Dominion and Dynasty by Stephen Dempster: A Review through the Lens of Torat Edom



Introductory Note

Originally published in 2003 as part of the New Studies in Biblical Theology series (edited by D.A. Carson), Stephen G. Dempster’s Dominion and Dynasty has quietly become a foundational text in evangelical biblical theology. It has stood the test of time—not simply as a thematic overview, but as a structurally sound attempt to let the Tanakh speak in its own canonical voice. Its inclusion in platforms like Logos Bible Software and its continued academic citation confirm its place as more than a passing commentary. It is a sustained effort to read the Hebrew Bible as a coherent narrative—one that many pastors, teachers, and theologians now take for granted.

And yet, over two decades later, the task is not finished. If anything, a book like this shows just how far we’ve come—and how far we still need to go. The recovery of the biblical story is not merely literary or theological; it is covenantal and eschatological. Re-reading Dominion and Dynasty through the lens of a reading from Judaism that helps us ask deeper questions: Who carries the testimony? What of the excluded lineages—Dan, Edom, the ger? What lies beyond dominion and dynasty?

This review is not a dismissal of Dempster’s work, but a response to it. It honors the scaffolding he provided while pushing further into the heart of the remnant, the edim, and the ongoing prophetic witness still waiting to be heard.

A Noble Attempt to Read the Bible as a Story
Dominion and Dynasty is a rare kind of biblical theology: one that honors the Jewish shape of Scripture. By arranging the narrative according to the Tanakh order (Torah, Prophets, Writings), Dempster refuses to treat the Hebrew Bible as a theological appetizer for the New Testament. Instead, he invites us to read it as a story in its own right—structured around seed and land, two central themes of covenantal identity.

This is more than literary elegance; it is a theological act. Dempster is pushing back against atomized Bible reading and calling the Church to reckon with the drama of Scripture. And yet, while he restores much that has been lost, he stops short of seeing the full picture—what Torat Edom calls the testimony of the remnant, the edim or congregation, who carry the oracles beyond the collapse of kingdom and temple.

Narrative Strengths: Seed, Land, and Story
Dempster’s central claim is that the Hebrew Bible is a unified story, anchored in two interwoven threads:
  • Seed (zera) — the line of promise stretching from Adam to Abraham, through David, and into the exilic longings of Israel.
  • Land (eretz) — the divine gift that shapes covenantal responsibility, identity, and exile.
These two themes form the backbone of the Bible’s drama: who will inherit the land? Whose seed will carry the promise? In this sense, Dempster’s work is not far from Torat Edom, which also views biblical history as a tension between inheritance and exile, inclusion and exclusion, presence and loss.

His attention to literary seams and genealogical structures reveals a beautiful coherence in the text—especially his insights into the ending of Chronicles as a final “open door” for return and restoration. He also resists the temptation to systematize, choosing instead to trace the storyline as it flows through narrative and poetry, judgment and hope.

Canonical Fidelity: Respecting the Tanakh’s Order
Perhaps Dempster’s most important contribution is his insistence on reading the Hebrew Bible in its own order. Unlike the Christian Old Testament, which ends with the prophetic books (e.g., Malachi), the Jewish canon ends with Chronicles, a theological retelling of Israel’s history that ends with a decree for return. That ending matters. It shapes how we view God’s story—whether it’s about winding down or being prepared for something new.

Torat Edom takes this further by asking: who returns? Who is still holding the oracles when the temple is destroyed, when the seed appears to fail, when the land is desecrated? Dempster gestures toward these questions but does not walk the path. His canon theology sets the stage but does not spotlight the true witnesses in exile—those who carry Torah through suffering, silence, and marginalization.

Where it Falls Short
This is where Torat Edom parts ways. Dempster’s focus on dominion and dynasty, while valuable, leaves little room for those who are disinherited but not forgotten. What about Dan and Edom, whose roles in the biblical story become apocalyptic ciphers for distorted power? What about Hagar and Ruth, outsiders whose stories threaten to unravel the clean lines of “seed”?

Torat Edom argues that these ruptures are not marginal—they are central. They are the test cases of God’s covenantal justice. Dempster treats them as footnotes to the main narrative. That’s the Reformed instinct still speaking—quietly, but clearly.

