Introduction:
In the tapestry of biblical faith, there are golden threads often overlooked: a Messiah concealed behind layers of tradition, and a Torah whose deeper wisdom lies just out of sight. Like Joseph recognized by his brothers only after a long disguise, Yeshua the Messiah has been veiled in unexpected ways, and the true richness of God’s Torah has at times been hidden beneath surface readings. This essay invites evangelical readers on a journey to peel back those layers – to rediscover Yeshua as Sar ha Panim (the Prince of the Presence) in the Jewish chain of tradition, and to uncover the “hidden Torah” of deeper understanding that undergirds the New Testament message.
Along the way, we will contrast the authentic Yeshua with a distorted counterfeit (Yeshu haNotzri), explore how the Apostolic decree in Acts 15 established a covenant framework for the nations, and see how the ancient Greek Bible (the LXX) served as a vessel of Jewish oral teaching in disguise. We will also question whether the medieval Masoretes (guardians of the Hebrew text) preserved or narrowed that ancient heritage, and examine the role of Edom (Rome/Christendom) – a theme that becomes a theological mirror held up to the Western and Eastern Church. In doing so, we follow a narrative path, accessible yet thought-provoking, with embedded footnotes guiding deeper reflection. The hope is to spark a paradigm shift: to behold the Messiah unveiled and the Torah’s wisdom unsealed.
Yeshua as Sar haPanim: The Prince of the Presence in Jewish Tradition
One of the most startling revelations comes from within a very clear and documented Jewish tradition itself which explains the theophanies in the Hebew scriptures or Old Testament: Yeshua is identified as “Sar haPanim,” the Prince of the Presence (or Face) of God. This title, Sar haPanim, denotes an exalted figure who ministers in the very presence of God’s throne – an office associated in some Jewish literature with angels like Metatron (Enoch transformed) and the loftiest of heavenly priests and more speculative. Remarkably, in the majority of pre-WW 2 versions of the Yom Kippur Machzor (prayer book), a prayer concerning the Shofar blasts invokes “Yeshua Sar haPanim” alongside Elijah and the angel Metatron. This references have been edited out in recent ones published by Art Scroll, owned by Chabad.
One of the most startling revelations comes from within a very clear and documented Jewish tradition itself which explains the theophanies in the Hebew scriptures or Old Testament: Yeshua is identified as “Sar haPanim,” the Prince of the Presence (or Face) of God. This title, Sar haPanim, denotes an exalted figure who ministers in the very presence of God’s throne – an office associated in some Jewish literature with angels like Metatron (Enoch transformed) and the loftiest of heavenly priests and more speculative. Remarkably, in the majority of pre-WW 2 versions of the Yom Kippur Machzor (prayer book), a prayer concerning the Shofar blasts invokes “Yeshua Sar haPanim” alongside Elijah and the angel Metatron. This references have been edited out in recent ones published by Art Scroll, owned by Chabad.
For the most part, Metatron is known as a high-ranking angelic figure in Jewish mysticism, often described as the heavenly scribe or Prince of the Presence (Sar haPanim). He is sometimes identified with Enoch after his transformation (based on 3 Enoch) and serves as God’s chief emissary—standing at the divine throne, conveying God’s will, and presiding over the heavenly court. In some traditions, Metatron bears God’s Name, leads the Merkavah (chariot) throne, and acts as the bridge between the divine and human realms.
Netiot (also spelled Nethiyoth) are described in certain Heikhalot texts as heavenly garments or emanations that clothe Metatron. These represent divine splendor, attributes, or sefirotic functions—especially the transmission of light, justice, and glory. Through the Netiot, Metatron becomes a kind of living expression of the divine Torah, adorned with aspects of God’s character.
Furthermore, these traditions aren’t a Christian interpolation or wishful thinking; this multifaceted mediator appears in multiple authoritative Jewish prayer books and manuscripts through the centuries. The sages who composed these prayers were heirs to a shalshelet (chain or spiritual geneology) of tradition reaching back to antiquity. As one researcher notes, the presence of “Yeshua Sar haPanim” in the liturgy likely traces back to the 1st-century, transmitted via the Tannaim (early rabbinic sages) and put into writing within medieval circles. In other words, the idea of Yeshua as a heavenly Prince in God’s Presence is firmly rooted in Jewish tradition, not a later Christian invention.
