Argument against argument, ideology against ideology —
social media is its own Garden of Gethsemane,
where swords are drawn daily,
and no one is healed.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, Peter does what so many of us do when faced with opposition—he reacts. He draws his sword, takes a swing, and cuts off the ear of the high priest’s servant. But Jesus, in a moment that defies all human instinct, tells him to stop:
“Put your sword back in its place. For all who take up the sword will perish by the sword.”
Then, instead of allowing the wound to fester, He reaches out and heals.
This is more than just an act of mercy. It is a lesson in listening. Peter, like many of us, acted before understanding. His instinct was to fight rather than to perceive what was really happening. And in doing so, he struck the very thing that allows us to hear.
How often do we do the same? Whether in the comment section, on social media, or in everyday conversations, we are quick to unsheathe our swords—our words, our arguments, our need to be right. And in the process, we sever the ears of those we are called to love.
But Jesus calls us to something greater. He shows us that true strength is not found in striking first, but in healing. That tikkun olam, the repair of the world, begins not just with making others whole but with restoring our own ability to hear.
Are we listening? Or are we just waiting for our turn to speak? Maybe it’s time to put the sword away.
“Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”
And then, the unimaginable—Jesus heals the very man sent to arrest Him. He restores not only an enemy’s ear but the possibility of hearing anew. In this moment, He offers a glimpse of a reality beyond our broken cycles of retaliation and control. But that’s not the whole story…
The Night Before—Jesus and the Sword (Thank you Jay, here is a bit more, you would agree with)
Like Jay says — At the Last Supper, Jesus says something that has long puzzled readers:
“But now if you have a purse, take it, and also a bag; and if you don’t have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.” (Luke 22:36)
For many, this passage seems like a contradiction. Wasn’t Jesus the one who taught, “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9)? Didn’t He say to turn the other cheek? Some have argued that this moment proves Jesus was not entirely peaceful.
Some, especially in Muslim polemics, claim that Jesus here is endorsing violence—perhaps even justifying some kind of militant resistance. After all, didn’t He overturn the tables in the temple? Didn’t He tell a parable about a king who orders his enemies slain before him (Luke 19:27)?
Yet, when we take a closer look at the context, the meaning of Jesus’ words becomes clear.
What Did Jesus Really Mean?
The Sword Was a Tool, Not a Weapon.
The Greek word makhaira (μάχαιρα) does not necessarily mean a large military sword. More commonly, it referred to a small dagger, something used for everyday work. It was a practical tool, much like a Swiss Army knife today as Jay mentioned. Paul, a tentmaker, would have used a makhaira to cut canvas; it was also common for cleaning fish, preparing food, and other daily tasks.
If Jesus had been calling for an armed uprising, two small knives would not be enough. And yet, when the disciples produce two swords, Jesus replies:
“That’s enough!” (Luke 22:38)
Clearly, Jesus was not forming an army. But if not, what was He saying?
Peter’s Mistake—Jesus Rebukes Violence
Like stated, the very next night, when the soldiers come to arrest Jesus, Peter uses his sword. He does exactly what we might expect—he fights back.
If Jesus had truly meant for His disciples to fight, why would He stop them?
Because He was not that kind of king who orders his enemies death.
The kingdom He came to bring was not like the kingdoms of this world, built on war and power. He was ushering in something completely different.
This is why, when Jesus stands before Pilate, He says:
“My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest.” (John 18:36)
The revolution Jesus was bringing had nothing to do with swords and everything to do with sacrifice and such is devotion to Him.
A Kingdom Not of This World
This is where Jesus defies all expectations.
Every worldly revolution depends on force—overthrowing one power with another.
But Jesus came not to kill, but to be killed.
Not to conquer through might, but to conquer through suffering and love.
This is the great mystery that even His disciples struggled to grasp. Me too.
The cross was not a failure—it was the very means of victory.
Are We Still Cutting Off Ears?
“Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”
And then, the unimaginable—Jesus heals the very man sent to arrest Him.
He restores not only an enemy’s ear but the possibility of hearing anew.
