Where the Leaven Is Gone

Bethany, the Anointed Lamb, and the Cleansing Before Passover
 
As Passover approached, the streets of Jerusalem bustled with the cleansing rituals of Aviv. Homes were being swept, leaven purged, and lambs inspected for blemish. But not all preparation took place in the city. A few miles outside Jerusalem, in the humble village of Bethany, a deeper preparation was unfolding—a liturgical and prophetic drama, hidden from the Temple elite yet fully aligned with the heart of Torah.

Bethany, or Beit-Anyah—literally “House of the Poor” or “House of Affliction”—had become something of a refuge for Yeshua of Nazareth. It was the place of intimacy, of grief and glory, of tears and triumph. It was there that Lazarus was raised, signaling the end of death’s dominion. And it was there that the Lamb of God was quietly being readied for His final ascent.

John tells us that Yeshua arrived in Bethany six days before the Passover (John 12:1), around the 9th of Nisan. These were the days of cleansing, when households removed leaven in anticipation of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. Yet Jesus does not go to the Temple to be ritually purified. He goes instead to a house that is already clean—the house of those who believe.

There, in the home of Simon the leper, a gathering takes place. Some scholars suggest Simon may have been healed by Jesus, possibly even a quiet follower from the Hillelite school—a Pharisaic stream more open to Yeshua’s vision of the Kingdom. This wasn’t a political gathering. It wasn’t a Sadducean alliance. It was a Passover havurah, a household of the remnant, where faith, vulnerability, and covenantal love were shared.

And then comes the anointing.

Mary—already known for sitting at the feet of the Rabbi—takes costly perfume and anoints His feet. The fragrance fills the house. But this is more than sentiment. She is preparing the Lamb. Just as the Passover lambs were set aside and inspected (Exodus 12:3), so Yeshua is set apart and consecrated. Her act is both priestly and prophetic. She is cleansing the true House of God—not with water and ash, but with faith and tears.

Meanwhile, a storm brews in Jerusalem. The chief priests—not just any Jews, but the Sadducean-aligned authorities, deeply compromised by power and politics—plot to kill not only Jesus but Lazarus too (John 12:10). Why? Because Lazarus is proof. He is the testimony that death is no longer in charge. He is a living prophecy that the old order is passing away.

John’s Gospel often uses the phrase “the Jews” not to refer to all Jewish people, but specifically to these Temple elites—those allied with Rome, with Herod, or with the radicalized Zealot sects. They are the ones threatened by the resurrection. They are the ones whose leaven of hypocrisy Yeshua warned about.

And so, in the days of Aviv, as homes are being cleansed, the house in Bethany is already pure. The Lamb has been anointed. The remnant has gathered. The cry of affliction will soon become the cry of redemption.

This is the real Feast of Unleavened Bread—not just the removal of dough, but the purging of false authority, the unveiling of divine justice, and the preparation of the Son to become the once-and-for-all offering.

“Cleanse out the old leaven, that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened. For Messiah, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed.”
— 1 Corinthians 5:7

Douglas Murray on Joe Rogan: Reprobate Clarity and the Posh Lament of Edom:

Douglas Murray just sat across from Joe Rogan—a pot-smoking podcast pope for the spiritually numb—and offered, with all the eloquence of a dying empire, a lament for the West. Across from him sat an unbaptized high priest of confusion, puffing clouds of weed while nodding along to a narrative of civilizational suicide. Occasionally chiming in was their jester-in-residence: a comedian whose anti-Israel takes betray just how far the West has wandered from the God of Abraham.

It’s tempting to applaud Murray. He speaks in full paragraphs. He names things the Left fears to whisper. He’s posh, poised, and palpably aware that the world is collapsing. But let’s be clear: Douglas Murray is not the answer. He is Edom’s final spokesman, delivering a funeral sermon for a house already judged.

The irony is thick—Murray defends “Western values,” yet cannot name the source of those values. He sees the fruit rotting but won’t touch the root. The West was grafted into a covenant it never fully honored, and now, in its hubris, it tears itself apart. What Murray calls a “death cult” is, in Torat Edom, the unraveling of a counterfeit inheritance.

This review reads Murray’s Strange Death of Europe not through culture war nostalgia but through prophetic fire. His lament is accurate—but his vision ends in Edom, not Zion.

Introduction: The Civilizational Autopsy

Murray’s claim: Europe is committing suicide—culturally, demographically, and spiritually.