Supersessionism by Silence?
To his credit, Dempster never explicitly says that the Church replaces Israel. But by focusing on literary fulfillment rather than ongoing testimony, he risks absorbing Israel’s story into a Christological abstraction. The oracles are treated as fulfilled rather than guarded, and the witnesses who preserved them in exile are barely mentioned.

Torat Edom takes a different approach. It insists that the story is not about fulfillment replacing Israel, but about Edomite captivity, the distortion of covenant through empire and abstraction. Dempster does not critique Christendom, Rome, or theological imperialism. His vision is beautiful—but it lacks blood. It lacks exile. It lacks the remnant’s voice.

Conclusion: A Step Toward the Witnesses, but Not with Them
Stephen Dempster’s Dominion and Dynasty is a bold and noble work. It clears the clutter of systematics to let the Bible breathe again. For that, it deserves high praise. It helps modern readers rediscover the shape of the story—but not yet its full weight.

For those reading with Torat Edom in mind, Dempster is a necessary guide, but not a final voice. He shows us the map, but the oracles still buried in exile speak a deeper truth. Their witness is not found in dominion or dynasty, but in tears, tables, and the long road of return.




You can purchase the book from the following retailers
  • InterVarsity Press: The publisher’s website offers the book in paperback. View on IVP 
  • Logos Bible Software: For a digital edition compatible with Logos Bible Software. View on Logos



How to Read the Bible as a Story – Part 3




Esther


What if history is not only what happened—but what ought to have happened? Chronicles opens that door.

When we read the Bible as a chronological story—not just a devotional grab-bag or theological system—we begin to see how each book arises in response to what came before. The books in this part of the journey—Chronicles, Joel, Malachi, Esther—form a pivot in Israel’s identity. The exile is technically over, but nothing feels finished. The Temple has been rebuilt, but God’s glory hasn’t returned. It’s a time of deep longing, hidden hope, and divine silence.

Let’s follow the thread.

Chronicles: The Holy Revision
Chronicles is often skimmed, mistaken for a repeat of Samuel and Kings. But look closer. It’s not retelling—it’s re-seeing. The Chronicler writes after the exile with a theological goal: to rebuild the shattered identity of Israel.

David is presented not just as warrior-king but as the one who prepares the Temple—a priestly founder.

Solomon is not rebuked for idolatry—he’s idealized as the Temple-builder.

The history of the northern kingdom is almost entirely left out. Why? Because Judah’s Davidic line is the hope of the future.

Chronicles ends not with a king, but with Cyrus, a pagan ruler used by God, issuing a decree to rebuild Jerusalem. It is a prophetic ending: the real King is still to come.

Chronicles teaches us that memory itself must be purified. History can be retold so that the future can be reclaimed.

Joel: The Plague and the Promise
Then comes Joel. The land is devastated—by locusts, by drought, by desolation. It’s unclear whether the crisis is literal or symbolic (or both). But Joel doesn’t explain; he calls.

Declare a holy fast, call a sacred assembly.

Return to me with all your heart… rend your hearts, not your garments.

This is Temple language. Priestly language. The people are back in the land, but they’ve forgotten how to cry. Joel teaches them again.

And then—out of that lament—comes an astonishing promise:
 
Chronicles rebuilt memory. Joel prepares for the Spirit.

And afterward, I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh…”

Malachi: The Last Prophet of the Temple
Malachi speaks in a weary voice. The Temple is functioning, but barely.

Sacrifices are offered, but with blemished animals. Priests are in place, but without fire.

God’s message is surgical:

You say, ‘What a burden!’”
You bring stolen, lame, or diseased animals and offer them.
You have wearied the Lord with your words.

Malachi accuses the people of faith without fear, form without fire.

But he doesn’t end in rebuke. He ends in promise:

Behold, I will send Elijah the prophet… before the great and dreadful day of the Lord.

The story must be prepared again—not by ritual, but by a voice in the wilderness.


Esther: God Hidden, Faith Unshaken
And then… the silence. The name of God is not mentioned once in the book of Esther. Not once.

But He is everywhere:
In the casting of lots (purim).
In the sleepless night of a king.
In the courage of a queen who says, “If I perish, I perish.”

Esther shows us how to live when God seems absent. When exile becomes a mindset. When providence is veiled, and yet faith remains.

Esther is the mirror image of Joel:

Joel cries to God in a visible Temple.
Esther walks with God in an invisible exile.


