Beyond ‘The Split’ From Enmity to Divine Purpose
Introduction
In Jewish tradition, Edom (the biblical nation descended from Esau) became a code name for Rome and, by extension, Christianity – long seen as a rival and oppressor of Israel. Yet alongside this adversarial history, select rabbinic voices discerned that the rise of Christianity was “neither an accident nor an error, but the willed divine outcome and gift to the nations”, a providential part of God’s plan . Rather than an eternal enmity, God intended a separation between Judaism and Christianity “not… between enemies”. Indeed, the medieval sage Maimonides taught that the events of Jesus of Nazareth ultimately “served to clear the way for King Messiah, to prepare the whole world to worship God with one accord”, even if those events came with tragedy and theological distortion. This perspective suggests that Christianity (Edom) carried forward a covenantal impulse – spreading knowledge of Israel’s God and moral law to the world – albeit in a fractured, partial manner.
Over the centuries, a thread of reconciliation theology developed within Judaism, viewing Edom’s role in a new light. Voices from Kabbalah (so called Jewish mysticism but really long orally passed down theology) and midrash (rabbinic homily) began to re-read Edom’s saga as a story of covenantal rupture and potential repair. The estrangement between Jacob and Esau – like that between synagogue and church – was not destined to be permanent.
As one 19th-century rabbi (the Netziv) envisioned, “in the future when the children of Esau are moved by a pure spirit to recognize the people of Israel and their virtues, then we will also be moved to recognize that Esau is our brother”. In this essay, we will explore how Rabbi Jacob Emden in the 18th century and Rabbi Harvey Falk in the 20th – along with Kabbalistic insights on shattered vessels and holy sparks – opened the possibility of rapprochement between Judaism and Christianity. Specifically, we will examine Edom (Rome/Christendom) not merely as a mystical symbol but as a theological category involving broken covenantal relationships that are poised for repair.
Themes will include the early Jewish-Christian “edah” (community) and its exile from both synagogue and church, the idea of a Messiah ben David fulfilled in unexpected ways, Emden’s defense of Jesus’ teachings for the nations, Falk’s retrieval of Emden’s insights via a Hillel vs. Shammai paradigm, and Kabbalistic teachings about the breaking of vessels (shevirat ha-kelim) and the redemption of gentiles. Throughout, the tone will remain theological and rooted in Scripture, avoiding esoteric jargon – aiming to frame a vision of reconciliation grounded in the prophetic hope of “nation shall not lift up sword against nation” and “many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord…’” (Micah 4).
Covenant Rupture: Edom and the “Lost” Brethren
The parting of the ways between Judaism and the followers of Jesus was a painful rupture in the covenantal family. In the first century, Jewish believers in Jesus (sometimes called the Nazarenes or the Jerusalem ekklesia) remained a sect within the Jewish people, faithfully observing Torah and gathering in synagogues . Over time, however, mutual estrangement set in. The Jewish leadership at Yavneh (Jamnia), seeking to distinguish orthodox Judaism from emerging Christianity, enacted the Birkat HaMinim – a synagogue prayer cursing “heretics,” which effectively expelled Jews who accepted Jesus as Messiah . This exile of the Edah – the original Jewish edah (community) of Jesus’ family and disciples – meant they were no longer welcome within the synagogue. On the other side, as the Gentile Christian Church grew, it too asserted its distinct identity: by the 4th century, at the Council of Nicaea (325 CE), the Church formally separated the date of Easter from the Jewish Passover to avoid following the Jewish calendar.
Over generations, Gentile Christianity’s dominance led to the marginalization or disappearance of the original Jewish Christians. In effect, the “family feud” between Jacob and Esau replayed in history – Israel and Edom became estranged brothers.
From a theological perspective, this rupture can be seen as a covenantal crisis. Two communities emerged, each bearing elements of the covenant: the Jewish people retained the Torah of Moses and the ancestral covenant of Sinai, while Christianity carried the belief in Israel’s Messiah to the nations. Tragically, each side often saw the other as antithetical. Edom (Rome) not only differed in belief but often persecuted its Jewish kin – from the Roman destruction of the Temple and exile of Israel to medieval Christendom’s oppressions. The prophet Obadiah had pronounced doom on Edom for its violence toward Jacob, and rabbinic literature frequently portrayed Esau/Edom as Israel’s eternal foe. Yet, beneath the surface of polemics, the question loomed: could Edom still have a share in Israel’s destiny? Was there a divine purpose even in this painful separation?
Some sages began to answer yes. Maimonides, after condemning Jesus as a false messiah, nonetheless conceded that the rise of Christianity (and Islam) was part of God’s inscrutable design to spread monotheism and ethics: “All these matters… of Jesus of Nazareth and the Ishmaelite who arose after him are only to straighten the way for the King Messiah and to fix the entire world to serve God as one” . In other words, the Christian faith carried sparks of the covenant to the world – teaching the Hebrew Bible, proclaiming the God of Israel, and instilling basic moral laws – even while diverging in doctrine. Likewise, the 12th-century poet Judah Halevi suggested in Kuzari that Christianity and Islam were like preparatory foothills leading up to the mountain of true faith (Sinai). These views imply that the covenantal mission to bless “all families of the earth” (Genesis 12:3) was, in a measure, forwarded by Edom, though through a glass darkly.
Thus, the estrangement of Edom may be seen as a covenantal fracture permitted by God for a larger purpose. The task now is tikkun (repair): healing the breach so that the two strands – Torah and Messiah – can reunite in harmony. The remarkable teachings of Rabbi Jacob Emden and those who followed his lead address exactly this task, arguing that Christianity can be understood within a Torat Edom perspective: a “Torah of Edom” that, despite errors, remains connected to the One God and the covenantal vision.
Jacob Emden: Jesus as a “Double Good” for the World
One of the boldest traditional Jewish voices on this theme was Rabbi Jacob Emden (1697–1776), a renowned Talmudist and fierce opponent of heresy. Emden lived at a time when the Jewish community was battling the fallout of the false messiah Shabbetai Ẓevi and his followers. In an epistolary essayappended to his work Seder Olam Rabbah Vezuta (1757), Emden turned his attention to Christianity – and offered a startling re-evaluation. According to Emden, Jesus of Nazareth brought great benefit to the world and ultimately did not intend to abolish the covenant of Israel. Emden wrote that “Jesus brought a double goodness to the world. On the one hand he strengthened the Torah of Moses majestically… and not one of our Sages spoke out more emphatically concerning the immutability of the Torah. On the other hand he removed idols from the nations and obligated them in the seven commandments of Noah”. In this remarkable passage, Emden asserts two covenantal achievements of Jesus: reinforcing the eternal validity of the Torah for Jews, and guiding the gentiles toward the Noahide laws (the basic moral laws Judaism sees as binding on all descendants of Noah).
Emden observes that according to the New Testament itself, Jesus and his early followers never sought to annul the Torah for Jews. He cites Jesus’ own words in the Gospel of Matthew that he “did not come to abolish [the Torah] but to fulfill” and that not a letter of the Law would pass away. Likewise, Paul – often viewed by Jews as anti-Torah – is interpreted by Emden as having meant that gentiles need not convert to Judaism, while Jews should remain observant. Emden points out that Paul circumcised his Jewish disciple Timothy in accordance with halakhah, indicating Paul “did not wish to destroy the Torah from Israel, God forbid”. In Emden’s reading, the New Testament actually upholds the Sinai covenant for Jews even as it charts a different path for gentiles. This aligns with a classical rabbinic idea: the laws of Noah (seven basic commandments against idolatry, blasphemy, murder, sexual immorality, theft, eating living flesh, and the mandate to establish courts) are the portion of the Torah intended for the nations.
Thus, Emden argues, Christianity’s emergence was guided by God to spread ethical monotheism. Idol-worshipping pagans were turned toward the Creator, taught to live morally, and introduced to the Hebrew Scriptures – all through the vehicle of the Church. Jesus, in Emden’s words, “brought a double kindness to the world” by strengthening Jewish commitment to Torah on one side, and civilizing the gentiles on the other. Emden even goes so far as to say that “the Nazarene and his Apostles did not wish to destroy the Torah from Israel” and that Christians are considered “congregations that work for the sake of Heaven… whose intent is for the sake of Heaven and whose reward will not be denied”. Such words are astounding in the context of pre-modern rabbinic literature, which more often brands Christianity as idolatry. Emden effectively exempts Christians from the charge of idolatry, viewing their worship (despite theological differences like the Trinity) as directed toward the God of Israel in an allowable form.
It must be emphasized that Emden did not advocate Jews accepting Jesus or joining Christianity. Rather, he maintained a two-track covenant: Jews remain bound by the full Mosaic Law, while gentiles, through Jesus’ teaching, have been given a form of righteousness via the Noahide code. Emden’s stance thus upholds Jewish Torah observance (he even praises Jesus for insisting on Torah’s permanence for Jews) while validating Christianity as a divinely ordained path for Gentiles. In doing so, Emden was reviving a very ancient idea – found in the Talmud – that “the righteous of the nations have a share in the World to Come” (Sanhedrin 105a). For Emden, sincere Christians could be considered among these righteous gentiles (Hasidei Umot Ha-Olam).
Why did Emden pen such an irenic view? The historical trigger was his battle against the Frankists (followers of Jacob Frank, a heretical group who claimed to be a new mystical sect of Christianity). When Frank’s sect tried to slander rabbinic Jews as anti-Christian, Emden responded by highlighting Judaism’s respect for Jesus’ positive impact and distancing normative Christianity from the Frankist cult. But beyond polemics, it seems Emden genuinely believed that the time had come to acknowledge Christianity’s role in God’s plan. He even appealed to Christians to recognize Jews as partners under the same Heavenly Father. Famously, Emden ended one letter with a fraternal plea drawn from the Bible: “In the name of Heaven, we are your brothers; one God has created us all.” Here is a rabbi of the 18th century addressing Christians as brethren – echoing the reunion of Jacob and Esau. Emden was, in essence, proposing a covenant with Edom: not that Judaism accepts Christian doctrine, but that Judaism can see Christian nations as participating in the Noahide covenant, awaiting ultimate reconciliation under Israel’s God.
Harvey Falk: Hillel, Shammai, and the Noahide Mission
Emden’s writings, somewhat obscure in his time, were rediscovered in the late 20th century by Rabbi Harvey Falk. In 1985, Falk published Jesus the Pharisee: A New Look at the Jewishness of Jesus, which builds significantly on Emden’s thesis. Falk, an Orthodox rabbi, sought to “retrieve” Emden’s approach and frame it in historical context: namely, the internal debates within Pharisaism in the time of Jesus . He proposed that Jesus and the early Jewish Christians can best be understood as a faction aligned with Bet Hillel (the School of Hillel) in opposition to the stricter Bet Shammai.
