deliverance into personal legacy. Jair’s brief rule in Judges...

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?

This week, I discuss Luke 8:40.

“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: HOSPITALITY AND RECEPTION “When they heard her voice, they hurried to call the elders of the city. They all ran together, both small and great, because it seemed unbelievable to them that she had returned, and they opened the gate and welcomed [ἀπεδέξαντο (apedexanto), aorist middle indicative] them.”
• 1 Maccabees 9:71: ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF TERMS “Thus the sword ceased from Israel. And Jonathan lived at Michmash. And Jonathan began to judge the people, and he accepted [ἀπεδέξατο (apedexato), aorist middle indicative] the situation at that time.”
• 3 Maccabees 3:17: ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF PETITION “When the people heard this, they raised an outcry to heaven, so that those who were nearby and those far away were astonished at the sound of their united cry. But the king, considering their unity, accepted [ἀπεδέξατο (apedexato), aorist middle indicative] their plea.”
• Tobit 7:16: ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF UNDERSTANDING “And Raguel called his wife Edna, and said to her, ‘Sister, prepare the other room and bring her there.’ She went and spread the bed with her for her, as he had said, and she brought her there. And she understood [ἀπεδέξατο (apedexato), aorist middle indicative] the matter.”
• 2 Maccabees 3:9: FORMAL ADMISSION OF INFORMATION “So he told him about the great amount of money under the king’s control, and that Apollonius the governor had informed him. And Heliodorus went to the king and admitted [ἀπεδέξατο (apedexato), aorist middle indicative] what had been told.”
• 2 Maccabees 3:35: RECOGNITION OF DIVINE SOVEREIGNTY “And Heliodorus offered sacrifice to the Lord and made very great vows to Him who had granted him life, and he acknowledged [ἀπεδέξατο (apedexato), aorist middle indicative] the Lord of all.”
• 2 Maccabees 4:22: TRIBAL WELCOME WITH HONOR “And when he came into Joppa, he was welcomed [ἀπεδέχθη (apedechthē), aorist passive indicative] magnificently by the people.”
• 3 Maccabees 5:27: JOYFUL ACCEPTANCE OF REPORT “But the Jews, as they heard this and perceived the invincible protection, praised the Lord, who had so miraculously manifested Himself, and they received [ἀπεδέξαντο (apedexanto), aorist middle indicative] the report with joy.”
• 4 Maccabees 3:20: COGNITIVE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT “For since reason rules over the emotions, it is evident that the emotions are not destroyed. For if the emotions had been destroyed, it would not be possible for reason to recognize [ἀποδέχεσθαι (apodechesthai), present middle infinitive] any of them.”
• Acts 2:41: SUBMISSION TO THE WORD “So then, those who had received [ἀποδεξάμενοι (apodexamenoi), aorist middle participle] his word were baptized; and that day there were added about three thousand souls.”
• Acts 15:4: TRIBAL WELCOME AND ACCEPTANCE OF REPORT “When they arrived in Jerusalem, they were welcomed [ἀπεδέχθησαν (apedechthēsan), aorist passive indicative] by the church and the apostles and the elders, and they reported all that God had done with them.”
• Acts 18:27: FRATERNAL WELCOME TIED TO MISSION “And when he wanted to go across to Achaia, the brothers encouraged him and wrote to the disciples to welcome [ἀποδέξασθαι (apodexasthai), aorist middle infinitive] him; and when he had arrived, he greatly helped those who had believed through grace.”
• Acts 21:17: TRIBAL WELCOME “After we arrived in Jerusalem, the brothers welcomed [ἀπεδέξαντο (apedexanto), aorist middle indicative] us gladly.”
• Acts 24:3: “We acknowledge [ἀποδεχόμεθα (apodechometha), present middle indicative] this in every way and everywhere, most excellent Felix, with all thankfulness.” FORMAL ADMISSION OF INFORMATION
• Acts 28:30: “Now Paul stayed two full years in his own rented quarters and was welcoming [ἀπεδέχετο (apedecheto), imperfect middle indicative] all who came to him.” FRATERNAL WELCOME TIED TO MISSION
• 1 Thessalonians 2:13: DECISIVE SUBMISSION TO DIVINE WORD“For this reason we also constantly thank God that when you received [παραλαβόντες (paralabontes), aorist active participle] the word of God which you heard from us, you accepted [ἀποδεξάμενοι (apodexamenoi), aorist middle participle] it not as the word of men, but as what it really is, the word of God, which also is at work in you who believe.”

προσδοκάω (prosdokaō)

Expect, wait for, look for. From δοκάω (think, suppose) with the prefix πρός- (towards). To look toward in expectation.