“Europe is committing suicide. Or at least its leaders have decided to commit suicide.” — The Strange Death of Europe, Introduction

Torat Edom’s reply: What Murray sees as cultural suicide is better interpreted as covenantal disinheritance—an Edomite trajectory. And with all the talk about Israel and Evil Hamas, he sure doesn’t understand religion or better revelation.

Europe, once grafted through Christendom, has become like Esau: full, wealthy, and weeping—but without true repentance (cf. Hebrews 12:16–17).
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Guilt Without Atonement: A New Ritual of Shame

Murray sees an unrelenting European guilt narrative—especially post-Holocaust, post-colonial guilt.

“Europe lost faith in its beliefs, traditions and legitimacy.” — Chapter 3

Torat Edom sees this as atonement dislocated from Torah—the sacrificial system has been replaced with public rituals of contrition, but no covenantal grounding (Leviticus 16, Isaiah 1:11–17).

Without a Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), the West performs endless pseudo-atonements—apologies, reparations, cancelations.

Cf. Romans 10:2–3 – “zeal for God, but not according to knowledge…”
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Demographic Displacement as Prophetic Echo

Murray focuses heavily on migration and birthrates.

“We are importing people into a void.” — Chapter 5

The deeper problem: the void is theological, not merely cultural.

Torat Edom reframes this through Deuteronomy 32:21 – “They made Me jealous by what is not God… so I will make them jealous with those who are not a people.”

Migration is not simply policy—it is a divine rebuke to covenantal abandonment.
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Esau and the Crisis of Sonship

Esau-Edom embodies a Western theology of might without birthright.

Genesis 25:34: “So Esau despised his birthright.”

Obadiah 1:3: “The pride of your heart has deceived you…”

Murray names the decay, but cannot name the source: Edom has lost the Father’s voice.

Without Torah, Europe becomes the older brother—estranged, bitter, trying to preserve legacy without love (cf. Luke 15:25–32).
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Identity and Its Discontents: The Cult of Victimhood

Murray critiques the rise of identity politics, especially the sacredness of victim narratives.

“We have been taught to believe that it is racist to assert that people should be encouraged to integrate.” — Chapter 9

Torat Edom sees this as Edom’s inversion of signs—grace and inclusion were always through covenant (Genesis 17:12, Exodus 12:48), not sentiment or bloodline.

The biblical distinction between Ger Toshav and Eda is blurred in the modern state, replaced with “equality” that erases covenantal belonging.

Cf. Malachi 1:2–3 – “I have loved Jacob, but Esau I have hated…”
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Pagan Retrieval vs. Prophetic Inheritance

Murray’s remedy? A return to Enlightenment values, Western classics, and reasoned debate.

“We may need to look back to the Greeks and Romans…” — Chapter 11

But Torat Edom exposes this as nostalgic paganism—Edom seeking comfort in Edom, while Jerusalem burns.

Cf. Jeremiah 6:16 – “Ask for the ancient paths…”—but Murray looks to Athens, not Zion.

Pagan retrieval cannot resurrect covenant.
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Prophetic Witness and the Role of Israel

Murray rarely mentions the Jews or the covenant—his critique is post-Christian but never truly theological.

Torat Edom asserts: the West’s true health lies in recognizing the oracles of God (cf. Romans 3:1–2) and returning to the covenant through the Jewish Messiah.

The preservation of the authoritative Matthew 23:1, 2 “ Obey the Pharisees for they sit in the seat of Moses…” Jewish Pacifist (Not Poltical Zionist) people is not merely cultural but eschatological: a witness against the death cult of abstraction and forgetfulness.
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Beyond Suicide—Toward Revelation

Murray rightly mourns the death, but he cannot proclaim resurrection.

The only path forward is not cultural revitalization but covenantal return—a tikkun (repair) grounded in divine inheritance.

Obadiah 1:21: “Saviors will ascend Mount Zion to judge Mount Esau, and the kingdom will be the Lord’s.”

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Conclusion: Europe, Israel, and the Death Cult of Moral Reversal
In The Strange Death of Europe, Douglas Murray paints a bleak picture of a continent unraveling under the weight of immigration, cultural self-loathing, and post-Christian decay. Yet buried beneath his defense of “Western values” is a revealing silence:

 

True Israel, the covenantal root of the West’s moral grammar, is treated as a political afterthought rather than a theological cornerstone. While Murray opposes Islamism, including Hamas—a U.S. and EU-designated terrorist organization—his framework still clings to Enlightenment categories, not prophetic ones.