During the late Second Temple period, the Schools of Hillel and Shammai vehemently disagreed on many issues – including the attitude toward gentiles. The House of Shammai was generally more exclusivist and austere (some sources say Shammai’s faction wanted to make conversion difficult and had little interest in outreach to gentiles), whereas Hillel was known for his patience and openness, even converting proselytes that Shammai had rejected (cf. Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 31a). Falk seizes on this dichotomy. He argues that around the time of Jesus, the School of Shammai held sway in Judea – indeed, a tradition says that shortly before Jesus’ ministry, the Shammaites temporarily gained power and passed 18 edicts against contact with gentiles. In Falk’s reconstruction, Jesus emerges as a Pharisee of the Hillelite type who, along with like-minded Essenes and other pietists, sought a more universal vision for Israel’s faith.
According to Falk, “Christianity as a religion for the Gentiles was founded by the Hasidim – the Essenes and disciples of Hillel from whose midst Jesus of Nazareth emerged.” These pious circles believed that the time had come to bring the knowledge of God to the nations in fulfillment of biblical prophecy. They envisioned a form of godliness for gentiles that did not require full conversion to Judaism, but adherence to the Noahide commandments and basic ethics – essentially the core taught by the Apostles. Jesus’ harshest criticisms, Falk contends, were not aimed at “the Pharisees” monolithically, but specifically at the School of Shammai, whom he saw as hypocritical or misguided in their stringencies.
The Gospel polemics about “Pharisees” would thus be understood as intra-Pharisaic debate, with Jesus upholding Hillel’s more merciful interpretation of the Law and Shammai’s party being aligned with those who rejected his movement. Notably, Falk points out that Bet Shammai would have opposed the very idea of a gentile Christianity on two grounds: (1) they denied that gentiles could attain salvation without formally becoming Jews, and (2) they would not have countenanced the abrogation of certain ritual laws even for gentile converts . By contrast, the Hillelite-Essene faction was, in Falk’s view, proto-Christian in its outlook – willing to create a path for gentiles to join the covenantal community short of full Torah observance. This path is precisely what Christianity became: a way for the nations to worship Israel’s God, informed by Israel’s Scriptures and ethical teachings, without adopting every Jewish ritual.
Falk’s thesis elegantly ties together disparate historical threads. He references the Dead Sea Scrolls and other evidence suggesting that an Essene sect expected two Messiahs (a priestly and a kingly) and that they practiced a form of communal life resonant with early Christian practice. He also re-examines Talmudic stories such as the “arrest of Rabbi Eliezer,” where Rabbi Eliezer (a disciple of Yavnean sages) is suspected of sympathizing with “Minim” (Jewish Christians) after hearing a teaching of Jesus. This, Falk argues, hints that some rabbis in the post-Jesus era still respected certain teachings of the Jewish Christians. Most crucially, Falk underscores Paul’s role as entirely consistent with this Hillelite outreach: “Paul of Tarsus didn’t bother the Jews, and instead devoted all his energies to bringing Christian teachings to the Gentiles… the rabbis were only too happy to see those outside Judaism learn of God and the Bible.” This claim aligns with Emden’s read: Paul remained a Torah-observant Jew (a student of Rabban Gamliel) who directed his mission to the gentiles, effectively leaving the Jewish community undisturbed.
While one might debate Falk’s specific historical reconstructions, his work importantly revived Emden’s core idea in modern Jewish scholarship. He showed that Emden was not an anomaly but could be situated in a broader framework where the early Jesus movement is seen as part of Judaism’s internal dynamism. The implication is profound: if Jesus and Paul operated within a legitimate Jewish approach (Hillel’s approach) to bring monotheism to the world, then the emergence of Christianity was an extension of a Jewish covenantal mission. Rather than apostasy, it becomes (at least in its inception) a kind of shlichut (commission) from within Judaism – a shaliach (emissary) sent to Edom.
Falk’s concluding vision, much like Emden’s, is one of eventual reconciliation and peace. He expresses hope that understanding this common ground “will make a contribution toward bringing all men and women who seek God and the brotherhood of humanity into a closer bond of fellowship.” He invokes the rabbinic tradition that Elijah the Prophet will come before the Messiah to “bring peace to mankind”, and aligns this with Emden’s call of brotherhood. In other words, by seeing Jews and Christians as originally intended partners (the two children of Isaac) rather than eternal adversaries, we prepare the ground for Elijah’s work of reconciliation. Harvey Falk effectively gave a scholarly, historical backbone to Emden’s theological intuition, making it more accessible for an era of Jewish-Christian dialogue.
Kabbalistic Perspectives: Edom’s Sparks and the Journey of Tikkun
Beyond the realm of history and halakhah, Kabbalah offers a cosmic lens to view the role of Edom/Christianity. Kabbalistic teaching, especially as developed by Isaac Luria (the Arizal) in the 16th century, speaks of a primeval catastrophe in the spiritual realms known as the Breaking of the Vessels (Shevirat HaKelim). In this mythic schema, early in creation the divine emanations were too intense for the vessels meant to contain them, and the vessels shattered. The fragments of those primordial worlds – termed Olam HaTohu (the World of Chaos) – fell and became the seeds of impurity and evil in our reality, yet they still carry holy sparks of divine light within them.
Luria and the Zohar before him associate these fragments with the biblical Edom: the “Kings who reigned in Edom before there reigned any king in Israel” (Genesis 36) are read as alluding to these unstable divine worlds that “reigned and died.” In the Torah text, each Edomite king is listed with the refrain “and he died,” which Kabbalah understands to signify the breaking of each sefirah (divine attribute) in the chaotic world. Edom thus becomes a symbol of unrectified Gevurah (unbalanced severity/judgment) that could not hold the light.
Crucially, the Arizal taught that the mission of history – and specifically of Israel – is Tikkun, the repair and rectification of these broken shards by extracting and elevating the holy sparks within them. Every act of goodness, every commandment kept, helps liberate sparks of holiness from the “husks” (qelipot) of impurity. And where are these sparks found? Scattered throughout the world, including in far-flung nations and cultures. By this understanding, the long exile of the Jewish people among the nations is not simply punishment; it is providential.
In Luria’s view, Israel was dispersed to Edom (Christendom) and Ishmael (Islamic lands) in order to encounter and redeem the sparks embedded there. The Zohar had intimated as much by indicating that the “spirit of God hovering” at creation contained 288 sparks that “died” and descended ; the task is to revive those sparks. A Chabad teaching puts it this way: “The purpose of the creation of evil is so that these high-energy sparks of Tohu can be released from their non-holy context and made part of the holy order…bringing the lights of Tohu into the vessels of Tikkun”.
What does this mean in less esoteric terms? It means that even the great religions and cultures outside the Torah covenant have divine sparks – elements of truth, justice, and spiritual energy – that originated from God and can ultimately be uplifted. Edom, in particular, is said to hold many such sparks. The 18th-century master Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that in the future, the chaff of Edom will burn away and the sparks of holiness within it will be released and claimed by Israel. Until then, those sparks give Edom power and vitality. This metaphysical idea complements Emden’s theological one: just as Emden saw Christianity carrying fragments of the covenant, Kabbalah sees Edom carrying fragments of primordial light. The redemptive role of the gentiles is that, through their history and even through their interactions with Israel, they participate in the gathering of these sparks. Every time a nation adopts a just law, renounces idolatry, or recognizes the God of Israel in some fashion, a spark is redeemed from Edom and re-enters the domain of holiness.
Kabbalists specifically identified Esau/Edom with the Sefirah of Gevurah (Strength/Judgment) and Jacob/Israel with Tiferet (Beauty/Balance). Gevurah untempered can lead to destruction (hence Rome’s sword and strictness), but Gevurah is not evil in itself – it is an aspect of God’s justice that became warped. The rectification of Edom involves tempering its harshness with compassion and channeling its strengths toward divine service. There is a striking teaching that Ishmael (Arabs/Islam) embodies the excess of Chesed (Kindness) gone astray, while Edom embodies excess Gevurah; in the messianic age, both will be rectified and come to serve God alongside Israel. The universal Messianic era, says this teaching, is when “all peoples will go up to the mountain of the Lord” and accept the ethical rule of the Torah’s laws for humanity – precisely the vision of Micah 4.
The Zohar itself speaks in places of the future purification of Rome. One Zohar passage (Vayera 110a) predicts that the descendants of Esau will eventually be healed and reunited with Jacob. Later mystics like the 16th-century Maharal of Prague echoed this: Esau’s estrangement was temporary, and in the end Esau would acknowledge Jacob’s spiritual primacy, while Jacob would acknowledge Esau as a brother. We saw this in the Netziv’s quote above: a pure spirit will move the children of Esau to honor Israel, and Israel in turn will embrace Esau . This mutual recognition can be viewed as the covenantal repair – the tikkun – after millennia of broken relationship.
One compelling midrashic image of this is the rabbinic interpretation of Genesis 33:4, when Esau and Jacob meet after years of separation: “Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck and kissed him; and they wept.” The Hebrew word “kissed him” in the scroll has unusual dots above it, and rabbinic opinions differ – some say the dots imply Esau’s kiss was insincere or even attempted to bite Jacob. But another opinion (Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai) says: “It is a well-known rule that Esau hates Jacob, but at that moment Esau’s compassion was aroused and he kissed Jacob with all his heart.” In that brief moment, the hatred ceased and genuine brotherhood emerged. The Torat Edom perspective invites us to see our current era as “that moment” approaching, when the ancient enmity will melt into recognition and love. The sparks within Edom – the latent brotherly love and faith in Israel’s God – are being fanned into flame.
Remarkably, even Christian Scripture can be read in harmony with this idea. The Apostle Paul (himself a disciple of Rabban Gamliel) taught that gentile believers in Jesus were like “wild olive branches” grafted into the olive tree of Israel’s covenant . He imagined a future when “all Israel will be saved”, which to him meant not only the fullness of the Jews but also the ingathering of the gentiles who had been brought in, and even the return of those Jews who initially stumbled (Romans 11:11-26). One writer notes that “The Zohar’s vision of sparks of holiness in Edom being recovered finds a parallel in Paul’s teaching…Paul even holds out hope that ‘all Israel will be saved’ – including the re-grafting of Israel’s own broken-off branches…and, implicitly, the fullness of the Gentiles coming in.” In Kabbalistic language, that “fullness of the Gentiles” equates to all the sparks from Edom being elevated and joined to Israel.