This is the double bind we face today. Argument against argument, ideology against ideology—social media is its own Garden of Gethsemane, where swords are drawn daily, and no one is healed.
But Jesus shows another way.
Tikkun olam—the repair of the world—begins not with striking but with hearing.
It begins when we put down our weapons—whether of steel or of words—and choose to listen instead of react.
It begins when we recognize that Jesus did not just come to be another leader among men, but to usher in an entirely different kingdom—one that does not advance by the sword, but by the cross.
The question remains: Will we follow His way, or will we live by the sword?
But there is another kind of sword—one that Jesus Himself wielded, not to harm but to heal. The Word of God. As Paul later describes, “The sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God” (Ephesians 6:17), is the true weapon of Christ’s followers. And Hebrews 4:12 reminds us that this sword is not for battle in the way of men, but for piercing the heart, discerning thoughts, and transforming souls:
“For the Word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” (Hebrews 4:12)
Jesus never intended His disciples to take up physical swords, but He did call them to carry the sharpest blade of all—the truth of His Word. And unlike the weapons of this world, which sever and destroy, the Word of God cuts to heal. It lays bare our need for Him, convicts, restores, and calls us into a kingdom not built on might, but on mercy.
So the question remains: Are we wielding the right sword? Are we using the Word of God to bring life, or have we—like Peter—misunderstood, drawing our weapons in the wrong battle?
Perhaps it’s time, once again, to put away the sword—and pick up the Word not our theologies and apologetics.
Just as Peter’s hasty actions led to unintended harm, so too can modern Christian leaders, in their zeal, inflict damage when they act without true understanding.
This reflection brings us to a pressing issue in today’s faith communities…
Building upon the lessons from Gethsemane, we observe that contemporary figures like Joel Webbon and Calvin Robinson may be repeating similar mistakes, allowing fervor to overshadow discernment…
Two Christian Nationalists in
a conversation about those ‘evil Jews’, what else is new 😑
I need to take up my sword 🙏
Preamble
While I am not an advocate of Anglican Bishop N.T. Wright and the New Perspective on Paul ‘movement,’ I acknowledge his effort to situate Paul—the Pharisee—within his Jewish context, even though he ultimately interprets it through the expansive lens of ecclesiology, tethered to ‘covenantal nomism’ in the name of Christendom. Although his applications may fall short, Wright attempts to address the reality that Paul did not emerge from a vacuum, nor was he a proto-Protestant debating medieval Rome. In this regard, Father Calvin Robinson could benefit from observing how a subtle supersessionist like Bishop Wright engages in debate with Marc Kinzer.
As a staunch covenant theologian, I align with the Magisterial Reformers and later Protestant scholastics in their stance against Rome. However, my understanding of covenant theology transcends 16th-century categories and politics. In light of the following discussion, it’s imperative to emphasize that the Abrahamic Covenant stands as the foundational covenant explicitly named in Scripture. From this covenant, the Mosaic Covenant emerges, functioning as a pedagogue guiding a nascent spiritual nation, as elucidated in Galatians 3 and 4. The subsequent exile, resulting from the breach of this covenant, was addressed by the LORD through Jeremiah’s proclamation of a New Covenant, extending the revelation at Mount Sinai to all nations, including those symbolically represented by Edom.
For over two millennia, Christendom has often acted not as the faithful remnant of Israel’s promise but as Edom—its arrogant rival, claiming inheritance while betraying the covenant. The prophet Obadiah’s vision was not merely a condemnation of ancient Edom’s treachery but a recurring pattern, stretching through the rise and fall of empires that claimed divine sanction while trampling God’s purposes. Imperial Spain, with its forced conversions, expulsions, and Inquisitorial zeal, exemplified this Edomite posture, exalting itself while persecuting the very people who bore the oracles of God (Romans 3:2).
This pattern extends beyond Spain, manifesting in every imperial iteration of Christianity that has sought dominion through coercion rather than covenant faithfulness. It is no different today. The modern heirs of Christendom’s broken vision—figures like Joel Webbon and Calvin Robinson—continue to prop up a theology of territorial conquest, dressing up old supersessionist errors in the language of Reformed piety. Like Edom, they assume a birthright that was never theirs to seize, twisting the Abrahamic blessing into a mandate for dominion rather than discipleship.