What does it mean that Yeshua is Sar haPanim? In Jewish thought, a sar of the panim is one who can stand in the inner chamber before the King – it evokes the theophanies of the Tanakh where a mysterious Angel of the Lord appears with God’s name in him. Early Nazarene following Jews (who were fully Jewish and pre-Christian in the sectarian sense ) saw Yeshua as such a figure: akin to Enoch who “walked with God” and was taken up, or Elijah who ascended to heaven. Indeed, just as Enoch and Elijah were said to be taken alive into heaven, the tradition held that Yeshua the Nazarene likewise ascended and now “sits at the right hand of the Throne,” receiving prayers and aiding in redemption.
This concept aligns with the New Testament depiction of the risen Jesus and resonates with the ancient Jewish hope of a Messiah who intercedes in the heavenly Temple. Far from being alien to Judaism, Yeshua’s role as mediator and Prince of the Presence has echoes in rabbinic lore. Even the famous Rabbi Akiva is recorded to have said Sar haPanim is the Messiah. We might recall how Moses’ face shone with glory, requiring a veil, after he spoke with God – in a similar way, the Messiah’s full glory was veiled, revealed only to those within the chain of tradition who could recognize him beyond the flesh.
Importantly, the Machzor prayer’s inclusion of Yeshua wasn’t promoting idolatry or a foreign god. A commentary in the Sefer HaChesheq cautions worshippers not to misunderstand: though associated with great heavenly power, the Sar haPanim is not a second god besides HaShem. Only the Almighty is the unique God; the Prince of the Presence (sometimes identified with Memtet or Metatron) is an extension of God’s will. This clarification is vital for an evangelical audience: the Jewish mystics were not “worshiping an angel” in mentioning Yeshua Sar haPanim, but acknowledging a messianic agent of God’s mercy. In their understanding, the Sar haPanim participates so intimately in God’s plan that he can bear God’s Name without compromising God’s oneness . This aligns with Christian theology of Jesus as the divine Word made flesh, yet subordinate to the Father. Thus, in the very heart of Jewish tradition lies a hidden testimony to the Messiah Yeshua – a testimony veiled, yet preserved, awaiting its unveiling to those with ears to hear.
The presence of Yeshua in the inner sanctum of Jewish liturgy and mysticism challenges both Jews and Christians. For Jewish readers, it’s a call to re-examine long-held assumptions that Yeshua is entirely a gentile or “Christian” figure; in truth, he stands within Judaism’s own mystical heritage. For evangelical Christians, it offers a richer, more holistic portrait of Jesus as not only the loving Savior we know from the Gospels, but also a cosmic High Priest and Merciful Prince in the Heavenly Temple – concepts that resonate with the Epistle to the Hebrews and John’s Apocalypse. It also shows God’s providence: He ensured that hints of the true Messiah remained even in the sideline texts of those who ostensibly rejected him, like jewels buried in the backyard of tradition. Yeshua is the Veiled Messiah – veiled in the very texts of those who sought to cover him, yet unmistakably present for those prompted by the Spirit to seek him there.
This raises the deeper question of why such preexistent manifestations occur at all—as if the Hebrew Scriptures themselves foresaw the incarnation. Whether the Infinite can dwell in finite form is not just a Christian problem; it is a biblical pattern. Theophanies—divine appearances—are woven throughout the Tanakh, not as metaphors but as concrete moments of encounter. The LORD walks in the garden in the cool of the day (Genesis 3:8), dines with Abraham under the oaks of Mamre (Genesis 18), wrestles with Jacob who exclaims, “I have seen God face to face” (Genesis 32:30), and leads Israel through the wilderness as the Messenger of the LORD in the cloud and fire. He speaks from the burning bush, calling Moses by name (Exodus 3), and appears as the Commander of the LORD’s armies to Joshua (Joshua 5:13–15). These are not literary devices; they are manifestations of real presence—what later Judaism would describe as Shekhinah, or what the Aramaic Targums call the Memra, the Word of the LORD. In mystical tradition, these figures are often associated with Metatron, the exalted one who bears the divine Name.