Conclusion: The Long Pause Before the Fire

These four books—Chronicles, Joel, Malachi, Esther—form a tapestry of longing.

Chronicles revises the past to restore hope.
Joel laments the present but promises the Spirit.
Malachi confronts a fading faith with sharp words and final hope.
Esther teaches us to act faithfully even when God seems silent.

Together, they form a threshold. The Temple has been rebuilt—but the heart of Israel is still awaiting something more.




Qahal vs. Eda and the Problem of Christian Nationalism




Mishnah Sanhedrin 1:6 offers a crucial rabbinic distinction: the Qahal (sounds like Ekklesia right .. right) is the formal assembly, necessary for public action, while the Eda is the witnessing body—the ones whose testimony binds heaven and earth. The former can be mustered by political power; the latter must be constituted by covenantal fidelity and moral integrity. This difference is not merely semantic—it cuts to the heart of how a community relates to God, law, and history.

Yeshayahu Leibowitz, writing in the shadow of Zionism, warned that national identity without halakhic submission to divine command becomes idolatry. Applied to Webbon’s project, we see a similar dynamic: the language of dominion, law, and Christendom is deployed not to testify to God’s righteousness, but to reassert cultural dominance and political control. This is a return to the old Gentile model of kingdom-building—one that Torat Edom decisively rejects.

Where Christian nationalists seek to weaponize biblical categories for temporal power, Torat Edom reasserts the function of the Eda: to bear witness, often in suffering, sometimes in exile, always under covenant. 

The calling of the church is not to establish a geopolitical kingdom, but to walk in the way of the Sar HaPanim, the Prince of the Presence, whose throne is not of this world, yet whose judgment reorders it.

Stephan Wolfe and the Illusion of Christian Ethnos
Stephan Wolfe, author of The Case for Christian Nationalism (2022), attempts a more philosophically grounded argument for a Protestant ethnonational order. Drawing heavily from classical Reformed political thought and early modern Protestant nation-building (especially in Europe), Wolfe constructs a vision of the “Christian nation” that is theologically coherent on its own terms—but deeply problematic when placed alongside the covenantal frameworks of Scripture.

Like Joel Webbon, Wolfe operates entirely within a Qahal framework—assuming that God’s people must be externally gathered, nationally identified, and morally unified through coercive structures. But unlike Webbon, Wolfe is more candid about the need for ethnic cohesion and cultural hegemony, even arguing that each people group should develop its own national Christianity, rooted in shared cultural and linguistic heritage.

The problem here is twofold:
1. Covenantal Amnesia: Wolfe’s model forgets that the covenant was not given to ethnos as such, but to Avraham and his seed—a seed defined by obedience, not race. The whole trajectory of Scripture moves toward grafting in, conversion, and the expansion of witness (Eda) to the nations. Wolfe’s ethnos-based theology echoes Rome’s imperial syncretism more than the God of Sinai or the apostles of Jerusalem.

2. Rejection of the Oracles of God: Paul says in Romans 3:2 that the chief advantage of the Jews is that “they were entrusted with the oracles of God.” Wolfe’s system bypasses this entirely. In doing so, it constructs a Christianity abstracted from its Jewish root—what Torat Edom identifies as a core distortion of post-Constantinian theology. By excluding Jewish theological categories (like halakhah, yikus, and Eda), Wolfe inadvertently resurrects a form of Edomite Christianity—violent, national, and estranged from the oracular voice.

Torat Edom as a Critique of Christian Ethnonationalism
Wolfe and Webbon both misread the Bible as a program for building Christian Rome, rather than a covenantal library testifying to divine justice and inclusion through suffering. Torat Edom critiques this misreading not with abstract liberalism, but with the weight of halakhic history:

• Israel was chosen not to dominate, but to serve and suffer as a priestly people.

• The Eda, not the Qahal, bears the covenantal torch.

• The Messiah comes not with a sword of state, but with the fire of testimony and the wounds of obedience.

In this way, Christian Nationalism becomes a mirror image of the Sadducean and the wrong Shammite Pharisees (there we’re right ones! Matt. 23:1&2 ). What was the ERROR? — confusing power with holiness, and missing the very sar haPanim (Prince of the Presence) who stood among them.

What Stephan Wolfe and Joel Webbon miss, A.B. Simpson seemed to intuit more than a century ago.