In Jewish tradition, Edom (the biblical nation descended from Esau) became a code name for Rome and, by extension, Christianity – long seen as a rival and oppressor of Israel. Yet alongside this adversarial history, select rabbinic voices discerned that the rise of Christianity was “neither an accident nor an error, but the willed divine outcome and gift to the nations”, a providential part of God’s plan . Rather than an eternal enmity, God intended a separation between Judaism and Christianity “not… between enemies”. Indeed, the medieval sage Maimonides taught that the events of Jesus of Nazareth ultimately “served to clear the way for King Messiah, to prepare the whole world to worship God with one accord”, even if those events came with tragedy and theological distortion. This perspective suggests that Christianity (Edom) carried forward a covenantal impulse – spreading knowledge of Israel’s God and moral law to the world – albeit in a fractured, partial manner.
Over the centuries, a thread of reconciliation theology developed within Judaism, viewing Edom’s role in a new light. Voices from Kabbalah (so called Jewish mysticism but really long orally passed down theology) and midrash (rabbinic homily) began to re-read Edom’s saga as a story of covenantal rupture and potential repair. The estrangement between Jacob and Esau – like that between synagogue and church – was not destined to be permanent.
As one 19th-century rabbi (the Netziv) envisioned, “in the future when the children of Esau are moved by a pure spirit to recognize the people of Israel and their virtues, then we will also be moved to recognize that Esau is our brother”. In this essay, we will explore how Rabbi Jacob Emden in the 18th century and Rabbi Harvey Falk in the 20th – along with Kabbalistic insights on shattered vessels and holy sparks – opened the possibility of rapprochement between Judaism and Christianity. Specifically, we will examine Edom (Rome/Christendom) not merely as a mystical symbol but as a theological category involving broken covenantal relationships that are poised for repair.
Themes will include the early Jewish-Christian “edah” (community) and its exile from both synagogue and church, the idea of a Messiah ben David fulfilled in unexpected ways, Emden’s defense of Jesus’ teachings for the nations, Falk’s retrieval of Emden’s insights via a Hillel vs. Shammai paradigm, and Kabbalistic teachings about the breaking of vessels (shevirat ha-kelim) and the redemption of gentiles. Throughout, the tone will remain theological and rooted in Scripture, avoiding esoteric jargon – aiming to frame a vision of reconciliation grounded in the prophetic hope of “nation shall not lift up sword against nation” and “many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord…’” (Micah 4).
Covenant Rupture: Edom and the “Lost” Brethren
The parting of the ways between Judaism and the followers of Jesus was a painful rupture in the covenantal family. In the first century, Jewish believers in Jesus (sometimes called the Nazarenes or the Jerusalem ekklesia) remained a sect within the Jewish people, faithfully observing Torah and gathering in synagogues . Over time, however, mutual estrangement set in. The Jewish leadership at Yavneh (Jamnia), seeking to distinguish orthodox Judaism from emerging Christianity, enacted the Birkat HaMinim – a synagogue prayer cursing “heretics,” which effectively expelled Jews who accepted Jesus as Messiah . This exile of the Edah – the original Jewish edah (community) of Jesus’ family and disciples – meant they were no longer welcome within the synagogue. On the other side, as the Gentile Christian Church grew, it too asserted its distinct identity: by the 4th century, at the Council of Nicaea (325 CE), the Church formally separated the date of Easter from the Jewish Passover to avoid following the Jewish calendar.
Over generations, Gentile Christianity’s dominance led to the marginalization or disappearance of the original Jewish Christians. In effect, the “family feud” between Jacob and Esau replayed in history – Israel and Edom became estranged brothers.
From a theological perspective, this rupture can be seen as a covenantal crisis. Two communities emerged, each bearing elements of the covenant: the Jewish people retained the Torah of Moses and the ancestral covenant of Sinai, while Christianity carried the belief in Israel’s Messiah to the nations. Tragically, each side often saw the other as antithetical. Edom (Rome) not only differed in belief but often persecuted its Jewish kin – from the Roman destruction of the Temple and exile of Israel to medieval Christendom’s oppressions. The prophet Obadiah had pronounced doom on Edom for its violence toward Jacob, and rabbinic literature frequently portrayed Esau/Edom as Israel’s eternal foe. Yet, beneath the surface of polemics, the question loomed: could Edom still have a share in Israel’s destiny? Was there a divine purpose even in this painful separation?
Some sages began to answer yes. Maimonides, after condemning Jesus as a false messiah, nonetheless conceded that the rise of Christianity (and Islam) was part of God’s inscrutable design to spread monotheism and ethics: “All these matters… of Jesus of Nazareth and the Ishmaelite who arose after him are only to straighten the way for the King Messiah and to fix the entire world to serve God as one” . In other words, the Christian faith carried sparks of the covenant to the world – teaching the Hebrew Bible, proclaiming the God of Israel, and instilling basic moral laws – even while diverging in doctrine. Likewise, the 12th-century poet Judah Halevi suggested in Kuzari that Christianity and Islam were like preparatory foothills leading up to the mountain of true faith (Sinai). These views imply that the covenantal mission to bless “all families of the earth” (Genesis 12:3) was, in a measure, forwarded by Edom, though through a glass darkly.
Thus, the estrangement of Edom may be seen as a covenantal fracture permitted by God for a larger purpose. The task now is tikkun (repair): healing the breach so that the two strands – Torah and Messiah – can reunite in harmony. The remarkable teachings of Rabbi Jacob Emden and those who followed his lead address exactly this task, arguing that Christianity can be understood within a Torat Edom perspective: a “Torah of Edom” that, despite errors, remains connected to the One God and the covenantal vision.
Jacob Emden: Jesus as a “Double Good” for the World
One of the boldest traditional Jewish voices on this theme was Rabbi Jacob Emden (1697–1776), a renowned Talmudist and fierce opponent of heresy. Emden lived at a time when the Jewish community was battling the fallout of the false messiah Shabbetai Ẓevi and his followers. In an epistolary essayappended to his work Seder Olam Rabbah Vezuta (1757), Emden turned his attention to Christianity – and offered a startling re-evaluation. According to Emden, Jesus of Nazareth brought great benefit to the world and ultimately did not intend to abolish the covenant of Israel. Emden wrote that “Jesus brought a double goodness to the world. On the one hand he strengthened the Torah of Moses majestically… and not one of our Sages spoke out more emphatically concerning the immutability of the Torah. On the other hand he removed idols from the nations and obligated them in the seven commandments of Noah”. In this remarkable passage, Emden asserts two covenantal achievements of Jesus: reinforcing the eternal validity of the Torah for Jews, and guiding the gentiles toward the Noahide laws (the basic moral laws Judaism sees as binding on all descendants of Noah).
Emden observes that according to the New Testament itself, Jesus and his early followers never sought to annul the Torah for Jews. He cites Jesus’ own words in the Gospel of Matthew that he “did not come to abolish [the Torah] but to fulfill” and that not a letter of the Law would pass away. Likewise, Paul – often viewed by Jews as anti-Torah – is interpreted by Emden as having meant that gentiles need not convert to Judaism, while Jews should remain observant. Emden points out that Paul circumcised his Jewish disciple Timothy in accordance with halakhah, indicating Paul “did not wish to destroy the Torah from Israel, God forbid”. In Emden’s reading, the New Testament actually upholds the Sinai covenant for Jews even as it charts a different path for gentiles. This aligns with a classical rabbinic idea: the laws of Noah (seven basic commandments against idolatry, blasphemy, murder, sexual immorality, theft, eating living flesh, and the mandate to establish courts) are the portion of the Torah intended for the nations.
Thus, Emden argues, Christianity’s emergence was guided by God to spread ethical monotheism. Idol-worshipping pagans were turned toward the Creator, taught to live morally, and introduced to the Hebrew Scriptures – all through the vehicle of the Church. Jesus, in Emden’s words, “brought a double kindness to the world” by strengthening Jewish commitment to Torah on one side, and civilizing the gentiles on the other. Emden even goes so far as to say that “the Nazarene and his Apostles did not wish to destroy the Torah from Israel” and that Christians are considered “congregations that work for the sake of Heaven… whose intent is for the sake of Heaven and whose reward will not be denied”. Such words are astounding in the context of pre-modern rabbinic literature, which more often brands Christianity as idolatry. Emden effectively exempts Christians from the charge of idolatry, viewing their worship (despite theological differences like the Trinity) as directed toward the God of Israel in an allowable form.
It must be emphasized that Emden did not advocate Jews accepting Jesus or joining Christianity. Rather, he maintained a two-track covenant: Jews remain bound by the full Mosaic Law, while gentiles, through Jesus’ teaching, have been given a form of righteousness via the Noahide code. Emden’s stance thus upholds Jewish Torah observance (he even praises Jesus for insisting on Torah’s permanence for Jews) while validating Christianity as a divinely ordained path for Gentiles. In doing so, Emden was reviving a very ancient idea – found in the Talmud – that “the righteous of the nations have a share in the World to Come” (Sanhedrin 105a). For Emden, sincere Christians could be considered among these righteous gentiles (Hasidei Umot Ha-Olam).
Why did Emden pen such an irenic view? The historical trigger was his battle against the Frankists (followers of Jacob Frank, a heretical group who claimed to be a new mystical sect of Christianity). When Frank’s sect tried to slander rabbinic Jews as anti-Christian, Emden responded by highlighting Judaism’s respect for Jesus’ positive impact and distancing normative Christianity from the Frankist cult. But beyond polemics, it seems Emden genuinely believed that the time had come to acknowledge Christianity’s role in God’s plan. He even appealed to Christians to recognize Jews as partners under the same Heavenly Father. Famously, Emden ended one letter with a fraternal plea drawn from the Bible: “In the name of Heaven, we are your brothers; one God has created us all.” Here is a rabbi of the 18th century addressing Christians as brethren – echoing the reunion of Jacob and Esau. Emden was, in essence, proposing a covenant with Edom: not that Judaism accepts Christian doctrine, but that Judaism can see Christian nations as participating in the Noahide covenant, awaiting ultimate reconciliation under Israel’s God.
Harvey Falk: Hillel, Shammai, and the Noahide Mission
Emden’s writings, somewhat obscure in his time, were rediscovered in the late 20th century by Rabbi Harvey Falk. In 1985, Falk published Jesus the Pharisee: A New Look at the Jewishness of Jesus, which builds significantly on Emden’s thesis. Falk, an Orthodox rabbi, sought to “retrieve” Emden’s approach and frame it in historical context: namely, the internal debates within Pharisaism in the time of Jesus . He proposed that Jesus and the early Jewish Christians can best be understood as a faction aligned with Bet Hillel (the School of Hillel) in opposition to the stricter Bet Shammai.