In this light, the incarnation of Yeshua is not a foreign concept imposed upon the Hebrew Scriptures, but rather the culmination of a long-standing pattern of divine visitation, now made flesh and dwelling among us (John 1:14). It is not a violation of Jewish theology—it is its flowering. As Sar haPanim—the Prince of the Presence—Yeshua fulfills the mystery of those earlier appearances. He is not the first time God came near; He is the fullest time. He does not replace the theophanies of old, but gathers them into Himself—the burning bush that speaks, the angel that wrestles, the commander of heaven’s armies, now visible in a human face. In Him, the mystery of God’s nearness is no longer episodic—it becomes personal, enduring, and redemptive.
Yeshu haNotzri: The Counterfeit Christ and Antichrist Motif
Against this backdrop of the true Messiah hidden within Judaism, we must also confront the distorted image that took hold in history: Yeshu haNotzri. In Talmudic and later Jewish references, “Yeshu (Jesus) the Nazarene” became a byword for a false messiah – a figure of infamy rather than salvation. Over time, a disconnect grew between Yeshua as Sar haPanim (preserved in a guarded chain of tradition) and the Yeshu preached (and often imposed) by segments of Christendom. In the eyes of many Jews, the Jesus presented by medieval Christendom was practically unrecognizable from the Jewish Messiah – he appeared as a foreign deity, an antagonist, even an “antichrist” figure. Jewish writings reflected this perception in stark terms. The WikiNoah compendium, drawing on rabbinic sources, describes Yeshu haNotzri as a detached or distorted proclamation of Jesus – essentially, the wrong Jesus. For example, he is associated with blasphemous and occult attributes, even being linked with the Beast of Revelation (the infamous number 666) and called Belial (a term for Satan). In one catalog of such references, Yeshu haNotzri is identified with Balaam (the corrupt prophet) and other villains . The gematria (numerical value) of the name is pointed out as 666 – not exactly subtle in its antichrist insinuation.
Against this backdrop of the true Messiah hidden within Judaism, we must also confront the distorted image that took hold in history: Yeshu haNotzri. In Talmudic and later Jewish references, “Yeshu (Jesus) the Nazarene” became a byword for a false messiah – a figure of infamy rather than salvation. Over time, a disconnect grew between Yeshua as Sar haPanim (preserved in a guarded chain of tradition) and the Yeshu preached (and often imposed) by segments of Christendom. In the eyes of many Jews, the Jesus presented by medieval Christendom was practically unrecognizable from the Jewish Messiah – he appeared as a foreign deity, an antagonist, even an “antichrist” figure. Jewish writings reflected this perception in stark terms. The WikiNoah compendium, drawing on rabbinic sources, describes Yeshu haNotzri as a detached or distorted proclamation of Jesus – essentially, the wrong Jesus. For example, he is associated with blasphemous and occult attributes, even being linked with the Beast of Revelation (the infamous number 666) and called Belial (a term for Satan). In one catalog of such references, Yeshu haNotzri is identified with Balaam (the corrupt prophet) and other villains . The gematria (numerical value) of the name is pointed out as 666 – not exactly subtle in its antichrist insinuation.
How did this negative image arise? Partly, it was a reaction—yet it was also based on real distortions already visible in early Christian history, particularly through the spread of Gnostic conflations and half-truths. By the second century, rival groups were already preaching a “Jesus” detached from Torah, embodiment, or Jewish covenant—precisely the kind of messianic corruption that the apostles had warned about (cf. 1 John 4:1–3; 2 John 1:7). For Jews under Christendom, however, “Jesus of Nazareth” was not introduced through the voice of Yeshua’s Jewish disciples, but through the sword of Rome, the rhetoric of disputation, and the painful memory of persecution. To them, he was presented not as Sar haPanim, but as a foreign redeemer with Gentile features and a gospel often stripped of Jewish context. The figure that emerged—Yeshu haNotzri—functioned as a caricature, a kind of anti-Messiah who embodied what Jews had come to see as the sins of Christendom: violence, lawlessness, and hypocrisy.
One telling example comes from medieval Jewish sources that reinterpret episodes from the Book of Acts, particularly Peter’s interaction with Queen Helena of Adiabene, a historical figure known from Josephus (Antiquities 20.17–96). In some of these retellings, Yeshu is described as the offspring of an illicit union, echoing the infamous Pantera legend, which claimed Jesus was the son of a Roman soldier named Panthera. This legend, preserved in Celsus’ True Doctrine (as quoted by Origen in Contra Celsum, 1.28–32), and later echoed in Toledot Yeshu, served to delegitimize Jesus completely, casting him as a child of adultery and a practitioner of sorcery.
