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.

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 3:23 – וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן (waʾetḥannan) – I also pleaded with the Lord at that time, saying, – Moses petitions the Lord to let him cross the Jordan and view the promised land.
• 2 Kings 1:13 – וַיִּתְחַנֵּ֗ן (wayyiṭḥannēn) – So 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.” – A third captain approaches Elijah after the first two captains were destroyed. He kneels and requests preservation for himself and his men.
• Job 8:5 – וְאֶל־שַׁדַּ֥י תִּתְחַנָּֽן (weʾel-shadday titḥannan) – If you will search for God And implore the compassion of the Almighty, – Bildad advises Job to seek God and appeal for compassion.
• Job 19:16 – חִנַּ֖נְתִּי (ḥinnantī) – I called to my servant, but he did not answer; I implored him with my mouth. – Job recounts calling his servant and receiving no reply, even after pleading directly.
• Psalm 141:2 – תִּתְחַנָּֽה (titḥannah) – May my prayer be counted as incense before You; The raising of my hands as the evening offering. – The psalmist compares his prayer to incense and the lifting of hands to the evening offering.
• Malachi 1:9 – חִנַּנְאֵל (ḥinnū-ʾēl) – But now will you not plead for God’s favor, so that He will be gracious to us? With such an offering on your part, will He receive any of you kindly?” says the Lord of armies. – The prophet challenges the priests to request God’s favor despite their unacceptable offerings.

ὑποστρέφω (hypostrephō) / ש־ו־ב (shin–waw–bet) / ث-و-ب (thāʾ–wāw–bāʾ)

Finding, Pleading, Returning: Three Arcs Toward Confrontation

In Luke 8, the healed man’s commission to return [שׁוּב (shub)] to his city cannot be read in isolation. It is the culmination of three interwoven prophetic itineraries — מ־צ־א (mem–ṣade–aleph) “to find,” ח־נ־ן (ḥet–nun–nun) “to plead,” and ש־ו־ב (shin–waw–bet) “to return” — each carrying its own history of confrontation, exposure, and the tearing down of human constructs.

The root מ־צ־א moves through Scripture as a pivot between encounter and judgment. To “find” is not neutral; it is to be located, exposed, or confronted by what is found. In Luke 8:35, the townspeople find the formerly demon-possessed man “clothed and in his right mind” — an exposure that drives them to fear. Their response aligns them not with Abraham’s trust (Genesis 14:17), but with those who resist God’s presence. 

The root ש־ו־ב is typically mistranslated as repentance in a theological sense. Still, in the prophetic arc, it signals a strategic pivot, a “turn” toward confrontation, often in the face of danger. In Genesis 14:17, Abraham’s ש־ו־ב [בְּשׁוּבוֹ (bə·shū·bō)] from victory leads directly into confrontation with the king of Sodom. In Judges 3:19, Ehud turns back [שָׁב (shab)] to assassinate Eglon. 

In Exodus 32:31, Moses’ return [וַיָּשָׁב (way·yā·shab)] to God comes after shattering the tablets, standing be...

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.

• Joseph, found wandering, is sent on a path of suffering to deliver many from famine (Genesis 37:15).
  • “A man found [וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ (wayyimṣaʾēhu)] him, and behold, he was wandering in the field; and the man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’”
• Benjamin, found out by a planted cup, exposes guilt but leads to submission and reconciliation (Genesis 44:12).
  • “He searched, beginning with the oldest and ending with the youngest, and the cup was found [וַיִּמָּצֵא (wayyimmāṣēʾ)] in Benjamin’s sack.”

• The prophet, found under the oak, faces judgment for disobedience (1 Kings 13:14). The “finding” (מ־צ־א) here is a trap—not for the wicked, but for the prophet who fails to remain obedient to God’s direct command.
  • “He went after the man of God and found [וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ (wayyimṣaʾēhu)] him sitting under an oak…”
    • “You shall not eat bread, nor drink water, nor return by the way you came.” (1 Kings 13:9)
    • “So he went back with him and ate bread in his house and drank water.” (v. 19)
• Jonah, who finds a ship, is caught in a storm of God’s judgment—and becomes a reluctant prophet (Jonah 1:3).
  • “But Jonah rose up to flee… and found [וַיִּמְצָא (wayyimṣaʾ)] a ship going to Tarshish…”

FOUND 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:

• Abraham pleads for Sodom upon having found favor (Genesis 18:3).
  • “He said, ‘My Lord, if now I have found [מָצָאתִי (māṣāʾtī)] favor in your sight, please do not pass your servant by.’”
• Lot, though surrounded by destruction, acknowledges divine mercy (Genesis 19:19).
  • “Now behold, your servant has found [מָצָא (māṣāʾ)] favor in your sight, and you have magnified your zealous care…”
• Moses repeatedly intercedes for Israel’s rebellious collective after finding favor in God’s sight (Numbers 11:11).
  • “Why have you been so hard on your servant? And why have I not found [לֹא מָצָאתִי (lōʾ māṣāʾtī)] favor in your sight, that you have laid the burden of all this people on me?”
• In the golden calf incident, no favor is found in God’s sight—only consequence. Yet, Moses stands in the breach and intercedes (Exodus 34:9).
  • “If now I have found [מָצָאתִי (māṣāʾtī)] favor in your sight…”
• Esther, having found favor, risks her life to save her people (Esther 8:5).
  • “If it pleases the king, and if I have found [מָצָאתִי (māṣāʾtī)] favor before him, and the matter seems proper to the king…”

In 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:

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 confronted. “Finding” unmasks guilt, and divine justice follows swiftly—even when grace has already been extended:

• Egypt, the symbol of empire and wealth, is found stripped bare—exposed in its powerlessness before God. The Egyptians, found lacking, are emptied of silver and reduced to servitude (Genesis 47:14).
  • “And Joseph collected all the money that was found [הַנִּמְצָא (hannimṣāʾ)] in the land of Egypt…”
• A thief is found in possession of stolen goods, and the act triggers justice (Exodus 22:4).
  • “If what he stole is actually found [נִמְצָא (nimṣāʾ)] alive in his possession… he shall pay double.”
• The people ga...