Yet Obadiah’s warning remains: “Though you soar aloft like the eagle, though your nest is set among the stars, from there I will bring you down” (Obadiah 1:4). The arrogance of Edom—whether in ancient Idumea, Rome, imperial Spain, or modern Christendom—will not stand. What Webbon and Robinson fail to see is that the kingdom of God is not a political empire to be reclaimed, but a covenantal reality already unfolding, calling for humility, not hubris. Their desire to wield power over others is the surest sign that they have misunderstood the very gospel they claim to defend.
Displays of arrogance, such as those observed in the following inter actions, can hinder genuine understanding and reconciliation. It is the Abrahamic Covenant alone that makes sense of the others promulgated in traditional Reformed Theology, revealing them as projections that preach, each unfolding within its own typology but never replacing the foundation upon which they stand “to bless many nations” as the prescription. I have no problem with the Reformed posits as descriptive. Nevertheless, ‘idealogy’ comes to mind over a simple Bible reading.
Is this for real? Is this really the state of Christian discourse?
In a recent interview, two men—one fresh off the boat from Britain, and the other who comes off as a ‘self-styled used car salesman’ named Joel Webbon of ‘Right Response Ministries’—sat down to discuss “the Jews,” covenant, and Christianity’s future.
What followed was not theological engagement but historical butchery; not careful reasoning but caricature; not a pursuit of truth but a regurgitation of the same tired tropes that have fueled centuries of ignorance, division, and hatred—even culminating in the Holocaust.
Disturbingly, Webbon has expressed uncertainty about the Holocaust’s death toll, stating, “I don’t know,” when asked how many Jews died, and suggesting he doesn’t have a position on the exact number. Again is this for real? Come on man! Jews were killed, it happened! — enough said.
His smooth rhetoric and evasive answers seemed to resonate with his British counterpart, who appeared eager to find common ground inviting him on his ‘Bros with Fros’ podcast and starting off with an easy target of the evil Zionist State’s latest attrocity bombing a church building. Jumping right into his rhetorical invective with equating Judaism to the Zionists and claiming the relgion is also evil. Webbon was at no loss of his audacity. What a conflation of collective ignorance!
However like a used car salesman, Webbon was not only there to discuss such a topic but to pitch. The product? American Christian Nationalism, freshly ‘detailed’ in his version of theonomist rhetoric but barely concealing the raw political ambition underneath. He was not offering biblical covenantal faithfulness—he was selling territorial theology, where Christianity seems in his mind more in standing strong in the cultures wars.
And Robinson? Fresh off the boat from Britain, disoriented, excommunicated, searching for a way to reclaim a Christianity that once defined his homeland but is now crumbling under secular weight.
He is still adjusting to the strange evangelical climate of America, trying to make sense of what he has stepped into. He is not sure if he should ‘look under the hood’ at what Webbon is selling, but he listens, absorbing, hesitating, ‘kicking the tires.’
In the midst of their evil disclosure: neither of them actually understands the covenant they claim to defend.
Joel Webbon’s Theocratic Fantasy—A Kingdom of His Own Making
Webbon is not merely mistaken—he is an anachronism. He identifies as a covenant theologian, yet he disregards the very covenant established by God. He professes to defend Christian civilization, yet he emulates the territorial obsessions of pagan nations.
He seeks theonomy without covenant, law without faithfulness, dominion without discipleship. He aims to establish what Christ already reigns over—but on his own terms.
Herein lies his self-contradiction—his entire movement would not exist without the pluralistic America he seeks to dismantle. The religious liberty he despises is the very foundation that allowed his reactionary movement to arise. The irony is palpable.
But Webbon’s greatest error? He does not comprehend who the true heirs of the covenant are.
The New Testament never advocates for Christian dominion over nations, yet Webbon behaves as if the Great Commission were a territorial conquest. The apostles never speak of replacing Israel—Paul explicitly warns against Gentile arrogance (Romans 11:18–21).