He diagnoses Europe’s embrace of moral inversion but cannot name its spiritual cause: the rejection of Israel as the bearer of divine oracles (Romans 3:2). In Torat Edom, this is not just decay—it is the judgment of Esau, who sides with Amalek when Zion suffers.

The Lamb and the Dog

Most Messianic seders feel more like Christian plays with Jewish props than covenantal meals. Matza becomes a metaphor, wine becomes a symbol, and Jesus is slotted in as the Passover lamb—but the context, the halakha (Jewish Law), the structure that gave the lamb its meaning? Gone. What remains is a well-meaning approximation, often with little connection to the lived halakhic reality of ancient Israel or the deeper implications of covenantal identity.

This isn’t meant to be a cheap critique. It’s meant to ask a deeper question: Have we inherited a version of the Passover that skips the covenant in favor of the symbol? 

And more pointedly: Who are we in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus—if we’ve misremembered the seder?

The Real Passover: Not a Pageant, but a Covenant Rite
Let’s go back to the text—Exodus 12, Leviticus 23, Deuteronomy 16. The Passover was not a commemorative teaching tool. It was a halakhic act, a covenantal rite, governed by the Qahal (the assembly) and witnessed by the edah (the congregation of Israel).

The lamb was:
• Slaughtered at twilight on the 14th of Nisan
• Roasted whole, never boiled or stewed
• Eaten in haste, with matzah and maror (bitter herbs)
• Completely consumed or burned by morning
• Only eaten by those circumcised—those in the covenant

And if a sojourner (ger toshav) was to partake, they had to join the covenant (Ex. 12:48). This wasn’t an open invitation. It was a guarded rite, with deep theological and communal boundaries.

The Lamb Was a Rebellion
We forget this: in Egypt, the lamb wasn’t just a random animal. It was sacred. Particularly in the cult of Amun, rams and sheep were held in reverence. For Israelites to publicly slaughter lambs was a theological assault on Egypt’s gods, much like killing a sacred cow in India would be today.

This casts new light on what it means to say, as Paul does in 1 Corinthians 5:7, that “Christ our Passover lamb has been sacrificed.” This isn’t sentiment. It’s subversion. 

It’s an indictment of the world’s idolatrous systems. Jesus doesn’t merely fulfill the symbol—He enacts the rebellion. And the claim only makes sense within the halakhic, covenantal structure of Israel.

Paul’s Claim Is Halakhic, Not Just Typological
When Paul says Jesus is our Passover, he’s not allegorizing. He’s saying something legally and theologically profound. For those who are in Messiah, the covenant is open—but it is still a covenant.

It’s not a soft spirituality. It’s a grafting in (Romans 11), a re-entry into the guarded meal through the blood of the Lamb.

But if we don’t understand the requirements of the original Passover—circumcision, community, consumption under authority—then Paul’s statement loses its punch. We’re left with a shadow, not a substance.

What Messianic Seders Often Miss
This is where things get sticky. Many Messianic seders:
• Spiritualize the symbols
• Leave out the halakhic requirements
• Reduce the lamb to metaphor
• Forget the authority of the Qahal (assembly)
• Never mention the edah (witnessing body)
• Offer inclusion without covenant

In doing so, they reproduce a common Christian problem: claiming Jewish symbols without Jewish structure. The result is a well-meaning but theologically confused pageant.

The Crucifixion on the 14th: Fulfillment or Imposition?
John’s Gospel places Jesus’ crucifixion on the 14th of Nisan, aligning him with the slaughter of the lambs—just before the official seder would have taken place. This has been read as typological fulfillment, but there’s a legitimate question here: Did the early Christian framing impose its meaning onto the calendar to make Jesus “fit” the feast?

Regardless of how one resolves the calendar debate, what remains is this: Jesus as the Passover lamb only makes sense if we honor the framework he fulfills. Without the covenantal architecture of the real Passover, the crucifixion becomes an abstract sacrifice rather than a covenantal act of liberation.

Have We Missed the Whole Story?
This is the real question. If we’ve turned the seder into a stage play and forgotten its halakhic roots, who are we, really, in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus? Have we traded the Qahal for an audience? The covenant for a metaphor? The roasted lamb for a cracker?

The early believers were not trying to start a new religion. They were living in continuity with the covenant of Israel—expanding it through Messiah, not abandoning it. If we are grafted in, as Paul says, then we must ask: grafted into what?