Simpson never spoke in the language of “Eda” or “Torat Edom,” but his life and mission echo its rhythm. In founding the Christian and Missionary Alliance, Simpson rejected both Protestant respectability and American empire.

 He cast his lot not with the Qahal of civic religion, but with the marginalized, the poor, the immigrant, and the unreached. His theology of the “Fourfold Gospel”—Jesus as Savior, Sanctifier, Healer, and Coming King—was never meant to underpin a Christian state, but to fuel a Spirit-filled, suffering witness to the ends of the earth.

Simpson’s vision was neither Christendom nor cultural supremacy, but a prophetic alliance—an Eda—across boundaries, languages, and nations.

The rise of figures like Joel Webbon, who advocate for a muscular, Christ-centered reordering of American public life, exemplifies a return to Qahal over Eda—a vision of the church not as a witnessing community but as a theocratic nation-in-waiting.

This neo-Christian nationalism seeks to recover political power under the guise of biblical fidelity, but it mirrors the very temptation Israel faced in its own history: mistaking covenantal witness for national supremacy.

In this light, the C&MA faces a choice today.

Will it drift toward the political vision of Wolfe and Webbon—trading testimony for territory, suffering for strategy, the Sar HaPanim for Caesar’s sword?

Or will it return to Simpson’s heart cry: a missionary people, bound not by ethnos but by the fire of the Spirit, proclaiming the risen King not as ruler of a geopolitical domain but as Lord over all creation?

Torat Edom calls us back to the deeper covenant.

It reminds the church—especially the Alliance—that our identity is not as a religious nation, but as a faithful witness.

As Mishnah Sanhedrin 1:6 teaches:

The time has come to choose again.

Not Rome.

Not Edom.

Not a Christianized republic.

Not getting caught up in ‘a chosen people for the sake of race.’

Not female (wives) submission without male (husbands) love—true love, rooted in first love—by imitating Jesus of Nazareth. But both lived out together, with an egalitarian spirit and plenty of compliments!

But a return to the Eda—the covenantal people who bear the wounds of Messiah and the hope of the world.


The Bremen Town Musicians.


 I Think I Finally Figured It Out

Biblical Echoes, and the True House of Robbers


As a little American boy growing up under the quiet insistence of my parents, I spent every Saturday in German school. I actually liked the German language—its poetry, its dialects, the texture of it all, and especially its harsh fables.

What I didn’t like was the work of learning grammar. I was bad at it then, and I’m still bad at it now.

But the stories? They stayed with me.

One in particular—the tale of the Bremen Town Musicians—always captivated me more than any grammar lesson ever could. A donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster—each rejected, aging, or worn down by the world—banding together and heading off toward a dream that never quite materializes. Instead of reaching Bremen, they discover a house full of robbers, scare them off through sheer surprise, and make it their home.

It’s a tale of misfits turned musicians, losers turned legends.

For years, I carried that story around with me without quite knowing why.

But now, looking back through the lens of covenant and Scripture, I think I finally figured it out. Of course, it was only after a conversation with Jo, not long after October 7th, 2023, when I shared with him my strange theory about donkeys from what I also learned in my studies with him, plus my love for them, and that my dad would call me a ‘dummer esel’ (a dumb ass) and perhaps how it all tied into this fable or Pinocchio (I’ll eventually get to that story). 

BUT! Something clicked. I began to see it—not just as a childhood tale, but as a prophetic parable.

So I turned to the great AI tools that are developing so quickly these days—tools I’ve come to lean on as I work through my own scattered mind. And I asked AI:

Have you ever heard such an interpretation?”

She said: No. 

Not so fast… she doesn’t have access to the testimony of the Trail of Blood


Well, this is not just a fairy tale. It’s a hidden parable. A layered witness. 

And the animals?

They aren’t random. They’re prophetic.


The Donkey: The Peter Chamor
In the Torah, the donkey is the only non-kosher animal that must be redeemed (Exodus 13:13). The peter chamor (פֶּ֤טֶר חֲמֽוֹר), the firstborn donkey, must be bought back with a lamb. If not, its neck is broken. No other animal receives this strange requirement.

The donkey becomes a symbol of the outsider who bears burdens—one who can’t be sacrificed but must be redeemed. Think of the donkey carrying Yeshua into Jerusalem. Humble. Silent. Essential. Perhaps even unaware of the sacred weight he bears.