During the late Second Temple period, the Schools of Hillel and Shammai vehemently disagreed on many issues – including the attitude toward gentiles. The House of Shammai was generally more exclusivist and austere (some sources say Shammai’s faction wanted to make conversion difficult and had little interest in outreach to gentiles), whereas Hillel was known for his patience and openness, even converting proselytes that Shammai had rejected (cf. Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 31a). Falk seizes on this dichotomy. He argues that around the time of Jesus, the School of Shammai held sway in Judea – indeed, a tradition says that shortly before Jesus’ ministry, the Shammaites temporarily gained power and passed 18 edicts against contact with gentiles. In Falk’s reconstruction, Jesus emerges as a Pharisee of the Hillelite type who, along with like-minded Essenes and other pietists, sought a more universal vision for Israel’s faith.
According to Falk, “Christianity as a religion for the Gentiles was founded by the Hasidim – the Essenes and disciples of Hillel from whose midst Jesus of Nazareth emerged.” These pious circles believed that the time had come to bring the knowledge of God to the nations in fulfillment of biblical prophecy. They envisioned a form of godliness for gentiles that did not require full conversion to Judaism, but adherence to the Noahide commandments and basic ethics – essentially the core taught by the Apostles. Jesus’ harshest criticisms, Falk contends, were not aimed at “the Pharisees” monolithically, but specifically at the School of Shammai, whom he saw as hypocritical or misguided in their stringencies.
The Gospel polemics about “Pharisees” would thus be understood as intra-Pharisaic debate, with Jesus upholding Hillel’s more merciful interpretation of the Law and Shammai’s party being aligned with those who rejected his movement. Notably, Falk points out that Bet Shammai would have opposed the very idea of a gentile Christianity on two grounds: (1) they denied that gentiles could attain salvation without formally becoming Jews, and (2) they would not have countenanced the abrogation of certain ritual laws even for gentile converts . By contrast, the Hillelite-Essene faction was, in Falk’s view, proto-Christian in its outlook – willing to create a path for gentiles to join the covenantal community short of full Torah observance. This path is precisely what Christianity became: a way for the nations to worship Israel’s God, informed by Israel’s Scriptures and ethical teachings, without adopting every Jewish ritual.
Falk’s thesis elegantly ties together disparate historical threads. He references the Dead Sea Scrolls and other evidence suggesting that an Essene sect expected two Messiahs (a priestly and a kingly) and that they practiced a form of communal life resonant with early Christian practice. He also re-examines Talmudic stories such as the “arrest of Rabbi Eliezer,” where Rabbi Eliezer (a disciple of Yavnean sages) is suspected of sympathizing with “Minim” (Jewish Christians) after hearing a teaching of Jesus. This, Falk argues, hints that some rabbis in the post-Jesus era still respected certain teachings of the Jewish Christians. Most crucially, Falk underscores Paul’s role as entirely consistent with this Hillelite outreach: “Paul of Tarsus didn’t bother the Jews, and instead devoted all his energies to bringing Christian teachings to the Gentiles… the rabbis were only too happy to see those outside Judaism learn of God and the Bible.” This claim aligns with Emden’s read: Paul remained a Torah-observant Jew (a student of Rabban Gamliel) who directed his mission to the gentiles, effectively leaving the Jewish community undisturbed.
While one might debate Falk’s specific historical reconstructions, his work importantly revived Emden’s core idea in modern Jewish scholarship. He showed that Emden was not an anomaly but could be situated in a broader framework where the early Jesus movement is seen as part of Judaism’s internal dynamism. The implication is profound: if Jesus and Paul operated within a legitimate Jewish approach (Hillel’s approach) to bring monotheism to the world, then the emergence of Christianity was an extension of a Jewish covenantal mission. Rather than apostasy, it becomes (at least in its inception) a kind of shlichut (commission) from within Judaism – a shaliach (emissary) sent to Edom.
Falk’s concluding vision, much like Emden’s, is one of eventual reconciliation and peace. He expresses hope that understanding this common ground “will make a contribution toward bringing all men and women who seek God and the brotherhood of humanity into a closer bond of fellowship.” He invokes the rabbinic tradition that Elijah the Prophet will come before the Messiah to “bring peace to mankind”, and aligns this with Emden’s call of brotherhood. In other words, by seeing Jews and Christians as originally intended partners (the two children of Isaac) rather than eternal adversaries, we prepare the ground for Elijah’s work of reconciliation. Harvey Falk effectively gave a scholarly, historical backbone to Emden’s theological intuition, making it more accessible for an era of Jewish-Christian dialogue.
Kabbalistic Perspectives: Edom’s Sparks and the Journey of Tikkun
Beyond the realm of history and halakhah, Kabbalah offers a cosmic lens to view the role of Edom/Christianity. Kabbalistic teaching, especially as developed by Isaac Luria (the Arizal) in the 16th century, speaks of a primeval catastrophe in the spiritual realms known as the Breaking of the Vessels (Shevirat HaKelim). In this mythic schema, early in creation the divine emanations were too intense for the vessels meant to contain them, and the vessels shattered. The fragments of those primordial worlds – termed Olam HaTohu (the World of Chaos) – fell and became the seeds of impurity and evil in our reality, yet they still carry holy sparks of divine light within them.
Luria and the Zohar before him associate these fragments with the biblical Edom: the “Kings who reigned in Edom before there reigned any king in Israel” (Genesis 36) are read as alluding to these unstable divine worlds that “reigned and died.” In the Torah text, each Edomite king is listed with the refrain “and he died,” which Kabbalah understands to signify the breaking of each sefirah (divine attribute) in the chaotic world. Edom thus becomes a symbol of unrectified Gevurah (unbalanced severity/judgment) that could not hold the light.
Crucially, the Arizal taught that the mission of history – and specifically of Israel – is Tikkun, the repair and rectification of these broken shards by extracting and elevating the holy sparks within them. Every act of goodness, every commandment kept, helps liberate sparks of holiness from the “husks” (qelipot) of impurity. And where are these sparks found? Scattered throughout the world, including in far-flung nations and cultures. By this understanding, the long exile of the Jewish people among the nations is not simply punishment; it is providential.
In Luria’s view, Israel was dispersed to Edom (Christendom) and Ishmael (Islamic lands) in order to encounter and redeem the sparks embedded there. The Zohar had intimated as much by indicating that the “spirit of God hovering” at creation contained 288 sparks that “died” and descended ; the task is to revive those sparks. A Chabad teaching puts it this way: “The purpose of the creation of evil is so that these high-energy sparks of Tohu can be released from their non-holy context and made part of the holy order…bringing the lights of Tohu into the vessels of Tikkun”.
What does this mean in less esoteric terms? It means that even the great religions and cultures outside the Torah covenant have divine sparks – elements of truth, justice, and spiritual energy – that originated from God and can ultimately be uplifted. Edom, in particular, is said to hold many such sparks. The 18th-century master Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that in the future, the chaff of Edom will burn away and the sparks of holiness within it will be released and claimed by Israel. Until then, those sparks give Edom power and vitality. This metaphysical idea complements Emden’s theological one: just as Emden saw Christianity carrying fragments of the covenant, Kabbalah sees Edom carrying fragments of primordial light. The redemptive role of the gentiles is that, through their history and even through their interactions with Israel, they participate in the gathering of these sparks. Every time a nation adopts a just law, renounces idolatry, or recognizes the God of Israel in some fashion, a spark is redeemed from Edom and re-enters the domain of holiness.
Kabbalists specifically identified Esau/Edom with the Sefirah of Gevurah (Strength/Judgment) and Jacob/Israel with Tiferet (Beauty/Balance). Gevurah untempered can lead to destruction (hence Rome’s sword and strictness), but Gevurah is not evil in itself – it is an aspect of God’s justice that became warped. The rectification of Edom involves tempering its harshness with compassion and channeling its strengths toward divine service. There is a striking teaching that Ishmael (Arabs/Islam) embodies the excess of Chesed (Kindness) gone astray, while Edom embodies excess Gevurah; in the messianic age, both will be rectified and come to serve God alongside Israel. The universal Messianic era, says this teaching, is when “all peoples will go up to the mountain of the Lord” and accept the ethical rule of the Torah’s laws for humanity – precisely the vision of Micah 4.
The Zohar itself speaks in places of the future purification of Rome. One Zohar passage (Vayera 110a) predicts that the descendants of Esau will eventually be healed and reunited with Jacob. Later mystics like the 16th-century Maharal of Prague echoed this: Esau’s estrangement was temporary, and in the end Esau would acknowledge Jacob’s spiritual primacy, while Jacob would acknowledge Esau as a brother. We saw this in the Netziv’s quote above: a pure spirit will move the children of Esau to honor Israel, and Israel in turn will embrace Esau . This mutual recognition can be viewed as the covenantal repair – the tikkun – after millennia of broken relationship.
One compelling midrashic image of this is the rabbinic interpretation of Genesis 33:4, when Esau and Jacob meet after years of separation: “Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck and kissed him; and they wept.” The Hebrew word “kissed him” in the scroll has unusual dots above it, and rabbinic opinions differ – some say the dots imply Esau’s kiss was insincere or even attempted to bite Jacob. But another opinion (Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai) says: “It is a well-known rule that Esau hates Jacob, but at that moment Esau’s compassion was aroused and he kissed Jacob with all his heart.” In that brief moment, the hatred ceased and genuine brotherhood emerged. The Torat Edom perspective invites us to see our current era as “that moment” approaching, when the ancient enmity will melt into recognition and love. The sparks within Edom – the latent brotherly love and faith in Israel’s God – are being fanned into flame.
Remarkably, even Christian Scripture can be read in harmony with this idea. The Apostle Paul (himself a disciple of Rabban Gamliel) taught that gentile believers in Jesus were like “wild olive branches” grafted into the olive tree of Israel’s covenant . He imagined a future when “all Israel will be saved”, which to him meant not only the fullness of the Jews but also the ingathering of the gentiles who had been brought in, and even the return of those Jews who initially stumbled (Romans 11:11-26). One writer notes that “The Zohar’s vision of sparks of holiness in Edom being recovered finds a parallel in Paul’s teaching…Paul even holds out hope that ‘all Israel will be saved’ – including the re-grafting of Israel’s own broken-off branches…and, implicitly, the fullness of the Gentiles coming in.” In Kabbalistic language, that “fullness of the Gentiles” equates to all the sparks from Edom being elevated and joined to Israel.