But even more intriguingly, some Jewish sources “split” the persona: portraying Yeshu haNotzri not as the real Yeshua, but as a stepbrother, nephew, or imposter relative. For example, WikiNoah preserves a Romaniote tradition in which the true teacher is Rebbe Yehoshua of Nazareth, while “Yazosh” (a twisted form of Yeshu) is the son of Miriam Magdalene and Ploni Pantera, the alleged half-brother of Yehoshua. This bizarre inversion of the Gospel story seems designed not just to insult, but to create an alternate lineage—effectively separating the righteous, Torah-faithful teacher from the false miracle-worker who led Israel astray. In this view, the persona of “Jesus” becomes doubled: one figure is honored by Jewish sectarians or early followers (perhaps even among the Nazarenes or Ebionites), while the other is rejected as the foreign Christ of Rome. Thus, Jewish legend—while polemical—may preserve a kind of traumatized memory, trying to sift truth from falsehood through genealogical parables and literary inversion.
This narrative “doubling” mirrors, in a dark way, the New Testament’s own concern with true vs. false Christs, and gives us a framework to understand why many Jews did not see themselves as rejecting their Messiah—only rejecting the false image they had been presented. The challenge for today’s readers, especially in the evangelical world, is to discern and retrieve the real Yeshua from under the weight of imperial misrepresentation. In doing so, we may find that Jewish critiques, however exaggerated, often contained a desperate search for the true Messiah who could never be fully forgotten.
Origen, Contra Celsum 1.28–32 – Responds to Celsus’ accusation that Jesus was the son of a Roman soldier, “Panthera,” a claim that persisted in Jewish polemics. Toledot Yeshu – A collection of medieval anti-Christian stories that portray Yeshu as a sorcerer and illegitimate child. Josephus, Antiquities 20.17–96 – Describes Queen Helena of Adiabene, who converted to Judaism and supported the Jerusalem poor. Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, esp. ch. 3–5 – Analyzes how the Talmudic and later Jewish legends “split” the Jesus figure and present him as both insider and outsider. WikiNoah, Rebbe Yehoshua Minzaret – Records the Romaniote Jewish minhag tradition that distinguishes the righteous Yehoshua from his imposter nephew “Plony (some guy) Yeshu haNotzri,” and associates the latter with Pantera and Mary Magdalene.
While evangelical readers might find this disturbing or offensive at first glance, it’s important to grasp the theological undercurrent: the concept of “antichrist” exists in Judaism too, though not always by that term. What Christianity names as “antichrist,” Judaism often sees in terms of false messiahs, deceivers, or Belial—a demonic figure representing worthlessness and rebellion against God. In several late rabbinic and medieval texts, Yeshu haNotzri is portrayed not simply as a mistaken teacher, but as a misleading sorcerer who drew Israel away from Torah, and whose followers persecuted Jews under his banner. These portrayals often use the name “Yeshu” as a deliberately truncated form of Yeshua, possibly standing for Y’mach Shemo (“May his name be blotted out”).
Yet beneath the polemics, one can discern a profound critique: the Jesus being promoted by Gentile Christianity—especially by the time of Constantine—had, in Jewish eyes, “gone out” from His people, and had taken on characteristics unrecognizable to the Jewish Messiah. The Apostle John, writing near the end of the first century, warned that “many antichrists have gone out into the world” and specifically noted: “They went out from us, but they were not of us…” (1 John 2:18–19). Paul, too, spoke of a “man of lawlessness” or “son of perdition” who would exalt himself in the temple of God (2 Thess. 2:3–4)—a description that resonates deeply with Jewish suspicion toward any messianic claim divorced from Torah observance. From a Jewish perspective, this misrepresentation had already begun by the 4th century: a de-Judaized Jesus enthroned in basilicas, divorced from Torah, and enlisted to justify Roman power. This figure—Yeshu haNotzri—became, for many Jews, a symbol of the Church’s hypocrisy, preaching love while burning Jews, speaking of the Messiah while abolishing His law. It is no wonder, then, that rabbinic memory painted this figure with the darkest brush: Belial, Balaam, or even the Egyptian false prophet described in Acts 21:38 and by Josephus (War 2.261–263).