If Webbon approached Romans 11 with due reverence, he would realize he is embodying the very hubris Paul cautioned against—a Gentile ‘full of himself.’
Robinson’s Christendom Nostalgia—A Man Without a Country
Then there’s Calvin Robinson—a man caught between worlds.
He has left behind British Christendom, where Christianity was institutional, cultural, and assumed. Now, he finds himself in American evangelicalism, where Christianity is often superficial, politicized, and reactionary.
His discomfort is evident—his Anglican instincts clash with his newfound Reformed influences. He senses something amiss but lacks the theological foundation to articulate it. He listens, absorbs, hesitates.
The dilemma? Robinson is ensnared between two failed Christendoms. One that is already defunct in Britain, and another teetering in America—yet Webbon and his followers believe it can be resurrected.
Had Robinson a grasp of history, he would recognize this predicament. The reality is: Americans have already learned from British Christendom. We witnessed the consequences when its bishops attempted to govern us. We observed the downfall when it merged church and state, collapsing under its own weight.
That’s why we had a revolution. That’s why we severed ties. The English even dubbed it a ‘Presbyterian’ revolution due to the influence of the Scotch-Irish, whose decentralized resistance was reminiscent of their own struggles.
Both sides cherished human freedom, yet political religion distorted biblical truth. The colonies’ autonomy is paramount here, and William Penn’s vision offers a viable path forward.
Now, in a perverse twist of history, Webbon attempts to sell Robinson a failing version of federalized Christendom, cloaked in red, white, and blue.
The Federalist Founders, along with religious and denominational colonial state charters, would have unequivocally rejected such centralization long ago.
If Robinson possessed wisdom, he would also reject it outright and perhaps embrace a free-episcopalian stance, upholding the 39 Articles through love and sacrifice to his fellow man.
Jealous of the State of Israel? The Girardian Trap They Cannot Escape
In their discourse and beneath the surface, Webbon and Robinson exhibit a profound envy toward the State of Israel. They see a nation-state that unapologetically upholds its religious and ethnic identity, defends itself, and endures opposition. Confronted with the decline of Western Christendom, they long to emulate the Zionists.
However, such envy often leads not to the adoption of virtues but to the justification of resentment. The rhetoric they employ—lamenting Christian weakness and desiring a strong, theocratic order—has historically been used to justify violence. This mimetic cycle has incited Israel’s neighbors to rage against it, leading to wars, terror, and even genocide.
Ironically, the Irgun, a Zionist paramilitary organization active during the British Mandate of Palestine, employed tactics similar to those of groups they now oppose, such as Hamas. As noted in Haaretz News, the Irgun’s operations included acts that would be considered terrorism today. This historical precedent underscores the complexity of labeling and the cyclical nature of violence.
In modern Hebrew, the word “חָמָס” (pronounced “hamas”) translates to “violence,” “wrong,” or “cruelty.” This term appears multiple times in the Hebrew Bible, such as in Genesis 6:11: “Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence [חָמָס].”
In contrast, in Arabic, “Hamas” is an acronym for “Harakat al-Muqawamah al-Islamiyya,” meaning “The Islamic Resistance Movement.” The Arabic word “hamas” also translates to “zeal,” “bravery,” or “strength.”
While the Hebrew and Arabic terms share similar pronunciations, their meanings differ, reflecting the distinct linguistic and cultural contexts of each language. But where did this start? Who named whom?
Just as Christendom has often taken on the role of Edom—exalting itself while betraying the covenant—the modern State of Israel has done the same. Far from being the prophetic fulfillment of Israel’s restoration, it has become a political entity wielding power through the very means that Scripture condemns. Like Edom, it has sought security through military strength, territorial expansion, and political machinations rather than covenantal faithfulness. The irony is striking: those who claim to carry Israel’s inheritance have instead followed the path of Esau, choosing empire over exile, coercion over calling.