In the end, what appeared to be a separation of two religions will be revealed as a mystical synergy: two halves of one design finally coming together. As one modern rabbinic statement put it, “we Jews can acknowledge the ongoing constructive validity of Christianity as our partner in world redemption”, now that Christianity itself has acknowledged Israel’s covenant. Neither can accomplish the final tikkun alone.
Elijah Benamozegh and the Nations: Kabbalah as Covenant Theology
While Rabbi Jacob Emden provided a bold defense of Christianity’s utility for the nations, and Rabbi Harvey Falk retrieved that insight within a historical-Hillelite paradigm, it is Rabbi Elijah Benamozegh (1823–1900) who provides the most sustained theological articulation of this approach, drawing deeply from the well of Kabbalah. For Benamozegh, Christianity was not merely a tolerated aberration, but a divinely guided outer court—a vessel shaped by providence to carry the universal dimensions of Israel’s covenant to the nations.
Benamozegh’s Israel and Humanity develops a theological vision in which Kabbalah is not esoteric speculation, but the universal logic of God’s unity and Israel’s vocation.
Within this logic, the rise of Christianity—though riddled with errors—becomes intelligible as part of God’s wider redemptive design.
Kabbalah as Theological Grammar, Not Mystical Secrecy
Benamozegh interprets the sefirotic structure not as mystical imagery but as a systematic theology of divine attributes, which affirms the tension between transcendence and immanence. He saw in Christianity’s language about incarnation and Trinity a distorted reflection of these deeper truths: attempts to articulate divine nearness, albeit without the precision and constraints of Torah.
Rather than denouncing Christianity as idolatry, he argues that its doctrines reflect misread but sincere intuitions, rooted in divine revelation yet lacking the Torah’s interpretive key. Where Emden identifies Jesus as a teacher for the Gentiles and Falk traces him to the house of Hillel, Benamozegh views the Christian development as a gentile grasping after the fragments of the inner truth—a theology driven by yearning, not rebellion.
The Nations as the Outer Court: Israel as Priest, Nations as Worshipers
Central to Benamozegh’s vision is a covenantal model rooted in Temple imagery: Israel is the priestly people, and the nations gather in the outer court. They are not excluded from the divine presence, but their access is mediated. Christianity thus becomes a form of worship in the outer court—permitted, dignified, and preparatory.
Benamozegh writes that “Israel is the high priest of humanity, and the nations form the people of God around the sanctuary.” The goal is not uniformity, but harmony: a covenantal plurality where Israel remains distinct and Torah-bound, while the nations participate in the divine mission through ethical monotheism and righteous living.
This is the Torat Edom model: a vision where Edom is not destroyed, but restored; where Rome is not merely condemned, but called to fulfill its redemptive role as bearer of sparks.
Christianity as a Noahide Carrier of Light
Benamozegh’s theology also embraces the Noahide framework. Christianity, in his view, has effectively carried the seven universal laws—though it often buried them under metaphysical confusion. Still, the essence remained: belief in one God, moral responsibility, and a longing for redemption.
This aligns precisely with Emden’s reading of Christianity’s global impact, and Falk’s depiction of Paul as a Noahide emissary. Benamozegh’s contribution is to anchor this in theological anthropology: God created diverse nations for a reason, and each has a place within the wider covenantal symphony. The task is not for the nations to become Jews, but to recognize Israel’s priesthood and walk humbly with God.
Benamozegh and the Return of the Brothers
Like the Netziv and others who foresaw Esau’s eventual return with a “pure spirit,” Benamozegh envisions Christianity turning toward Israel not in conquest but in honor.
“Christianity, in its better moments, is already in the service of the unity of God… All that remains is for Israel to be acknowledged as its root.”
In this, Benamozegh does not spiritualize the split—he theologically reframes it. The exile of the Messiah into Edom was not a rejection of Israel, but a strategic dispersion of divine light. Christianity bore that light—dimmed, at times distorted—but never fully severed from the Source.
Historical Context: Benamozegh in the Shadow of Rome
It is essential to recognize that Benamozegh’s vision emerged during the rise of Vatican I, a council which codified papal infallibility and marked the height of Rome’s claim to religious centrality. In this climate of theological imperialism, Benamozegh’s call for a partnership between Israel and Christianity is all the more remarkable—and all the more in need of remnant critique. From a Torat Edom perspective, his universalism must be measured not only against rabbinic resistance, but against the imperial structures that sought to define Christianity as coterminous with ecclesiastical Rome. Benamozegh saw the nations through the lens of covenant, not conquest. Yet the world around him was rapidly being shaped by a Rome that had baptized power, not humility. Thus, his theology must be received as a bold testimony—but also reinterpreted from within the remnant theology of exile, where the outer court becomes a place not of papal throne, but of prophetic groaning.
Remnant Theology in Exile: The Trail of Blood and the Fullness of Israel
Returning to the insights of Rabbi Elijah Benamozegh, we must also recall the Apostle Paul’s vision in Romans 11. There, he speaks not of a triumphalist religion, but of a mystery: “the fullness of the Gentiles” must come in, and “all Israel will be saved.” This does not refer narrowly to a Jewish genetic remnant, though such lineages carry immense weight and testimony. Rather, Paul’s vision—like the prophets before him—points to a covenantal remnant, a body formed in exile and refined in suffering, whose faithfulness transcends both nation and institution.
This is why Zionism must be critiqued. However much it may claim to fulfill prophetic hope, it often forfeits the messianic ethic for the machinery of statehood. Zionism may preserve land and language, but the true Zion remains above—and the true Israel remains scattered, bruised, and faithful. What remains holy is not merely the seedline or the soil, but those who, wherever they are, bear the oracles with trembling and refuse the seductions of empire.
This brings us to what must be called the Trail of Blood—the hidden remnant, both Jewish and Gentile, whose lives bear the weight of covenant across the ages. These include:
These are not aberrations—they are true Israel in exile. They form what might be called a subterranean Qahal, sustained by the Spirit and Torah even when cast out by religious and political authorities. The Book of Revelation recognizes them as those “who come out of the great tribulation” (Rev. 7:14), clothed in white, washed in the Lamb’s blood—not in triumph but in testimony.
This is where Torat Edom both affirms and extends Benamozegh’s insight. He rightly saw Christianity as a providential outer court for the nations. But we must go further: the fullness of the Gentiles includes not only Rome’s baptized populations, but the persecuted remnant, the wounded olive branches, the communities who bore witness outside institutional power. Their suffering was not marginal—it was covenantal.
Soloveitchik insisted that Judaism must not compromise its unique covenantal mission to fit Christian categories. And yet, in acknowledging the parallel aspirations of faith—repentance, redemption, and messianic longing—he opened a door to a more mature mutual respect. He saw in Christianity a sincere religious striving, albeit one grounded in a different metaphysical grammar. His existential concern with Halakhah as the embodiment of divine-human relationship echoed across the Jewish-Christian divide: while Christians often elevate faith above law, Soloveitchik reclaims law as intimacy—a rhythm of divine presence in daily life. This, he believed, could be appreciated but not shared across traditions.
For those engaged in a Torat Edom perspective—seeking to integrate rabbinic fidelity with covenantal reconciliation—Soloveitchik provides a crucial pivot. Unlike polemical anti-Christian strands in traditional Jewish thought, his writing demonstrates that Christianity need not be reduced to idolatry or dismissed as illegitimate. Rather, it can be acknowledged as a providential phenomenon, deserving of respect, even if theological boundaries remain firm. In this way, he continues the arc begun by Maimonides and extended by thinkers like Emden and Benamozegh: a cautious, but open, engagement with the nations through the lens of covenant.
If Emden recognized Christianity’s ethical benefit to the nations, and Benamozegh saw it as a legitimate “outer court” within God’s providence, then Soloveitchik reminded the Jewish people to hold their ground—not in arrogance, but in faithfulness. His contribution is not merely academic; it is a safeguard against a false unity that forgets the particular. And yet, in honoring the Jewish path so deeply, he carved a space for Christian recognition without theological collapse—a delicate but necessary stance for any serious rapprochement.
Messiah ben David, Suffering, and the Redemption of Edom
A key component in this reconciliation is the figure of the Messiah. Jewish tradition speaks of Mashiach ben David – the ultimate descendant of David who will reign in the age of perfection – and also of Mashiach ben Yosef – a preceding messianic figure who suffers and prepares the way (based on passages like Zechariah 12:10). Christianity of course identifies Jesus as the Messiah (ben David) who came, suffered, died, and was exalted to heaven, awaiting a second coming. From a Jewish standpoint, Jesus did not fulfill the Davidic messianic roles of ingathering Israel, world peace, and universal knowledge of God. However, the perspectives we are exploring allow for a more nuanced view: that Jesus’ messianic role was real, but directed toward the nations (Edom) as part of a long-term divine plan. In effect, one might say that the soul of Messiah ben David has already manifested (in a hidden way), planting the seed of messianic faith among the gentiles, while the final corporeal fulfillment of Messiah ben David’s reign lies in the future.
This could align with the idea in Kabbalah that the messianic light has been in the world in potential since the destruction of the Second Temple (some say the Messiah was born on Tisha B’Av 70 CE, the day Rome burned the Temple). In other words, the Messiah entered Edom’s story at the very moment Edom seemingly triumphed over Israel, sanctifying the “field” of Edom with his blood, as a hidden precursor to redemption.
The suffering and enthronement of the Messiah – central tenets of Christianity – can be given a covenantal reading in Jewish terms. Rather than seeing Jesus’ crucifixion by Rome as proof of his falsehood (the classical rabbinic stance), the Emden/Falk perspective sees it as a paradoxical victory: through this suffering, the message of Israel’s God was carried into the heart of Edom. Edom/Rome intended harm, yet God used it for good (echoing Joseph’s words to his brothers in Genesis 50:20). Just as Joseph’s descent into Egypt eventually saved his family, so the Messiah’s descent (as it were) into Edom laid groundwork for Edom’s own salvation – without validating Edom’s cruelty. In Midrashic terms, the goat (Esau) slaughtered the lamb, but the blood of the lamb cried out from the ground.
Christianity as a Noahide Carrier of Light
Benamozegh’s theology also embraces the Noahide framework. Christianity, in his view, has effectively carried the seven universal laws—though it often buried them under metaphysical confusion. Still, the essence remained: belief in one God, moral responsibility, and a longing for redemption.
This aligns precisely with Emden’s reading of Christianity’s global impact, and Falk’s depiction of Paul as a Noahide emissary. Benamozegh’s contribution is to anchor this in theological anthropology: God created diverse nations for a reason, and each has a place within the wider covenantal symphony. The task is not for the nations to become Jews, but to recognize Israel’s priesthood and walk humbly with God.