As WikiNoah rightly points out, many Jewish sources equated Yeshu haNotzri with antichrist imagery: seven-headed beasts, workers of magic, seducers of Israel—figures not so different from John’s own descriptions of false messiahs and deceivers. From this angle, the rabbinic critique can be seen as a dark mirror of early Christian warnings: what the apostles feared—a Jesus unmoored from Israel, Torah, and covenantal truth—had in fact taken hold in the Christian empire. This does not make Jewish polemics correct in every historical detail, but it validates their grief and theological resistance and their role in keeping the scriptures. They were not rejecting the real Yeshua haMashiach, the Sar haPanim of the Hebrew Gospel, but rather the distorted Jesus of Rome, used more as a weapon than a witness. Recovering the true Jewish Yeshua—the one still veiled in Jewish memory yet preserved in hidden ways—is therefore not only a task of evangelism, but of eschatological healing between brothers.
Sanhedrin 107b and Toledot Yeshu (medieval Jewish counter-gospel traditions) describe Yeshu as leading Israel into apostasy and being executed for sorcery. These stories, while polemical, reflect post-Temple Jewish responses to Christendom’s rise. Peter Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton University Press, 2007), especially pp. 9–38, documents how rabbinic texts create a counter-memory of Jesus associated with magic, illegitimacy, and heresy—often naming him Yeshu and contrasting him with the Yeshua of Jewish faith. Josephus, Jewish War 2.261–263, describes an Egyptian false prophet who led thousands into the wilderness, whom some early Jewish traditions conflated with the figure of Yeshu haNotzri. Acts 21:38: The Roman commander asks Paul, “Are you not the Egyptian who… led four thousand assassins into the wilderness?”—showing how false messiah narratives were part of the 1st-century milieu and could easily blur in later memory. WikiNoah.org, entries on Yeshu haNotzri and Antichrist, document how rabbinic midrash and later mysticism associated this false image of Jesus with seven-headed beasts, Belial, and a spiritual counterfeit of the Messiah. See: Yeshu haNotzri – WikiNoah
One striking example of this Jewish critique is linking Yeshu haNotzri to Edom – Edom being a code name for Rome and, by extension, the Western Church. An eminent Jewish commentator, R. Isaac Abarbanel, wrote in Yeshuot Meshicho that Yeshu haNotzri was a gilgul of Esau, meaning a reincarnation of Jacob’s profane brother Esau (the ancestor of Edom). This is a heavy charge: Esau/Edom in Jewish thought symbolizes worldly power, impulsiveness, and hostility to the covenant. To call the Jesus known by the nations a “reincarnated Esau” is to say that Christendom’s Jesus embodies the spirit of Rome rather than the Spirit of God. It suggests that what the gentile world worshiped was, in Jewish eyes, almost an Edomite impostor—a messiah in the image of Caesar rather than the Messiah in the image of the Suffering Servant. This certainly does not mean there were literally two different Jesuses in history, but it conveys the dramatic difference in perception and presentation. The true Yeshua, the son of David and Prince of the Presence, became hidden from much of Israel’s view, while a counterfeit image (however unintended) took center stage in the relationship between the Church and the Synagogue.
Why does this matter for us today? Because recognizing this distortion is the first step confronting the many fables and a distortions that exist and in findng the truth to restore and heal. For evangelical Christians committed to the truth of Jesus, it is crucial to discern where centuries of anti-Jewish bias, Hellenistic philosophy, or political power plays may have obscured the Jewish Jesus – effectively creating a Yeshu that the original Apostles would not recognize. The antichrist motif in 1 John speaks of those who “deny the Father and the Son.” In context, John likely meant proto-gnostic deniers of Jesus’ real incarnation, but in a broader sense, any portrayal of Jesus that severs him from the Father’s covenant with Israel or from his identity as Israel’s Messiah can become antichrist in spirit. It is a sobering thought that some well-meaning Christian theology over the centuries (for instance, Marcion’s rejection of the Old Testament, or triumphalist Replacement Theology) unwittingly presented a Jesus divorced from the Father’s Torah and promises – a kind of false Christ that did great harm.