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.

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.

Still, even in the open pasture, there are rules of engagement. This is how one should hear the text—as a Bedouin.

Surat Al-Anfāl (سورة الأنفال, The Spoils of War) addresses the terms of conflict and the proper conduct of the faithful toward their enemies. It contains the Qur’an’s only occurrence of the Lukan-corresponding root غ–د–ر (ghayn–dāl–rāʾ)—a term that denotes treachery or betrayal. Even when nomadic clans behave treacherously, those who follow God are commanded to act transparently—even in the face of betrayal. The response to ghadr is not reciprocal deceit, but open disengagement.

The verse also contains the word قَوْمٍ (qawm), meaning “those who stand or rise together as a group,” from the root ق–و–م (qāf–wāw–mīm). Its presence evokes the image of a herd rising for judgment—a disobedient gathering whose posture does not guarantee righteousness. Instead, it invokes divine judgment, alluding to the Day of the Lord. This imagery echoes the Gosp...

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.

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:

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 direct consequence of David’s failure to uphold justice according to the Lord’s command, rather than his personal “consolation.”

Pharaoh, in the following example, is lexically analogous to Legion in Luke 8:31, who pleads not to be judged, but to seek relief from consequences in lieu of repentance. In Ezekiel, Pharaoh observes other fallen nations, tyrants, and armies defeated, and finds a twisted comfort in their shared destruction:

In this final example from Lamentations, a destroyed Jerusalem calls for God’s wrath to fall upon her enemies. But unlike Pharaoh, who found twisted comfort in the judgment of others (Ezekiel 32:31), this plea arises under the unbearable weight of divine chastisement. As it is written:

The call for vindication is not a boast but a plea, spoken on the lips of the harlot city—Jerusalem—who confesses her guilt and urges the Lord to act. Her cry for the nations to “become like me” is an appeal to divine vengeance, not for destruction’s sake, but to expose their harlotry, undo their rebellion, and make possible their submission to God’s command, which Jerusalem itself foolishly rejected:

• Luke 8:31, ἐπιτάσσω, Legion “pleads” for consolation in Luke. In Qur’an 7:14–15, this motif corresponds to a mashal with a different root, أ–م–ر (ʾalif–mīm–rāʾ), where Iblis “begs” God for respite: ن–ظ–ر (nūn–ẓāʾ–rāʾ).
  • He said, “Grant me [أَنظِرْنِي (anẓirnī)] respite until the Day they are resurrected.”

ἐπιτάσσω (epitassō...

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:

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.

• Isaiah 51:10 – “Was it not you who dried up (הַמַּחֲרֶבֶת [ha-maḥărébet]) the sea…”

• Surah Al-Hashr 59:2 - “They destroy (يُخْرِبُونَ [yukh’ribūna]) their houses with their own hands…” يُخْرِبُونَ (yukh’ribūna) comes from خَرَّبَ (khar·ra·ba) — they lay waste / destroy, describing the self-inflicted ruin of the Banu Nadir tribe, continuing on the itinerary of civilizational ruin brought on by pride and resistance to God’s covenant.

The 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 judgment.

In the Septuagint, ἐρημόω (erēmoō) corresponds lexically to ח-ר-ב (ḥ-r-b) in the following passages: Judges 16:24; 2 Kings 19:17; Job 14:11; Isaiah 34:10; Isaiah 37:18, 25; Isaiah 44:27; Isaiah 49:17; Isaiah 51:10; Isaiah 60:12; Jeremiah 28:36; Jeremiah 33:9; Ezekiel 26:2, 19; Ezekiel 29:12; Ezekiel 30:7; Amos 7:9.

Λεγιών (legiṓn)

(For a detailed discussion, please see Blaise Webster’s article, The Crux of Paul and John’s Gospel.)

• From the Latin legio, meaning legion, a Roman military unit (~6,000 soldiers), itself from the Indo-European root legō.
• From Latin legō, we also get Lex—law (that which is gathered or set in order)
  • Lex, derived from legō, becomes a symbol of civilizational control—a codified system that enforces order, often violently.
  • Roman Legions (from the same root) are the custodians of lex, instruments of imperial coercion and domination.
  • Lex and legion are bound together both linguistically and ideologically—law enforced by gathered violence.
• In Greek, λόγος (logos) stems from λέγω and is associated in Hellenistic philosophy with reason, logic, and natural law. The Pauline School’s co-opting of this term is an attack on Hellenism.
  • For Paul, λόγος is not Greek reason, but shorthand for “the word of the cross” (ὁ λόγος τοῦ σταυροῦ)—foolishness to the world and power to those being saved, who trust in God’s victory (1 Corinthians 1:18); Knowing that his work will find its own completion in the Day of the Lord. (Philippians 1:6)

Unlike the constructive Greek logos, which seeks order and coherence, the Pauline logos is destructive—an insurgent word embedded within Greco-Roman structures, intended to bring about their co-termination in the execution of Jesus, thereby dismantling the entire system.

• Lex (law) and lego (rhetoric/philosophy) represent false structures of control and meaning, in opposition to the Pauline gospel.
• T...