Not into Christian reenactments of the seder. But into the covenantal body of Israel, with its sacred rhythms, its guarded meals, its high demands—and its gracious God.

Enter the Dog: The Syrophoenician Woman and the Sacred Table
This brings us to one of the most misunderstood passages in the Gospels: the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7 (and Matthew 15). Her story is often read as Jesus’ moment of stern compassion—but in reality, it’s a covenantal revelation. It’s where the lamb and the dog come face to face.

“Let the children be fed first, for it is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”
— Mark 7:27

To modern ears, this sounds harsh. But Jesus isn’t being rude. He’s stating the order of the covenant. The bread—like the lamb—is not for everyone. It belongs first to the children, the members of the Qahal.

In Torah terms, the bread of the table—like the sacred meat of the Passover—was for those in the household of faith, those circumcised, those marked by the covenant.

And so Jesus speaks as any Torah-honoring teacher would: the sacred food is not for outsiders, for the “dogs.”

But then comes the turn.
“Yes, Lord; yet even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
— Mark 7:28

She doesn’t argue the order. She accepts the halakhic boundaries, yet appeals to the overflow of mercy. She places herself not as a usurper, but as a ger toshav—a sojourner at the edge of the table. She speaks the language of covenant humility and recognizes the sanctity of the meal.

“For this saying, you may go your way; the demon has left your daughter.”
— Mark 7:29

Jesus grants her request because of this profound understanding. She has entered the story of Israel not through replacement but through humble participation. She sees the Lamb. She smells the bread. She knows that even crumbs from a covenant table can heal.

The Dog Who Understood the Lamb
This woman is the surprise guest at the seder. Not because the seder is universalized or sentimentalized—but because she knows where she is and what is at stake. She doesn’t need a new religion or a messianic spectacle. She needs one crumb from the covenant meal, and she knows that it’s enough.

She is the model for the outsider who becomes insider. She doesn’t demand inclusion. She enters the covenant by faith, humility, and reverence—the same traits that defined the original sojourners who ate the Passover lamb in Egypt. She speaks the language of Torah-faith without claiming to be part of the Qahal, yet her words open the door.

In her, we see what much of modern Christian and Messianic practice has missed: a right understanding of the sacred table. Not entitlement. Not theater. But submission, faith, and the hope that even a crumb from God’s table heals.

This is where A.B. Simpson, the founder of the Christian and Missionary Alliance, stands in surprising alignment with her.

Though Simpson didn’t frame it in halakhic terms, he understood the sacred power of the table. For him, the bread and cup weren’t just symbols—they were places of encounter, of healing, of kingdom power. He preached that Christ is our Passover, not just in fulfillment of Exodus, but in real-time deliverance, healing, and sanctification.

“There is healing in the broken bread. There is life in the cup. He did not just die to forgive us. He died to make us whole.”
— A.B. Simpson

Simpson’s theology invited the nations to the table—not by flattening the covenant, but by extending its healing mercy to the humble. Like the Syrophoenician woman, he understood that there’s enough in the crumb to heal the world—but only if we honor where the crumb came from.

He believed that Jesus didn’t replace Israel’s table—He opened it through Himself.

That through the broken lamb, even the gentile dog could rise and walk.

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The Lamb and the Dog
So what do we miss at the seder?

We miss the gravity. The order. The authority. The guarded joy of the covenant.

We rush to symbols and skip the substance.

We speak of the Lamb but forget the altar.

We offer crumbs before understanding the meal.

But if we let the lamb and the dog meet—if we let the covenant stand in all its weight and let humility do its work—then the table becomes what it always was: a place of liberation, belonging, and divine judgment against the idols of Egypt.

And the beauty?

There’s always enough bread.

Even for the dog who believes.

If we want to reclaim the meaning of the Last Supper, the crucifixion, and the resurrection, we must re-enter the halakhic reality of the Passover.

Not in a legalistic way, but in a covenantal one.

Not as cultural tourists, but as sojourners and grafted-in heirs, partaking not just in the matzah, but in the whole story.

The lamb was never just a symbol.

It was a test of allegiance.

A rejection of Egypt’s gods.

A meal of identity.

So too is Jesus.

We’re not just invited to remember.

We’re called to belong.