Benamozegh and the Return of the Brothers
Like the Netziv and others who foresaw Esau’s eventual return with a “pure spirit,” Benamozegh envisions Christianity turning toward Israel not in conquest but in honor.
This is not mere optimism—it is covenantal logic. He writes:
“Christianity, in its better moments, is already in the service of the unity of God… All that remains is for Israel to be acknowledged as its root.”
In Torat Edom terms, Benamozegh completes the triad:Emden defends the goodness in Jesus and his apostles.Falk locates them in a legitimate intra-Jewish tradition.Benamozegh gives Christianity its place in the divine architecture of nations.
In this, Benamozegh does not spiritualize the split—he theologically reframes it. The exile of the Messiah into Edom was not a rejection of Israel, but a strategic dispersion of divine light. Christianity bore that light—dimmed, at times distorted—but never fully severed from the Source.
Historical Context: Benamozegh in the Shadow of Rome
It is essential to recognize that Benamozegh’s vision emerged during the rise of Vatican I, a council which codified papal infallibility and marked the height of Rome’s claim to religious centrality. In this climate of theological imperialism, Benamozegh’s call for a partnership between Israel and Christianity is all the more remarkable—and all the more in need of remnant critique. From a Torat Edom perspective, his universalism must be measured not only against rabbinic resistance, but against the imperial structures that sought to define Christianity as coterminous with ecclesiastical Rome. Benamozegh saw the nations through the lens of covenant, not conquest. Yet the world around him was rapidly being shaped by a Rome that had baptized power, not humility. Thus, his theology must be received as a bold testimony—but also reinterpreted from within the remnant theology of exile, where the outer court becomes a place not of papal throne, but of prophetic groaning.
Remnant Theology in Exile: The Trail of Blood and the Fullness of Israel
Returning to the insights of Rabbi Elijah Benamozegh, we must also recall the Apostle Paul’s vision in Romans 11. There, he speaks not of a triumphalist religion, but of a mystery: “the fullness of the Gentiles” must come in, and “all Israel will be saved.” This does not refer narrowly to a Jewish genetic remnant, though such lineages carry immense weight and testimony. Rather, Paul’s vision—like the prophets before him—points to a covenantal remnant, a body formed in exile and refined in suffering, whose faithfulness transcends both nation and institution.
This is why Zionism must be critiqued. However much it may claim to fulfill prophetic hope, it often forfeits the messianic ethic for the machinery of statehood. Zionism may preserve land and language, but the true Zion remains above—and the true Israel remains scattered, bruised, and faithful. What remains holy is not merely the seedline or the soil, but those who, wherever they are, bear the oracles with trembling and refuse the seductions of empire.
This brings us to what must be called the Trail of Blood—the hidden remnant, both Jewish and Gentile, whose lives bear the weight of covenant across the ages. These include:
The desposyni—Jesus’ family and disciples, exiled from both synagogue and churchThe early Jewish believers, anathematized by the Birkat HaMinim.The Nazarenes, who maintained Torah observance and messianic faith under Roman suspicion.The nonconforming Christian communities—Waldensians, Donatists, Anabaptists, and others—who refused to bow to the imperial church.The righteous among the nations, who walked humbly, loved mercy, and recognized Israel’s God despite ecclesial distortion.
These are not aberrations—they are true Israel in exile. They form what might be called a subterranean Qahal, sustained by the Spirit and Torah even when cast out by religious and political authorities. The Book of Revelation recognizes them as those “who come out of the great tribulation” (Rev. 7:14), clothed in white, washed in the Lamb’s blood—not in triumph but in testimony.
This is where Torat Edom both affirms and extends Benamozegh’s insight. He rightly saw Christianity as a providential outer court for the nations. But we must go further: the fullness of the Gentiles includes not only Rome’s baptized populations, but the persecuted remnant, the wounded olive branches, the communities who bore witness outside institutional power. Their suffering was not marginal—it was covenantal.
Here is the crux: true Israel is not merely preserved—it is crucified and raised. It is not defined by bloodline alone, nor by ecclesiastical claim, but by covenantal endurance—the willingness to be rejected, to suffer, and to wait for the mountain of the Lord (Micah 4). Whether Jewish or Gentile, the remnant is known by its faithfulness to the covenant and its refusal to curse the Name.
As we move toward reconciliation, we must recover this remnant theology in exile. It is not nostalgic—it is eschatological. It reminds us that the kingdom comes not by might, but by the Lamb. And those who follow Him—whether from the house of Jacob or the gates of Edom—are drawn together in the one Qahal of God.
Elijah Soloveitchik’s Significance for Understanding Christianity
The Soloveitchik dynasty, culminating in figures like Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, emerged as a central voice in articulating the philosophical and halakhic integrity of modern Orthodoxy. While not always focused directly on Christianity, their thought—rooted in the Brisker derech and refined through existential philosophy—offers a profound lens for reframing the Jewish-Christian encounter. In particular, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s essay Confrontation (1964) has often been seen as a barrier to theological dialogue.
As we move toward reconciliation, we must recover this remnant theology in exile. It is not nostalgic—it is eschatological. It reminds us that the kingdom comes not by might, but by the Lamb. And those who follow Him—whether from the house of Jacob or the gates of Edom—are drawn together in the one Qahal of God.
Elijah Soloveitchik’s Significance for Understanding Christianity
The Soloveitchik dynasty, culminating in figures like Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, emerged as a central voice in articulating the philosophical and halakhic integrity of modern Orthodoxy. While not always focused directly on Christianity, their thought—rooted in the Brisker derech and refined through existential philosophy—offers a profound lens for reframing the Jewish-Christian encounter. In particular, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s essay Confrontation (1964) has often been seen as a barrier to theological dialogue.
Yet, beneath its caution lies a deeper recognition: that Christianity and Judaism, while metaphysically divided, are historically entwined, and that the Jewish covenant must be safeguarded not only from assimilation, but from premature fusion.
Soloveitchik insisted that Judaism must not compromise its unique covenantal mission to fit Christian categories. And yet, in acknowledging the parallel aspirations of faith—repentance, redemption, and messianic longing—he opened a door to a more mature mutual respect. He saw in Christianity a sincere religious striving, albeit one grounded in a different metaphysical grammar. His existential concern with Halakhah as the embodiment of divine-human relationship echoed across the Jewish-Christian divide: while Christians often elevate faith above law, Soloveitchik reclaims law as intimacy—a rhythm of divine presence in daily life. This, he believed, could be appreciated but not shared across traditions.
For those engaged in a Torat Edom perspective—seeking to integrate rabbinic fidelity with covenantal reconciliation—Soloveitchik provides a crucial pivot. Unlike polemical anti-Christian strands in traditional Jewish thought, his writing demonstrates that Christianity need not be reduced to idolatry or dismissed as illegitimate. Rather, it can be acknowledged as a providential phenomenon, deserving of respect, even if theological boundaries remain firm. In this way, he continues the arc begun by Maimonides and extended by thinkers like Emden and Benamozegh: a cautious, but open, engagement with the nations through the lens of covenant.
If Emden recognized Christianity’s ethical benefit to the nations, and Benamozegh saw it as a legitimate “outer court” within God’s providence, then Soloveitchik reminded the Jewish people to hold their ground—not in arrogance, but in faithfulness. His contribution is not merely academic; it is a safeguard against a false unity that forgets the particular. And yet, in honoring the Jewish path so deeply, he carved a space for Christian recognition without theological collapse—a delicate but necessary stance for any serious rapprochement.
Messiah ben David, Suffering, and the Redemption of Edom
A key component in this reconciliation is the figure of the Messiah. Jewish tradition speaks of Mashiach ben David – the ultimate descendant of David who will reign in the age of perfection – and also of Mashiach ben Yosef – a preceding messianic figure who suffers and prepares the way (based on passages like Zechariah 12:10). Christianity of course identifies Jesus as the Messiah (ben David) who came, suffered, died, and was exalted to heaven, awaiting a second coming. From a Jewish standpoint, Jesus did not fulfill the Davidic messianic roles of ingathering Israel, world peace, and universal knowledge of God. However, the perspectives we are exploring allow for a more nuanced view: that Jesus’ messianic role was real, but directed toward the nations (Edom) as part of a long-term divine plan. In effect, one might say that the soul of Messiah ben David has already manifested (in a hidden way), planting the seed of messianic faith among the gentiles, while the final corporeal fulfillment of Messiah ben David’s reign lies in the future.
This could align with the idea in Kabbalah that the messianic light has been in the world in potential since the destruction of the Second Temple (some say the Messiah was born on Tisha B’Av 70 CE, the day Rome burned the Temple). In other words, the Messiah entered Edom’s story at the very moment Edom seemingly triumphed over Israel, sanctifying the “field” of Edom with his blood, as a hidden precursor to redemption.
The suffering and enthronement of the Messiah – central tenets of Christianity – can be given a covenantal reading in Jewish terms. Rather than seeing Jesus’ crucifixion by Rome as proof of his falsehood (the classical rabbinic stance), the Emden/Falk perspective sees it as a paradoxical victory: through this suffering, the message of Israel’s God was carried into the heart of Edom. Edom/Rome intended harm, yet God used it for good (echoing Joseph’s words to his brothers in Genesis 50:20). Just as Joseph’s descent into Egypt eventually saved his family, so the Messiah’s descent (as it were) into Edom laid groundwork for Edom’s own salvation – without validating Edom’s cruelty. In Midrashic terms, the goat (Esau) slaughtered the lamb, but the blood of the lamb cried out from the ground.
The Book of Revelation (a very Jewish-Christian text) depicts the Messiah as a slain Lamb on God’s throne – a striking image that resonates with the Akedah (binding of Isaac) and the idea of vicarious atonement in Isaiah 53. Jewish mystics did not read Revelation, but they had analogous concepts: the Messianic sufferings (yesurim of Mashiach) that help atone for the world, and the idea that the Messiah sits at “the gate of Rome” among the lepers, bandaging their wounds (as in a famous story in Sanhedrin 98a). That Talmudic story is highly symbolic: the suffering Messiah is at the gates of Rome (Edom) – meaning the redemption is germinating precisely at the doorstep of Edom, in the depths of exile and pain.
All of this points to a divine strategy: God allowed Edom to conquer Jerusalem, and allowed the Messiah to be seemingly defeated, in order to extend the covenant to the nations while Israel itself went into exile. This was a hidden form of covenantal inclusion. Christianity, even as it adopted a triumphalist stance for many centuries, paradoxically enshrined a crucified Jew at the center of its faith – thus unwittingly keeping the memory and message of Israel’s Messiah alive through the long night of Jewish exile.