Yet Obadiah’s warning applies here as well: “Because of the violence done to your brother Jacob, shame shall cover you, and you shall be cut off forever” (Obadiah 1:10). The State of Israel, in aligning itself with the patterns of Edom, does not represent the covenantal people of God but a secular-nationalist project that mirrors Christendom’s failed theopolitical ambitions. And just as imperial Christendom has been brought low, so too will any state that exalts itself in defiance of God’s justice.
The occupier did not emerge from a vacuum! The State of Israel is just not only Edom it is filled with Gog of the Apocalypse. Is this what Webbon has invoked?
Webbon’s rhetoric reveals a deeper resentment—not merely toward the modern political entity of Zionism, but explicity toward Judaism itself, which he carelessly conflates with his attack. In his attempt to critique Zionism, he belittles and dismisses Judaism, the only religion explicitly quoted in the New Testament by Paul. His fixation on Jews does not reflect a reasoned theological stance but rather a destructive obsession that distorts both history and Scripture.
“ When you are arguing against Him (and His relgion) you are arguing against the very power that makes you able to argue at all: it is like cutting off the branch you are sitting on.” C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (1952)
Micah 4:5—The True Path of the Covenant Webbon and Robinson are walking in the name of power. They are walking in the name of conquest. They are walking in the name of resentment. But we will walk in the name of the Lord.
“For all the peoples walk each in the name of its god, but we will walk in the name of the Lord our God forever and ever.” (Micah 4:5)
•Not in the name of Christian nationalism. •Not in the name of reclaiming state power. •Not in the name of resentment and rivalry.
We walk in the name of the covenant, in the name of the true kingdom—one that does not belong to America or Britain or any other earthly nation.
Webbon and Robinson can argue over who should hold power.
Webbon can obsess over law while ignoring the covenant.
Robinson can lament Christendom’s collapse while trying to find his place in America.
But we will walk in the name of the Lord our God, forever and ever.
And until they see that, they will remain what they are—two ships in the night, searching for a harbor that does not exist.
In his response to Faustus of Mileve, a prominent Manichean thinker who rejected the authority of the Old Testament and claimed that its laws were incompatible with the New Testament revelation of Christ, Augustine wrote Contra Faustum Manichaeum (Against Faustus the Manichean). Faustus argued that the God of the Hebrew Bible was distinct from the God of Jesus, a claim reminiscent of Marcionite theology. Augustine, in his defense of the continuity between the Old and New Testaments, refuted this assertion and asserted that divine law, while applied differently across covenants, remains fundamentally unified.
In Book 22 of Contra Faustum, Augustine addresses the Noahide Laws, defending their moral significance and arguing that they are not arbitrary or obsolete but part of God’s enduring will for humanity. He asserts:
“No one can deny that the laws given to Noah after the flood remain in force for all nations, since they were not bestowed upon a single people, as was the Law of Moses, but upon all mankind.” (Contra Faustum 22.27)
This passage is noteworthy because it demonstrates Augustine’s recognition of the Noahide Laws as a distinct moral framework separate from the Mosaic Law. He suggests that while the Law of Moses was specific to Israel, the moral principles imparted to Noah were intended for the entire human race. This aligns with rabbinic Jewish thought, which views the Noahide Laws as the ethical foundation for Gentiles even after the revelation of the Torah.
Augustine’s interpretation of the Noahide Laws aligns with his broader framework of lex naturalis (natural law). In works like De Civitate Dei (The City of God), he argues that moral principles are inherent in creation and accessible to all individuals through reason and conscience. This perspective implies that Augustine perceived the Noahide Laws not merely as divine commandments but as an expression of a universal moral order.
This interpretation is consistent with his argument in Contra Faustum that the moral aspects of the Old Testament remain binding, even as ritual and ceremonial laws specific to Israel are not. The Noahide Laws, predating Sinai and given to all humanity, naturally fit into Augustine’s understanding of divine law as something that is gradually revealed but always rooted in eternal truth.
Furthermore, the Noahide Laws are relevant to the Apostolic Decree in Acts 15. This decree addressed a dispute among Jewish leaders regarding whether Gentiles were required to follow the Mosaic Law. Augustine’s interpretation of the Noahide Laws as a universal moral framework suggests that they could serve as a foundation for Gentile morality, potentially resolving this issue.