In the story of the Bremen Musicians, the donkey leads. It bears the others. It forms the base of the stack. It is the silent support on which the others stand.

But this image runs far deeper than we might think.

The peter chamor evokes Peter—Kepha—one of the “lost sheep of the House of Israel ” whom the Messiah came to gather (Matthew 15:24). Simon St. Peter , the bold but broken disciple, represents a redeemed remnant—called back from dispersion, marked by denial, but restored by grace.

And this restoration is not merely personal. It is covenantal. The donkey, like Peter, is redeemed by the Lamb—not sacrificed, but purchased for a purpose. The act of redemption dignifies what the world sees as unclean or disposable. It restores function to the forgotten.

This image even taps back into Ishmael, the son of Hagar—also a bearer of burden, also sent away, and yet blessed. He, too, is a child of Abraham. Though often cast to the margins of theological discourse, Ishmael represents a line of inheritance that God does not forget.

In this sense, the donkey is more than just an animal in a story—it is a theological cipher for all the children of Abraham who have been misunderstood, miscategorized, or misrepresented. It is the image of the covenant breaking back into history through unlikely figures, burdened bodies, and forgotten tribes.

The donkey doesn’t speak in the Bremen tale. But its place is foundational. And that, too, is part of the mystery: the redemption of the silent, the lifting of the lowly, the beginning of the music from the bottom up.


This photo was taken by Gloria’s Cousin Cecila with her puppy
who being from Peru like Gloria is a teacher but of German and Spanish.
 Of course Ceci speaks grammatical German much better than I
 and my beloved wife Gloria is more ‘German’ than I 



The Dog: Caleb Grafted In
In Hebrew, the word kelev (כֶּלֶב), meaning “dog,” is etymologically close to Caleb (כָּלֵב)—the faithful scout sent into the Promised Land. But they are more than homonyms—they are theological opposites made visible.

Caleb, son of Jephunneh the Kenizzite, was not born an Israelite. He came from outside the camp. A Gentile by blood—but through faith and loyalty, he was grafted into the covenant. Scripture tells us he “had a different spirit” and “followed the Lord fully” (Numbers 14:24). For this, he received an inheritance among the tribes of Israel. He was not merely tolerated—he was loved.

This is the hidden force behind the encounter in Matthew 15:21–28. A Canaanite woman cries out to Yeshua, and he responds, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” Her answer? “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” And his reply is breathtaking: “O woman, great is your faith!

This wasn’t an insult—it was a test. And her response revealed a truth long buried in the soil of covenant history: there are dogs who destroy, but there are also dogs who cling, who believe, who love.

In the rabbinic imagination, wild dogs—kelevei kiruv—were sometimes symbols of those who turn faith into manipulation, who devour truth, who masquerade as messengers but tear the flock apart. They are wolves in dogs’ clothing—dangerous, seductive, false.

But Caleb is different. Caleb is beloved. He is the image of the faithful outsider, one who watches, who waits, who doesn’t turn away even when tested. He is Israel’s inheritance made visible in Gentile flesh.

In the Bremen Town Musicians, the dog is cast aside because of age and weakness, yet he finds his place in the new fellowship. He is not leading, but neither is he abandoned. He is grafted into a new household, joined with others who, like him, were rejected—but not forgotten.

The Cat: The Cat of Egypt
The Bible says little about cats, but ancient Egypt reverenced them. Cats were sacred to Bastet—goddess of protection, fertility, and the home. They were keepers of the house, destroyers of snakes, and guardians in the shadows. In this tale, the cat is elusive, clever, and poised—never dominant, but never absent.

The cat, to me, has become the image of a remnant from empire—a witness who survived its magic, mystery, and idolatry, yet was not swallowed by it. She escaped, but not without marks. She remembers. She walks softly, but her instincts are sharp.

Egypt’s redemption story begins in Exodus, where a mixed multitude left the house of bondage—led by a lamb, preserved by blood. The plagues were not just judgments on Pharaoh, but a dismantling of Egyptian gods—a divine confrontation with the powers of empire. And yet, Isaiah sees more. He sees a future in which Egypt is not merely judged, but blessed.