The good news is that this veil can be lifted. By returning to the Jewish context of Yeshua, by understanding him as Sar haPanim and Messiah of Israel, we can renounce the caricature of Yeshu haNotzri and embrace the authentic Yeshua. In doing so, bridges of reconciliation can be built: Jews may begin to see that accepting Yeshua need not mean betraying the God of their fathers, and Christians can rejoice in a fuller portrait of Christ that honors his people and his Father. The Veiled Messiah becomes unveiled when we distinguish him from the distortions – much like separating Joseph from his Egyptian garb, or removing the barnacles from a precious gem. We begin to see Yeshua again “with unveiled faces,” as Paul wrote, “beholding the glory of the Lord” – a glory full of grace and truth.
The Council of Jerusalem: Noahide Covenant for the Nations
If the above sounds lofty, the early Church had to grapple with these issues in very practical terms. When Gentiles began turning to the God of Israel through Yeshua, a pressing question arose: On what terms could they be included in the covenant community? Would they have to become Jewish proselytes, undergoing circumcision and taking on the full yoke of the Torah of Moses? Or was there another path – one that preserved their identity as Gentiles while still incorporating them into fellowship with Jewish believers? The Apostolic Council in Jerusalem (Acts 15) convened to resolve this, and the answer they delivered was both visionary and rooted in ancient tradition. Acts 15 established a Noahide framework for Gentile inclusion – a set of fundamental covenant obligations for non-Jews – rather than a makeshift minimalistic rule for church membership. Far from being an arbitrary or ad hoc decision, the decree was understood as the outworking of God’s longstanding covenant with the families of the earth through Noah, now brought into the sphere of the Messiah.
At the Council, James (Ya’akov) the brother of the Lord ruled that Gentiles turning to God should not be burdened with full Torah observance, but should adhere to a core set of requirements. Acts 15:20 lists these as abstentions from: (1) things polluted by idols, (2) sexual immorality, (3) meat that has been strangled, and (4) blood. On the surface, it might look like a strangely specific list – notably missing obvious moral laws like prohibitions on murder or theft. But James’ Jewish audience would have caught the reference: these mirror key Noahide commandments, known from Genesis and Jewish oral law, which were traditionally incumbent on all sons of Noah (i.e., all humanity). In fact, when we examine the decree closely, we find six elements implied, not merely four. The text implies that the Gentiles were already expected to have “turned to God” (faith/repentance is the first requirement), and James immediately adds that Moses is read in the synagogues every Sabbath (Acts 15:21), meaning the new believers would continue learning and growing. Thus, if we enumerate: (1) Turn to God, (2) abstain from idol pollution, (3) abstain from sexual immorality, (4) abstain from strangled meat (i.e. partake only in proper blood-drained slaughter), (5) abstain from (ingesting) blood, and (6) attend to the teachings of Moses (every Sabbath).
These align remarkably well with the traditional Seven Laws of Noah, which include prohibitions on idolatry, sexual immorality, bloodshed (murder and consuming blood), and the command to establish courts (implying basic justice which would cover theft, etc.) . In other words, the Apostles were not inventing new laws on the spot; they were recognizing the ancient covenantal ethics that God gave to non-Jews long before, now reaffirmed as the entry requirements for the Kingdom of God.
James explicitly bases his ruling on Scripture, quoting the prophet Amos 9:11-12 as divine confirmation. In Amos, God promises to restore “the fallen tent of David” so that “all the nations” will bear His name. The Hebrew text of Amos says Israel will “possess the remnant of Edom and all the nations” (Edom being a representative foreign nation), but James, quoting the Greek Septuagint, renders it as “the rest of mankind may seek the Lord, even all the Gentiles upon whom My name is called” . This is significant. The Septuagint (LXX) version of Amos subtly shifts the nuance from Israel’s victory over Edom to Edom (mankind) being included among the seekers of God. James seizes on this inclusive interpretation: the influx of Gentiles into the people of God is exactly what the prophets foretold.