Augustine’s understanding of the Noahide Laws helps illuminate early Christian attitudes toward Gentile believers. The Apostolic Decree in Acts 15 mirrors aspects of the Noahide Laws:
• Abstaining from idolatry → Noahide Law: Prohibition of idolatry.
• Avoiding blood and strangled animals → Noahide Law: Prohibition against eating the limb of a living animal.
• Avoiding sexual immorality → Noahide Law: Prohibition of forbidden sexual relations.
The overlap suggests that the early Church saw these laws as a universal moral standard for Gentile converts who were not required to observe the full Mosaic Law. Augustine’s brief mention of the Noahide Laws in Contra Faustum aligns with this understanding, reinforcing the idea that divine law for the nations is rooted in Noah’s covenant rather than Sinai.
Augustine vs. Marcion and Faustus: A Defense of Moral Continuity Augustine’s argument directly counters Faustus’ (and indirectly Marcion’s) rejection of the Old Testament. Faustus, like Marcion, dismissed Jewish law as obsolete and viewed the God of the Old Testament as separate from the God of the New Testament. Augustine rejects this dualistic thinking and asserts that:
1. The Old Testament remains authoritative, though its laws are applied differently under the New Covenant.
2. The Noahide Laws represent a universal moral order that predates and transcends Israel’s covenant.
3. Christianity, rather than abolishing divine law, affirms and fulfills it through Christ.
By acknowledging the ongoing validity of the Noahide Laws, Augustine preserves the continuity of divine law across covenants. This also provides a theological basis for Christian engagement with non-Jews while upholding a moral framework distinct from the Jewish covenantal system.
Implications for Christian and Interfaith Thought Augustine’s discussion of the Noahide Laws in Contra Faustum—though brief—has significant theological implications:
For Christianity: It supports the idea that moral law is universal and not abrogated by Christ, even as ritual laws specific to Israel are not required for Gentiles.
For Judaism: It aligns with the rabbinic concept of the Noahide Laws as a moral framework for non-Jews, opening space for dialogue between Jewish and Christian understandings of divine law.
For Islam: The Qur’anic affirmation of a universal divine law given to Noah (Surah 42:13) parallels Augustine’s claim that Noah’s laws remain binding for all nations.
Augustine’s defense of the moral continuity between the Testaments thus provides a key historical link between Jewish, Christian, and even Islamic discussions on the nature of universal ethics.
Conclusion: Augustine’s Contribution to the Noahide Tradition While Augustine does not extensively elaborate on the Noahide Laws, his brief reference in Contra Faustum affirms their universal moral authority. His argument that divine law is revealed in stages but remains fundamentally unified aligns with both Jewish and Islamic traditions that recognize Noah as a key figure in the transmission of divine law. His distinction between moral and ritual commandments shaped later Christian theology and reinforced the idea that God’s moral expectations for humanity are continuous across covenants.
Incorporating Augustine’s perspective into discussions on the Noahide Laws bridges the gap between Jewish and Christian ethics and provides historical context for the way moral law has been understood in the Abrahamic traditions. His argument remains relevant for modern interfaith dialogue, particularly in exploring common ethical foundations between Jews, Christians, and Muslims.
The PACE flag, with its seven vibrant colors and the Italian word for “peace” emblazoned across it, is widely recognized as a symbol of nonviolence and social justice. While most associate it with the anti-war movements of the 20th and 21st centuries, a deeper examination suggests that its symbolism may extend far beyond modern politics. In fact, the structure and meaning of the flag align strikingly with the ancient Brit Shalom—the covenant of peace found in the Noahide Laws, or Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach.
This essay argues that the PACE flag, consciously or not, embodies the Noahide covenant, a moral framework given to all humanity. Its seven colors parallel the seven Noahide Laws, representing a universal ethical system meant to guide society toward harmony and divine order. In contrast to other rainbow-based symbols, which often feature six colors, the PACE flag uniquely preserves the fullness of seven—a number deeply tied to divine completeness and moral structure.