An Orthodox Jew explains Jesus and the Passover

The Marys in the Gospel of John (Part One)

Unveiling the Woman Behind the Anointing

While visiting and worshipping at the Milan Baptist Church, I heard a message from Pastor Ivano that stirred something deep—about the moment in John 12, when a woman anointed Jesus at the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. But it wasn’t just the beauty of the act that stayed with me. It was the question: Who was this woman, really?

Was she just a bystander? A grateful follower? Or was there more?

I believe there was. And the more I trace the lines of the Gospel, the more I’m convinced: Mary wasn’t random.

She was part of something hidden, sacred, and close.

She was part of the entourage.

She may have even been part of the family. (I know it may sound too confusing but read on) 
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Mary Wasn’t Random: Unveiling the Woman Behind the Anointing

John names her clearly: Mary of Bethany, sister of Lazarus (Jo teaches Lazarus is the disciple “whom Jesus loved” mentioned in the same Gospel). Yet Mary is no passing character. This is someone who knew Jesus well enough to pour nard—expensive burial perfume—on his feet and wipe it away with her hair. That’s not just adoration; that’s intimacy.

In Jewish tradition, gestures like this carry layers:
It was priestly: preparing the lamb.
It was bridal: reminiscent of the Song of Songs (1:12).
It was prophetic: recognizing the death the men still refused to accept.

Only someone within the inner circle could have done this.

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The Woman Caught in Adultery – A Veiled Story?
Then there’s the woman from John 8—dragged out, shamed, ready to be stoned. And yet… Jesus stands with her, covers her, restores her. We’re not told her name. But the tradition, early and persistent, linked her with Mary Magdalene.

Coincidence? Maybe. But what if it’s not about confusing women—what if it’s about veiling women?

In rabbinic and mystical tradition, the sacred is often hidden—especially when it comes to women who bear divine witness. Names are withheld, not to diminish them, but to protect intimacy. The closer you are to the holy, the more your story is veiled.

So whether it’s Mary of Bethany or Mary Magdalene—or both wrapped together—these are not disposable characters. They are guardians of memory.
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Mary Magdalene: The First Witness
At the resurrection, who is there first?
Mary Magdalene.

She mistakes him for a gardener—but is it a mistake? Or is it Eden, renewed?

She is the new Eve. The first to see the New Adam in the garden.

She calls him Rabbouni. He calls her by name.

If the apostles are the pillars of the early church, Mary is the gatekeeper of the empty tomb.
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Entourage or Family? The Hidden Structure
In the first-century Jewish world, discipleship was familial, such a dynastic structure continues to this day in Orthodox Judaism, namley the pacifist Hasidic. There was no divide between spiritual and blood ties when it came to a teacher’s entourage. You either belonged, or you didn’t.

Mary of Bethany’s access, Mary Magdalene’s loyalty, and the women who funded and followed Jesus weren’t exceptions—they were essential parts of the movement.

Which makes sense when you remember: Jesus wasn’t some solitary sage, he was from the Davidic line. He was Yeshua MiNZaret (what good could come from such town).  And later confused with Yeshu haNotzri, a figure remembered (even in hostile texts) as someone with insider access, a name, a reputation, and followers who walked close and confused with Jesus Christ as we Christians know him. Perhaps the Son of Mary Magdalena with Jesus brother Jose Pandera, the anti-Christ.

If anyone knew the real story—its textures, tears, oil, and resurrection light—it was a Mary. Whether His mother or the followers.
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What the Memory Protects
The early church guarded Mary’s role, but so did the tradition around it. In mystical circles, she was whispered about as a visionary. In apocryphal texts, she’s a teacher. 

In art, she’s the one clinging to Jesus not in sensuality, but in witness.

She doesn’t ask for explanation. She remembers.

Because she was there.
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What about Mother Mary? (Coming in Part Two)
Mary, the Mother of Jesus, stands not only at the threshold of Jesus’ ministry but at the threshold of a new creation. At Cana, she initiates the first sign with quiet authority, echoing the voice of Wisdom that calls the faithful to obey. At the Cross, she endures the piercing of her soul, offering up her son in silent solidarity. And in her hidden presence near the tomb, she embodies the faithful remnant, the suffering Bride, the maternal mystery of Zion.

Mary is not merely a mother—she is the living sign of the Heavenly Jerusalem, the woman clothed with the sun, bearing the pain of birth and the hope of resurrection. Her role is eschatological, covenantal, and cosmic. She does not speak often, because she is the sign—the vessel through whom heaven touches earth.