All of this points to a divine strategy: God allowed Edom to conquer Jerusalem, and allowed the Messiah to be seemingly defeated, in order to extend the covenant to the nations while Israel itself went into exile. This was a hidden form of covenantal inclusion. Christianity, even as it adopted a triumphalist stance for many centuries, paradoxically enshrined a crucified Jew at the center of its faith – thus unwittingly keeping the memory and message of Israel’s Messiah alive through the long night of Jewish exile.
In this sense, Edom (Christian civilization) carried the mantle of Messiah (though not the full reality of messianic peace) until such a time when Israel and the Messiah can be reunited in the open. The enthronement of Messiah in heaven that Christians proclaim can be seen as meaning that the Messiah’s mission among the nations has indeed borne fruit (billions worship the God of Israel because of him), but the messianic mission to Israel – to complete the covenantal promises – awaits completion.
Importantly, this view does not endorse the coercive “Christian” conquests and persecutions as legitimate. Rather, it asserts that God can write straight with crooked lines. The crimes done by “Edom” (the Crusades, inquisitions, forced conversions, antisemitism) remain crimes – yet God in his providence can turn even those dark episodes toward a greater light. For example, the Spanish expulsion of Jews in 1492, while a tragedy, indirectly led to Jews spreading to new lands and also coincided with Columbus’ voyage that would eventually give Jews haven in a New World.
Importantly, this view does not endorse the coercive “Christian” conquests and persecutions as legitimate. Rather, it asserts that God can write straight with crooked lines. The crimes done by “Edom” (the Crusades, inquisitions, forced conversions, antisemitism) remain crimes – yet God in his providence can turn even those dark episodes toward a greater light. For example, the Spanish expulsion of Jews in 1492, while a tragedy, indirectly led to Jews spreading to new lands and also coincided with Columbus’ voyage that would eventually give Jews haven in a New World.
In a theological sense, one could say Edom’s guilt will be judged, but Edom’s spark of goodness – what the prophets call the “remnant of Edom” – will be saved. The prophet Amos foresaw that in the messianic age, “the fallen booth of David” will be raised so that “the remnant of Edom and all the nations who are called by My name” shall come in (Amos 9:11-12). Notably, in the New Testament book of Acts (15:16-18), Jesus’ brother James quotes this verse, interpreting “Edom” as symbolizing the Gentiles called to God. Thus, both Jewish and Christian Scriptures point to Edom’s inclusion in the final covenant. God’s plan was always to reconcile Jacob and Esau.
Toward Reconciliation: “In the End of Days…”
After tracing these threads – historical, mystical, and theological – we arrive at a hopeful vision: Judaism and Christianity journeying from confrontation to convergence, from rupture to repair. The stage is being set in our era for what we might call a “Torat Edom” reconciliation, wherein “the Torah shall go forth from Zion” openly and “the word of the Lord from Jerusalem” to all nations, even as those nations, heir to Christianity, bring their gifts and homage to the God of Israel. In practical terms, this means Jews and Christians learning to see each other through the eyes of covenant rather than conversion. For Jews, it means recognizing that Christianity – even with theological differences – has been an instrument in God’s plan to bring billions of people to acknowledge the God of Abraham and the values of the Torah (at least in part).
Toward Reconciliation: “In the End of Days…”
After tracing these threads – historical, mystical, and theological – we arrive at a hopeful vision: Judaism and Christianity journeying from confrontation to convergence, from rupture to repair. The stage is being set in our era for what we might call a “Torat Edom” reconciliation, wherein “the Torah shall go forth from Zion” openly and “the word of the Lord from Jerusalem” to all nations, even as those nations, heir to Christianity, bring their gifts and homage to the God of Israel. In practical terms, this means Jews and Christians learning to see each other through the eyes of covenant rather than conversion. For Jews, it means recognizing that Christianity – even with theological differences – has been an instrument in God’s plan to bring billions of people to acknowledge the God of Abraham and the values of the Torah (at least in part).
For Christians, it means recognizing Israel’s ongoing covenant with God and the Jewish people’s role as the elder brother who remained faithful to the Torah. Both sides have had a part of the truth; now those parts are finding each other. As one modern Orthodox statement beautifully put it: “God employs many messengers to reveal His truth,” and “we are no longer enemies, but unequivocal partners in articulating the essential moral values for the survival and welfare of humanity.” . The old Esau-Jacob rivalry is giving way to a new paradigm of partnership under one Father.
The culmination of this process is nothing less than the Messianic Age foreseen by the prophets. Micah 4 paints the picture in language nearly identical to Isaiah 2: “It shall come to pass in the latter days that the mountain of the House of the LORD shall be established as the highest of mountains… And many nations shall come and say: ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD, to the house of the God of Jacob, that He may teach us His ways and we may walk in His paths.’ For out of Zion shall go forth the Torah, and the word of the LORD from Jerusalem. He shall judge between many peoples, and shall decide for strong nations far away; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares…nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.”
The culmination of this process is nothing less than the Messianic Age foreseen by the prophets. Micah 4 paints the picture in language nearly identical to Isaiah 2: “It shall come to pass in the latter days that the mountain of the House of the LORD shall be established as the highest of mountains… And many nations shall come and say: ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD, to the house of the God of Jacob, that He may teach us His ways and we may walk in His paths.’ For out of Zion shall go forth the Torah, and the word of the LORD from Jerusalem. He shall judge between many peoples, and shall decide for strong nations far away; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares…nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.”
In that vision, many nations (which would include the erstwhile Edom) willingly seek instruction from the God of Jacob. There is no more religious war or coercion – no more crusade or jihad, no more forced conversion or rejection – for “they shall not hurt nor destroy” anymore. Each people finds its place under God’s canopy. The Torah of Israel and the Messiah of Israel converge in a harmonious testimony, as “the knowledge of God covers the earth as waters cover the sea” (Isaiah 11:9).
In Jewish midrashic imagination, even Edom/Rome will finally undergo tikkun and be incorporated. One midrash says that in the end of days, Rome will be rebuilt to serve Jerusalem – a poetic way to say the wealth and power of the West will be put in service of the true spiritual center. The Zohar, as noted, describes this as the sparks of Edom being uplifted and its excess gevurah (power) balanced . The rabbinic sages taught that “the son of David [the Messiah] will not come until the imperial power of Rome is gone”, but they also said “the son of David will not come until all souls/sparks are refined”. These statements converge when we understand that “Rome” as an oppressive force will vanish, but the souls of Rome – the people – will be refined and redeemed. No nation is permanently estranged when redemption comes . God’s covenant with Abraham will prove expansive enough to enfold even those who were once enemies.
Toward that goal, our task now is to seek repair (tikkun) in practical ways. It means engaging in sincere dialogue, extending forgiveness, and standing together for the ethical monotheism we share. It means Jews exemplifying holiness and Torah without fear of Christians, and Christians renouncing triumphalism and acknowledging the Jewish roots of their faith. It means finding common cause in justice and compassion – being, as the prophets enjoin, a “light to the nations” together, so that, as Zephaniah prophesied, God will “transform the peoples to a pure language that they may all call upon the Name of the LORD to serve Him with one accord”.
Perhaps, the journey of Jacob and Esau – of Israel and Edom – is reaching its resolution in our time. What began as a family quarrel and spiraled into long centuries of strife is now, by the grace of God, swinging back toward brotherhood. The covenant was broken in part, but its pieces are being brought back together. As Jacob Emden and others dared to believe, Christianity carried a spark of the covenant through the ages so that the knowledge of God would reach the ends of the earth.
In Jewish midrashic imagination, even Edom/Rome will finally undergo tikkun and be incorporated. One midrash says that in the end of days, Rome will be rebuilt to serve Jerusalem – a poetic way to say the wealth and power of the West will be put in service of the true spiritual center. The Zohar, as noted, describes this as the sparks of Edom being uplifted and its excess gevurah (power) balanced . The rabbinic sages taught that “the son of David [the Messiah] will not come until the imperial power of Rome is gone”, but they also said “the son of David will not come until all souls/sparks are refined”. These statements converge when we understand that “Rome” as an oppressive force will vanish, but the souls of Rome – the people – will be refined and redeemed. No nation is permanently estranged when redemption comes . God’s covenant with Abraham will prove expansive enough to enfold even those who were once enemies.
Toward that goal, our task now is to seek repair (tikkun) in practical ways. It means engaging in sincere dialogue, extending forgiveness, and standing together for the ethical monotheism we share. It means Jews exemplifying holiness and Torah without fear of Christians, and Christians renouncing triumphalism and acknowledging the Jewish roots of their faith. It means finding common cause in justice and compassion – being, as the prophets enjoin, a “light to the nations” together, so that, as Zephaniah prophesied, God will “transform the peoples to a pure language that they may all call upon the Name of the LORD to serve Him with one accord”.
Perhaps, the journey of Jacob and Esau – of Israel and Edom – is reaching its resolution in our time. What began as a family quarrel and spiraled into long centuries of strife is now, by the grace of God, swinging back toward brotherhood. The covenant was broken in part, but its pieces are being brought back together. As Jacob Emden and others dared to believe, Christianity carried a spark of the covenant through the ages so that the knowledge of God would reach the ends of the earth.
Now the children of Esau are awakening with a “pure spirit” to acknowledge Israel’s role, and the children of Jacob are beginning to see Esau not as an inveterate foe but as a long-lost brother, bearing gifts and asking to be included in the family blessing.
This is “Toward Repair” – the movement of healing that is ultimately God’s work. And in that healing, the words of the prophet Micah ring true: “We will walk in the name of the LORD our God forever and ever” – together. The covenant with Edom, once shattered, will be mended in the one Kingdom of God, when “the LORD shall be King over all the earth” on that day (Zechariah 14:9) and “nation shall not lift up sword against nation” anymore.
A key dimension in the reconciliation between Israel and Edom—between Judaism and Christianity—is the question of the Messiah. Classical Jewish tradition anticipates two messianic figures: Mashiach ben Yosef, the suffering and preparatory messiah, and Mashiach ben David, the reigning messiah who completes the redemptive work. This split, as noted by scholars like Mitchell, has often created typological tension but also opens a profound theological window: what Christianity has long seen as a first and second coming, Judaism anticipated in a dual-messianic frame—one veiled in suffering, the other in victory.
Christian theology historically confuses the two, reading Jesus’ entire mission through a victorious lens, despite the suffering that defined his earthly life. Meanwhile, Jewish tradition often hesitates to accept suffering as redemptive at all. But if we take seriously the typology—without absolutizing the split—we begin to see a deeper harmony. Jesus, as the suffering Messiah ben Joseph, laid the groundwork within Edom through the scandal of the cross, but the Messiah ben David is not abolished.