“Blessed be Egypt My people, and Assyria the work of My hands,
 and Israel My inheritance.” (Isaiah 19:25)

This stunning prophecy envisions a highway of reconciliation—stretching from Egypt to Assyria to Israel. These are not just geographic regions. They are theological landscapes. Empire, exile, covenant—all braided together.

And here’s the hidden thread: both Egypt and Assyria became early homes of the faith. The mia/monophysite churches—Coptic in Egypt, Assyrian in the East—preserved a fierce, Kosher, mystical Christology long after the West fragmented.

While Rome became an empire again in religious robes, these churches—often persecuted, misunderstood, and eventually isolated—held fast to the mystery of God incarnate.

And they survived.

They endured the rise of Militant Islam.

They survived being labeled heretics by imperial councils.

They remain today, scattered and shaken, but still there.

The cat, then, is more than an animal. She is the survivor of empires. She is the whisper of theological memory. She is the church of Egypt and Assyria and Armenia—watchful, wounded, and wise.

In the Bremen tale, she neither leads nor commands, but she takes her place. She is not loud. She is not proud. But she is part of the redeemed assembly.

She knows how to slip through cracks.

How to hide from the destroyer.

How to survive when no one else remembers your name.

This is the cat of Egypt.

And she still stands and her Pyramids which are perhaps revealing more secrets.


The Rooster: The One Who Crows at Betrayal
— Perhaps the Star of the Show?
This one is clearer. In the Gospels, the rooster crows—and Peter remembers.

“Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.” (Luke 22:61)

It is the sound that shatters self-confidence. The moment where the illusion breaks. The cry that pierces betrayal—not to destroy, but to awaken.

In this way, the rooster becomes the voice of repentance. His crow is not condemnation—it is conviction. A call to return.

But the rooster does not only confront.

He also heralds the dawn.

He sings before the light comes.

He declares the morning while it is still dark.

This is what makes the rooster the true prophetic voice:

He sees what others don’t.

He hears what others won’t.

He cries out when others sleep.


The Rooster and the Reformation - In Protestant Germany, most churches don’t bear a cross on their steeples—they bear a rooster.

Why? Because the Reformation saw itself as a wake-up call—a crowing in the darkness of ecclesial corruption. The rooster became a symbol of conscience. A cry against spiritual betrayal. It stood in opposition to the Catholic basilicas and the heavy silence of empire.

And the Reformers were right to cry out. The Reformation was a genuine awakening—a breaking of silence.

But it wasn’t the last word.

Because while the rooster may have crowed, many Protestants still haven’t repented fully.

We have not turned all the way back.

We have not listened long enough to the Hebrew Scriptures.

We have not acknowledged that our own systems still carry supersessionism, theological imperialism, and an ignorance of Israel’s enduring role.

The Reformation rightly challenged the abuses of Rome.

But it often built its theology on the same replacement framework—abandoning the Jewish people and stripping the gospel from its native soil.

So the rooster still stands, crowing.

Not only over Peter’s denial,
But over our failure to return to the root.

It is not enough to reform.

We must be restored.

We must return not only to Scripture but to covenant, to the root that supports us (Romans 11).


The Rooster in the Bremen Stack - In the Bremen tale, the rooster takes the highest place in the stack—not to rule, but to see.
  • He is the voice above, not because he is better, but because he cries out first.
  • He warns of danger.
  • He calls out betrayal.
  • He announces dawn.
And today, perhaps, he is crying again—not just over empire or corruption, but over a Church that still refuses to return to Zion, to Torah, to the Jewish Messiah and His covenant people.
  • He does not destroy. He awakens.
  • He does not curse. He calls.
  • And if we listen—truly listen—we might still hear his crow at the edge of dawn.

The Stack: A Prophetic Assembly - Now picture them together:

The donkey—redeemed by the lamb, carrying a sacred burden, misunderstood but foundational.

The dog—once an outsider, now beloved, grafted in by faith like Caleb, clinging to the promise.

The cat—marked by empire, scarred by exile, yet surviving with quiet endurance, a whisper of ancient churches still holding mystery.

The rooster—perched above, not as a ruler but as a watchman, the prophetic voice that calls out betrayal and heralds the morning.
  • These are not just animals in a fairy tale.
  • They are the exiled, the faithful, the hidden, and the prophetic.
  • They are the unexpected witnesses of redemption.
They form a stacked assembly, not hierarchical but interdependent. Lifted, balanced, bearing each other’s weight—each one taking their place in a strange harmony that confounds the powers and terrifies the robbers.