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Conclusion: Not Random. Never Random.
So when we read John 12—or John 8—or John 20—we’re not reading disconnected snapshots. We’re reading theological memory, encoded with love, pain, and truth.

And when we see these Marys there, we should say:

They knew.
They were part of it.
They weren’t random.
They were family.

Postscript: Sacred Memory and Hidden Names

“That which is most intimate is not always spoken aloud—it is guarded, whispered, remembered.”

— Oral Torah principle (based on Avot de-Rabbi Natan)

Zohar Reference – Spikenard and the Anointed King
The Zohar (Vol. II, 63b) reads Song of Songs 1:12 — “While the king sat at his table, my nard sent forth its fragrance” — as a mystical reference to Messiah ben Joseph preparing for his death, and the Shekhinah (the feminine Presence of God) drawing near in sorrowful glory. The oil is not just fragrance—it is the signature of devotion, the sign that someone understands the mystery before it happens.

Mary of Bethany’s act in John 12 becomes a direct embodiment of this mystical moment.
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Talmudic Glimpses – Yeshu and the Entourage
In Sanhedrin 43a, the Talmud speaks (cryptically and controversially) of Yeshu the Notzri, noting that “he was close to the kingdom” and that “he practiced sorcery and led Israel astray.” Regardless of the polemic, what stands out is the acknowledgment of his access and impact. He had disciples. He had a name. He had people close to him.

Mary Magdalene may have been one of the most dangerous figures for the memory of this movement—not because she betrayed it, but because she remembered it faithfully.
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Apocryphal Echo – The Gospel of Mary
In the Gospel of Mary (Magdalene)—a 2nd-century text that survives in Coptic—Mary is portrayed as the one who understood the words of the Savior better than Peter, and who holds mystical teachings the others didn’t grasp. While not canonical, the text reflects an early tradition that saw Mary not as background but as witness, interpreter, and vessel.
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Suggested Reading for the Curious

Harvey Falk, Jesus the Pharisee (esp. his notes on oral tradition and inner circle relationships)

Jacob Emden’s letter on Yeshu the Notzri – surprisingly affirming and nuanced

Rachel Elior, The Three Temples: On the Emergence of Jewish Mysticism

Susan Haskins, Mary Magdalene: Myth and Metaphor

And for theological resonance: Edith Stein’s reflections on woman as bearer of divine memory

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—a respectful engagement that honors the scaffolding he provided while pressing deeper into the heart of the remnant: the edim (עדים), the witnesses. While related to edah (עדה), the term for a covenantal assembly or community, edim refers specifically to the individuals who bear testimony—those entrusted with the oracles. It is this witness-bearing community, and the prophetic testimony they continue to carry, that still waits to be fully recognized and 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.

What is Torat Edom?
Torat Edom—literally “the Teaching of Edom”—is a term I use to describe a theological pattern that emerges when covenantal truth is distorted, inheritance is reversed, and spiritual power is severed from its source. In Scripture, Edom often represents the estranged brother, the rival kingdom, the one who knows the covenant but twists it for control, merit, or empire. Torat Edom is not merely about Esau—it is about what happens when sacred teaching becomes abstract, institutionalized, or cut off from its Jewish root. It is the counterfeit covenant that mimics the structure of Torah but lacks the fire of revelation. Recognizing Torat Edom is not about condemnation—it’s about recovering what has been lost: the living voice of God, the witness-bearing remnant, and the sanctifying power of the Spirit that marks true inclusion into the covenant.

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”?

Toral 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 and is a paradigm shift for our theology. 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

• Amazon: Available in paperback and Kindle editions. View on Amazon 

• 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.
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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.
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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…”

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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 and to heal all our broken relationships!
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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.
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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. By now, Israel (Jacob) is no longer merely a genetic lineage but has become an expansion—an invitation—to all nations.

This moment sets the stage for the Lord’s dealings with and through two houses:

• The Hashemites, who may represent a legitimate Edomite–Ishmaelite throne, awaiting reconciliation with Judah. In this sense, Esau and Ishmael find their mysterious role in the completion of the Second Temple through Herod—a flawed yet prophetic vessel.

• The Hasmoneans, who may symbolize a Levitical overreach into kingly authority—echoing Saul’s mistake, which led to his downfall. Yet through this zeal, the house is spiritually purified by the Maccabees, preparing the ground for a proper reading of the New Testament.

And there is Part 4 coming—to begin unpacking all of this.