A key dimension in the reconciliation between Israel and Edom—between Judaism and Christianity—is the question of the Messiah. Classical Jewish tradition anticipates two messianic figures: Mashiach ben Yosef, the suffering and preparatory messiah, and Mashiach ben David, the reigning messiah who completes the redemptive work. This split, as noted by scholars like Mitchell, has often created typological tension but also opens a profound theological window: what Christianity has long seen as a first and second coming, Judaism anticipated in a dual-messianic frame—one veiled in suffering, the other in victory.
Christian theology historically confuses the two, reading Jesus’ entire mission through a victorious lens, despite the suffering that defined his earthly life. Meanwhile, Jewish tradition often hesitates to accept suffering as redemptive at all. But if we take seriously the typology—without absolutizing the split—we begin to see a deeper harmony. Jesus, as the suffering Messiah ben Joseph, laid the groundwork within Edom through the scandal of the cross, but the Messiah ben David is not abolished.
Rather, he is concealed—awaiting his full unveiling not in Rome, but in Zion.
This is where Pentecost must be re-examined. The descent of the Spirit at Shavuot was not merely the birth of the church—it was the ingathering of nations under a restored Sinai. In Acts 2, the nations hear the word of God in their own tongues, not to erase Israel, but to testify that the covenant is spreading outward through fire and breath. Jesus’ high priestly prayer in John 17—“that they may be one as We are one”—is not the call for ecclesial uniformity, but covenantal unity: Jew and Gentile bound together in the Spirit of holiness, each in their own calling, yet sharing the same breath.
Even Islam, which misidentifies the Paraclete with Muhammad, preserves a faint echo of this impulse. The Qur’anic recognition of the Holy Spirit (Ruh al-Qudus)—while reframed within Islamic theology—points to a desire for guidance, unity, and prophetic presence that reflects a longing for the same Pentecostal fire. This is not to equate, but to trace sparks: the yearning of Ishmael, like that of Esau, remains part of the divine story. Their distortion is real, but so is their hunger for covenantal nearness.
In this light, Zionism must be critically distinguished from the true messianic hope.
This is where Pentecost must be re-examined. The descent of the Spirit at Shavuot was not merely the birth of the church—it was the ingathering of nations under a restored Sinai. In Acts 2, the nations hear the word of God in their own tongues, not to erase Israel, but to testify that the covenant is spreading outward through fire and breath. Jesus’ high priestly prayer in John 17—“that they may be one as We are one”—is not the call for ecclesial uniformity, but covenantal unity: Jew and Gentile bound together in the Spirit of holiness, each in their own calling, yet sharing the same breath.
Even Islam, which misidentifies the Paraclete with Muhammad, preserves a faint echo of this impulse. The Qur’anic recognition of the Holy Spirit (Ruh al-Qudus)—while reframed within Islamic theology—points to a desire for guidance, unity, and prophetic presence that reflects a longing for the same Pentecostal fire. This is not to equate, but to trace sparks: the yearning of Ishmael, like that of Esau, remains part of the divine story. Their distortion is real, but so is their hunger for covenantal nearness.
In this light, Zionism must be critically distinguished from the true messianic hope.
While it has preserved Jewish identity and gathered exiles, it has often done so without the fire of the Spirit or the humility of the cross. It claims to prepare for the Messiah, yet often silences the very suffering that identifies the true servant. As such, Zionism may build a house, but it cannot make it a dwelling place for God. Isaiah 66:1 declares: “Heaven is My throne and the earth is My footstool; what house will you build for Me?” The remnant, not the state, is God’s resting place
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The suffering and enthronement of Jesus—central to Christian proclamation—thus finds covenantal reinterpretation. The crucifixion by Rome was not proof of falsehood, but a paradoxical coronation: Rome crowned a Jew with thorns, and in doing so, unknowingly enthroned the One who bore both Jacob’s wounds and Edom’s burden.
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The suffering and enthronement of Jesus—central to Christian proclamation—thus finds covenantal reinterpretation. The crucifixion by Rome was not proof of falsehood, but a paradoxical coronation: Rome crowned a Jew with thorns, and in doing so, unknowingly enthroned the One who bore both Jacob’s wounds and Edom’s burden.
As Joseph’s descent into Egypt saved his brothers, so the Messiah’s descent into Edom prepared the nations for a covenant they had not yet known.
This is the mystery of Romans 11—“the fullness of the Gentiles” must come in, not to replace Israel, but to provoke her to jealousy, and ultimately, restoration. Edom carried the messianic mantle outward, but only in part. The true reconciliation—between Messiah ben David and Messiah ben Joseph, between law and Spirit, between Jew and Gentile—comes not in a second advent of domination, but in the unveiling of the Servant who never left.
In the end, the sword of Revelation is not one of conquest, but of truth. It proceeds from the mouth, not the hand. The Lamb is slain, not slaying. He stands at the gate of Rome, as the Talmud says, bandaging the world’s wounds. And the Spirit—misnamed, misunderstood, but never extinguished—continues to hover, drawing all things into the unity of God’s name.
Bibliography
Jacob Emden (Ya‘avetz) – Seder Olam Rabbah Vezuta (1757), Appendix. (Translated in Jacob J. Schacter, “Rabbi Jacob Emden’s Views on Christianity,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies 19:1, Winter 1982) . Emden’s letter analyzing Christianity’s positive role for Gentiles and upholding Torah for Jews.
Harvey Falk – Jesus the Pharisee: A New Look at the Jewishness of Jesus. New York: Paulist Press, 1985 . Proposes that Jesus aligned with Hillel’s school to bring Noahide monotheism to the Gentiles, retrieving Rabbi Emden’s approach.
This is the mystery of Romans 11—“the fullness of the Gentiles” must come in, not to replace Israel, but to provoke her to jealousy, and ultimately, restoration. Edom carried the messianic mantle outward, but only in part. The true reconciliation—between Messiah ben David and Messiah ben Joseph, between law and Spirit, between Jew and Gentile—comes not in a second advent of domination, but in the unveiling of the Servant who never left.
In the end, the sword of Revelation is not one of conquest, but of truth. It proceeds from the mouth, not the hand. The Lamb is slain, not slaying. He stands at the gate of Rome, as the Talmud says, bandaging the world’s wounds. And the Spirit—misnamed, misunderstood, but never extinguished—continues to hover, drawing all things into the unity of God’s name.
Bibliography
Jacob Emden (Ya‘avetz) – Seder Olam Rabbah Vezuta (1757), Appendix. (Translated in Jacob J. Schacter, “Rabbi Jacob Emden’s Views on Christianity,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies 19:1, Winter 1982) . Emden’s letter analyzing Christianity’s positive role for Gentiles and upholding Torah for Jews.
Harvey Falk – Jesus the Pharisee: A New Look at the Jewishness of Jesus. New York: Paulist Press, 1985 . Proposes that Jesus aligned with Hillel’s school to bring Noahide monotheism to the Gentiles, retrieving Rabbi Emden’s approach.
The Zohar – Sefer ha-Zohar, Midrash ha-Ne’elam on Genesis. (Zohar III 135a–136b on the “Kings of Edom”) . Interprets the eight kings of Edom who “died” as mystical symbols of the primordial worlds that shattered, whose repair will come in the messianic future.
Lurianic Kabbalah (R. Isaac Luria) – Etz Chaim, Heichal Alef, Sha’ar 3 (Shevirat HaKelim) . Systematizes the doctrine of the breaking of vessels and the scattering of holy sparks in “Edom,” to be rectified by Israel through Torah and mitzvot.
Elijah Benamozegh – Israel and Humanity, trans. Maxwell Luria (New York: Paulist Press, 1995). A theological exploration of Judaism’s role among the nations and the providential role of Christianity as a partial carrier of divine truth for the gentile world.
Midrash and Talmud – e.g. Genesis Rabbah 78: Esau’s kiss interpretation; Sanhedrin 98a: Messiah at the gates of Rome; Avodah Zarah 2a: Rome’s role in the End of Days. Provide allegorical background for seeing Edom as ultimately reconciled with Israel.
Maimonides – Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Melakhim (Laws of Kings) ch. 11 . Explicitly states that Christianity (and Islam) are part of God’s plan to prepare the world for the true Messiah, by spreading knowledge of the one God and the scriptures.
Orthodox Rabbinic Statements – To Do the Will of Our Father in Heaven: Toward a Partnership Between Jews and Christians (2015) . Quotes Rabbi Samson R. Hirsch and the Netziv on the divine mission of Christianity and the future recognition between Esau (Christians) and Jacob (Jews).
Scripture (Tanakh) – Micah 4:1-5 , Amos 9:11-12, Isaiah 2:2-4, Zephaniah 3:9, Obadiah 1:21. Biblical prophecies that envision the gentile nations (including Edom) turning to God in the end of days and joining Israel in a covenant of peace.
Lurianic Kabbalah (R. Isaac Luria) – Etz Chaim, Heichal Alef, Sha’ar 3 (Shevirat HaKelim) . Systematizes the doctrine of the breaking of vessels and the scattering of holy sparks in “Edom,” to be rectified by Israel through Torah and mitzvot.
Elijah Benamozegh – Israel and Humanity, trans. Maxwell Luria (New York: Paulist Press, 1995). A theological exploration of Judaism’s role among the nations and the providential role of Christianity as a partial carrier of divine truth for the gentile world.
Midrash and Talmud – e.g. Genesis Rabbah 78: Esau’s kiss interpretation; Sanhedrin 98a: Messiah at the gates of Rome; Avodah Zarah 2a: Rome’s role in the End of Days. Provide allegorical background for seeing Edom as ultimately reconciled with Israel.
Maimonides – Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Melakhim (Laws of Kings) ch. 11 . Explicitly states that Christianity (and Islam) are part of God’s plan to prepare the world for the true Messiah, by spreading knowledge of the one God and the scriptures.
Orthodox Rabbinic Statements – To Do the Will of Our Father in Heaven: Toward a Partnership Between Jews and Christians (2015) . Quotes Rabbi Samson R. Hirsch and the Netziv on the divine mission of Christianity and the future recognition between Esau (Christians) and Jacob (Jews).
Scripture (Tanakh) – Micah 4:1-5 , Amos 9:11-12, Isaiah 2:2-4, Zephaniah 3:9, Obadiah 1:21. Biblical prophecies that envision the gentile nations (including Edom) turning to God in the end of days and joining Israel in a covenant of peace.