The “tent of David” (a symbol of the royal messianic rule) being rebuilt alludes to the Messiah’s kingdom being established; the result is not a homogenized new religion, but rather that Gentiles can join themselves to the God of Israel as Gentiles called by His name. In Jewish terms, they become Gerim (sojourners) or B’nei Noach (children of Noah in covenant), rather than full converts to Judaism. The Jerusalem Council thus laid down a covenantal halakhah for Gentile believers: a concise path of obedience that maintained the purity of fellowship without erecting unnecessary barriers. It was not ecclesial minimalism (not a “bare minimum” for church membership as often misunderstood), but rather covenantal maximalism – an affirmation that the covenant with Noah was sufficient for inclusion in Messiah’s community, when accompanied by faith in Yeshua and ongoing instruction in scripture.
To illustrate the point: the decree pointedly includes no command “Thou shalt not murder” or “Thou shalt not steal.” Why? Because it was assumed that any Gentile turning to the God of Israel would already know such basics – they are part of the Noahide ethic ingrained in the conscience and, as James noted, these Gentiles would hear Moses preached in the synagogue every week and learn all such moral precepts in due course . The four specific abstentions all relate to temple pollution and idolatrous practices common in the Greco-Roman world (pagan sacrifices, temple prostitution, eating blood, etc.), which would have made table fellowship between Jews and Gentiles impossible. By renouncing these practices, Gentile believers could enter fellowship with Jewish believers around a common table without gross offense, and – crucially – they would not jeopardize their newfound reception of the Holy Spirit. Indeed, Peter’s testimony of Gentiles receiving the Spirit by faith (Acts 15:8–9) weighed heavily in the decision. The decree can be seen as protecting these Gentile disciples from spiritual defilement that could “quench” the Spirit’s work in them. It set them on a trajectory of holiness compatible with God’s indwelling Presence. In effect, the Apostles treated the Gentiles as having entered the covenant community on the same footing as the righteous of the nations – akin to the Ger Toshav (“resident sojourner”) in Torah, who lived among Israel observing basic commands of Noah.
Far from encouraging lawlessness, this Noahide framework was a foundation for growth. Having these essentials in place, Gentile believers were expected to continue growing in grace and learning the ways of God. The Sermon on the Mount delivered by Yeshua years earlier now takes on a beautiful relevance: in Matthew 5–7, Jesus taught a largely Jewish audience, yet his words were destined for all disciples, present and future. In that Sermon, Jesus declares that he did not come to abolish the Torah but to fulfill it, and he proceeds to highlight the deeper righteousness of the law – addressing anger as murder in the heart, lust as adultery in the heart, urging truthfulness, mercy, humility, love of enemies, and so on. While the Noahide laws formed the starting gate, the Sermon on the Mount represents the higher calling of Messiah’s Torah for those within the covenant. It’s no coincidence that directly after affirming the inclusion of Gentiles by grace apart from Torah observance, James’ decree immediately urges them to moral and ritual purity, and assumes they will hear Moses’ teachings regularly. Similarly, Jesus ends the Sermon on the Mount with the admonition that whoever hears his words and does them is like a wise man building on rock. Thus, Acts 15 and the Sermon on the Mount are complementary: one establishes entry by grace and basic obedience, the other calls those who have entered to go higher up and further in.
For an evangelical accustomed to thinking of “Law” versus “Grace,” this perspective is paradigm-shifting. It suggests that the early Jewish believers did not see the Torah as something discarded for Gentiles, but rather as layered instruction: certain commands (the Noahide core) were required of all as covenant baseline, while the full richness of Torah would gradually enrich the lives of believers as they matured. The Gentiles were not left lawless; they were given a different yoke – lighter than the full 613 mitzvot, but still a yoke of moral responsibility and devotion to the One true God. This was mercy, not minimalism. As one modern study puts it, “If we assume a Gentile in the synagogue community would have at least observed the Noahide laws, we can begin to make sense of the Jerusalem Council,” noting that the obvious commands against murder, theft, etc., were “covered by the Noahide framework.” The Council’s decree was thus the initial halakhah for a messianic community that included Jews and Gentiles in one Body. It ensured unity (by removing the greatest sources of division) and allowed diversity (Gentiles remained Gentiles, Jews remained Jews, serving the Lord together).