And that leads us to ask:


Who Are the Real Robbers?
In the Grimm tale, the robbers are common thieves, feasting in someone else’s house. But when we read this as a parable, something deeper emerges.

The real robbers are those who have taken what was not theirs:
  • Those who occupy sacred space without covenant loyalty.
  • Those who steal the inheritance meant for the humble, the exiled, the faithful remnant.
  • Those who build empires, dress them up in theology, and silence the cries of the rooster.
They may look like scholars, priests or tele-evangelists. They may sound like reformers or kings. But their systems exclude the very ones God has chosen.

In contrast, the Bremen animals—like the faithful remnants of Scripture—reclaim the house not through violence but through presence. Through song. Through unity in exile.

They don’t burn down the house.

They restore it with testimony.


The Song of the Redeemed
What if the Bremen Town Musicians is a mashal—a parable of the restored assembly?

What if the real song of redemption doesn’t come from cathedrals or councils, but from the margins?

It’s not the kings who sing the true song.

Not the theologians with palaces.

Not the empires or the architects of exclusion.
It’s:
  • The donkey who is redeemed—burdened but blessed.
  • The dog who is grafted in—once rejected, now beloved.
  • The cat who slipped past empire—still watching in the shadows.
  • The rooster who cries at dawn—still calling us back to covenant, to Zion, to the roots we’ve forgotten.
Together, they become an ‘eda’—a band of testimony. A strange fellowship.
A new house—no longer a den of robbers, but a place of praise.

Maybe the Goal Wasn’t Bremen After All
Maybe we don’t need to reach Bremen.

Maybe the dream isn’t a destination—it’s what forms along the way.

Maybe the song isn’t just a melody—it’s a testimony that shakes the false house to its foundation.

Maybe this story was always meant to show us that:
  • The real musicians are the outcasts who find each other.
  • The real reformation is not just a protest but a return—to covenant, to Israel, to mercy.
  • And the real redemption happens when those the world rejected are lifted, healed, and joined together.

So maybe—just maybe—we are the musicians.

And the house will stand again.

But only if we remember the song.

What is the most frequent command in scripture? 

Sing! 

Even if it is a joyful noise! 







Is Jesus in the Talmud? Part Two



The Oracle Keepers and the Veil of Memory

In my first post, I opened the question of whether Jesus of Nazareth appears in the Talmud—not as a proof-text for polemics, but as a matter of deep historical and theological integrity. This is not about scandal. It’s about memory, concealment, and divine timing.

Let’s go further.

Is Yeshu Jesus?

NO! Not exactly. But not exactly not.




The references to Yeshu ha-Notzriben Pandera, and Miriam scattered across rabbinic literature are not historical biographies of Jesus of Nazareth. They are distortions, refracted through centuries of rupture, revolt, and resistance. They may reflect confused conflations, polemical misdirections, or attempts to veil something too sacred—or too dangerous—to name outright. But they are not inventions.

As noted in this WikiNoah entryYeshu was more than a name—it was a cipher, a theological counterpunch, possibly an acronym for “Yemach Shemo veZikhro” (“May his name and memory be erased”). That itself tells us something: this figure could not be ignored.

In the account of the Hanging of Yeshu, we find a legal narrative strangely aligned with the Gospel timeline: a figure hanged on the eve of Passover, announcements for witnesses, courtroom procedures. But the story is turned inside out—as if to rewrite the verdict. The discomfort is palpable. This isn’t just about heresy. It’s about guilt—and the quiet fear that the one they judged might be the one who judges.

Then there is Miriam. Not Mary the Virgin, but Miriam the hairdresser, or worse, a woman recast in shame. But why rewrite her at all? Why conflate her with Mary Magdalene and Jesus or Nazareth as the gnostic texts stated as married or vilify her unless her original memory stood in tension with the dominant Rabbinic narrative?
 
Something had to be re-coded. The memory had to be deflected, because it could not be erased.

But Here Is the Key Distinction
The Yeshu ben Pandera found in Talmudic traditions is not Jesus of Nazareth, son of Mary. He may well be a nephew—a different figure, entangled in the Nazarene movement, and remembered in early warnings within the Baraitas and New Testament epistles under names like Belial (2 Cor 6:15) — The anti-christ!  — That is why I started with an explicit NO! 