The Brit Shalom and the Universal Moral Order The Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach—the seven laws given to Noah after the flood—are considered by Jewish tradition to be the foundation of moral responsibility for all humanity. Unlike the Sinai covenant, which is particular to Israel, the Noahide Laws serve as the ethical standard for all nations. These laws are:
1. Prohibition of Idolatry – A call to recognize the one true God.
2. Prohibition of Blasphemy – Respect for the divine and sacred.
3. Prohibition of Murder – The sanctity of human life.
4. Prohibition of Sexual Immorality – The preservation of family and moral relationships.
5. Prohibition of Theft – Protection of property and justice.
6. Prohibition of Eating from a Live Animal – A commandment against cruelty.
7. Establishment of Justice – The need for lawful governance.
Together, these laws form a universal framework of righteousness, one that aligns strikingly with the ideals that the PACE flag is often used to promote—peace, social justice, and ethical living.
The Seven Colors: A Reflection of the Seven Laws The presence of seven distinct colors in the PACE flag is not incidental. In both biblical and rabbinic tradition, seven is a number of divine order and completion. From the seven days of creation to the seven-branched menorah, it symbolizes a structure that sustains life and harmony.
Each of the seven colors can be seen as corresponding to one of the Noahide Laws:
1. Violet (Prohibition of Idolatry) – Often associated with wisdom and higher thought, violet symbolizes the recognition of the divine and the rejection of false gods.
2. Indigo (Prohibition of Blasphemy) – A deep, solemn color representing reverence, fitting for the commandment to respect God’s name.
3. Blue (Prohibition of Murder) – The color of heaven and peace, blue reflects the value of human life and the prohibition of shedding innocent blood.
4. Green (Prohibition of Sexual Immorality) – Symbolizing life and growth, green aligns with the sanctity of relationships and family structures.
5. Yellow (Prohibition of Theft) – The color of light and clarity, yellow reflects honesty, integrity, and the rejection of injustice.
6. Orange (Prohibition of Cruelty to Animals) – A warm, earthy color, orange suggests compassion and responsibility toward creation.
7. Red (Establishment of Justice) – The color of strength and judgment, red represents the necessity of laws to maintain order.
While interpretations of colors are often subjective, the presence of seven distinct hues in a flag representing peace is highly significant. Unlike the six-colored variations found in other modern rainbow flags, the PACE flag uniquely retains the completeness of seven, reinforcing its connection to a universal moral code.
The PACE Flag as a Modern Reflection of the Noahide Covenant The PACE flag’s origin in the Italian peace movement of the 1960s does not negate the possibility of a deeper, subconscious connection to these ancient values. The Torah teaches that moral law is not limited to those who consciously accept it; rather, it is written on the hearts of all people (Romans 2:14-15). Just as the Noahide Laws were given as an eternal moral foundation for all nations, the PACE flag serves as a modern representation of these principles, whether explicitly recognized or not.
Furthermore, the flag’s use in peace movements worldwide suggests an innate human longing for the moral order that the Sheva Mitzvot seek to establish. The rejection of violence, the call for justice, and the advocacy for human dignity all align with the Noahide framework. In this sense, the PACE flag may be seen as a secular echo of the Brit Shalom, resonating with divine truth even in a world that often ignores its origins.
Conclusion: A Flag of Powerful Significance In an era where symbols are frequently repurposed for various agendas, the PACE flag stands out as a reminder of an ancient and universal covenant. Its seven colors mirror the seven Noahide Laws, forming a visual representation of moral completeness and divine harmony. Whether by design or divine providence, the flag embodies the Brit Shalom, calling humanity back to the foundational principles of justice, righteousness, and peace.
While other flags may carry different meanings, it is significant that the PACE flag preserves the sacred number seven. This distinction invites reflection: is this just a coincidence, or is there a deeper spiritual truth at play? If we accept the latter, then the PACE flag is more than just a political statement—it is a banner of divine order, calling the world to return to the moral covenant given to all of Noah’s descendants.