Nevertheless, he may reflect the rise of Notzrim—sectarian groups misunderstood or misrepresented by who claimed to be David’s heirs.

And here’s the real challenge: if there was a concealment, that’s one thing. If there was a conflation, that’s another.

 Either way, it must be treated with care.

It’s a long and twisted tale. But one thing is clear: the historical record—fragmented, refracted, contested—is there. The question is how to interpret it.

Enter: the Oracle Keepers
This is not about triumphalism. The Jews are the oracle keepers (Romans 3:2). That doesn’t mean everything they transmitted was interpreted rightly—but it does mean they carried the burden of preserving revelation, even in veiled form. Concealment is not rejection. It is stewardship under pressure.

As Harvey Falk suggested, and Jacob Emden hinted, and the Chasidei Ashkenaz whispered in their reverence for the Sar HaPanim, Jesus may have been veiled, not denied. Preserved, not erased. Hidden in memory, not forgotten.

So let us ask:
What if the rabbinic Yeshu traditions are not rejections, but forms of protective custody?

What if the distortions are the residue of something once glimpsed—but hidden until the appointed time?

What if even the name “Yeshu” is not the final word, but the echo of a people who remembered more than they could say?

A Different Kind of Recognition
We are not looking for “Jesus in the Talmud” to win arguments. We are listening for recognition—the kind that requires humility, not conquest.

The Nazarene needs no validation. He is Yeshua Min Zarat, the true Sar HaPanim, the Branch (Netzer) whom Isaiah saw—rejected by men but chosen by God.

The echoes in rabbinic tradition do not silence him. They prove that he was heard.

So the question is no longer: Is Jesus in the Talmud?

The question is: Why could he not be forgotten?

And perhaps the answer is this:

Because the oracle keepers never truly let go. They veiled the truth—not to destroy it,
 but to guard it. And maybe… just maybe… the time of unveiling has come.









Already Six Months After Lausanne Seoul?!


Yes, and we still find ourselves in awe of what the Lord allowed us to be part of.

We were invited to go—honestly, Marty wasn’t too eager at first, due to our work in Italy. The initial ask was to serve as translators, which isn’t exactly our strength. But it was an opportunity, and there was a chance we might be able to join the Italian delegation. So we said yes!

And so they welcomed us to come —and that’s all we really wanted to do as we longed for was simply to serve and be with like minded believers. And that’s what we did.

They placed Marty on the Movement Desk to share the Lausanne Vision and the 25 Gaps Groups. Gloria, of course, found her place at the Help Desk—where she was able to use her many languages and give attention and care for a myriad of questions.

It felt like stepping back onto the OM ships in our youth, once again part of a small international team serving a massive crowd—this time over 5,000 people from every corner of the globe.

But it was more than just volunteering. For us, it was also a homecoming. Seoul was the first city we were sent to as a family in 1991, serving in the early days of a fledgling Korean ship ministry, MV Hannah. During the conference, we reconnected with the director of that work, with South Korean brothers and sisters from OM ships, and with many others we’d known along the way. It was reunion upon reunion and with the Korean food Marty loves and Gloria ‘likes.’

During the plenaries sessions, we were mostly outside— stationed at our respective desks, talking with people, enjoying our teams, meeting old and new friends, and standing in awe of what God is doing.

Global Christianity has truly risen, and we pray it continues to advance through the obedience of faith, just as Scripture teaches for the Lord’s peope to reach and declare and display Christ. That’s what this is all about. That’s the movement. To ‘bring back the King.’

Looking back, we’re grateful for what earlier Lausanne gatherings gave us—especially a vision for unreached people groups and finishing the task. But what’s emerging now through the 25 Gaps Groups brings even more intricate and nuanced layers to what it means to reach the world for Christ.

One of those groups, focused on the aged, is where Gloria is now involved. Her years in chaplaincy have prepared her beautifully for this role. And both of us are deeply committed to the Young Leaders Generation—we see them as vital to the future of this movement.

So here we are, six months later, still humbled by the privilege. For us, it was a wonderful and timely moment—one that recharged us as we step further into these latter years of ministry.

 We hope to keep serving, keep listening, and keep walking with the Lausanne Movement for as long as the Lord allows. Still giving thanks.