This has profound implications. It means that the oft-perceived dichotomy between “Law and Grace” might be better understood as stages of God’s covenant unfolding. Grace opened the door to the nations, but Law (in the form of Noahide commandments and the teachings of Jesus) provided the path to walk on once inside. The Hidden Torah here is that the Torah’s ethical core was always meant for all humanity (through Noah), and the Torah’s fullness would eventually shine to the nations through Israel and Israel’s Messiah. The Jerusalem Council in Acts 15 is a blueprint for how that happens: through dialogue, Scripture, and the Holy Spirit, the Apostles discerned a way to include the nations without discarding the Torah or Jewish identity. For the evangelical world today, recognizing this pattern can be liberating. It moves us beyond the idea that the Old Testament law was a legalistic code thankfully abolished; instead we see Torah as a sacred trust, with its universal essentials now honored among Gentile Christians (often without even realizing it), and its deeper ethos fulfilled in the teachings of Christ.
In sum, Acts 15 stands as a testament to the wisdom of God: One New Man composed of Jew and Gentile (Eph 2:15), bound together by shared faith in Yeshua and shared basic covenant obligations, yet allowing diverse callings beyond that. It was an ancient solution (going back to Noah) for a new situation. This is covenantal halakhah at its finest – balancing fidelity to tradition with the fresh leading of the Spirit. It behooves us, as modern believers, to honor that decree. We should neither add to those requirements legalistically, nor ignore them and fall into antinomianism. The Apostles gave four prohibitions plus an ongoing engagement with Scripture, which implies a life of ever-deepening obedience. It’s a reminder that when Christ said “my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” he did not mean “I have no yoke or burden for you at all.” Rather, he gives us a well-fitting yoke – one that we can bear because it’s rooted in God’s wise design (the Noahide covenant) and empowered by the Spirit. Truly, the Torah is not abolished but lovingly distilled for the nations, then progressively taught as they are able to bear it. This was revolutionary in the first century, and it remains revolutionary today as we reconsider the relationship between Christianity and the Law of Moses.
The Hidden Torah in Plain Sight: The Septuagint as a Vessel of Oral Tradition
Parallel to the idea of a veiled Messiah is the notion of a hidden Torah – layers of meaning in God’s Word that were once reserved for the mature or initiated, but which have since been made available more broadly, especially through the translation of Scripture. In Jewish history, the sages often taught that the sod (secret/mystical) level of interpretation should be handled carefully, usually only transmitted to worthy students (often the age of 40 was mentioned as a benchmark of maturity for learning Kabbalah or deep secrets). Much of the Torah’s Oral Tradition – the unwritten interpretations, expansions, and applications of the written text – was jealously guarded by Jewish teachers to prevent misunderstanding or misuse. For instance, certain subtle messianic interpretations or harmonizations of apparent scriptural tensions might be shared privately among scholars. How fascinating, then, that when the Hebrew Scriptures were translated into Greek (the Septuagint, abbreviated LXX) in the 3rd–2nd centuries BCE, a large measure of this oral interpretive tradition was effectively embedded into the text, “hiding” the secrets in plain sight!
The Septuagint (LXX) holds a unique place as a bridge between Jewish tradition and the wider world. It was the Bible of the early Church (the Old Testament as quoted by the Apostles is usually the LXX). Crucially, it was produced by Jewish scholars in the Hellenistic period, at a time when the Second Temple still stood and Hebrew learning was vibrant . As historian Philip Jenkins observes, the Septuagint “reflects the Jewish understanding of the Bible around 200 BC” – meaning it captures how Jewish sages of that era read and explained the Scriptures. Many of those explanations align with what we would today call Midrash or Oral Torah. In translating, these scholars sometimes made interpretive choices that go beyond a wooden literalism, thereby injecting Jewish traditional interpretation into the Greek version. In this sense, the LXX became a vessel of Oral Torah in Greek attire, accessible to anyone who could read Greek (including the Gentiles attracted to Judaism, and later, Gentile Christians). This had the effect of disseminating insights that might previously have been shared only in rabbinic circles or among the learned. One could say the LXX “unveiled” certain mysteries of Scripture by the very act of translation.
Consider the example we touched on earlier: Amos 9:11-12. The Hebrew text says Israel will possess the remnant of Edom. The Septuagint renders it as the remnant of anthrōpoi (“mankind”) will seek the Lord . Why the difference? Likely the translators understood Amos’ intent not as a call for Israelite imperialism, but as a promise of Gentile (including Edomite) conversion. This interpretive reading aligns with other prophetic themes (e.g., Israel being a light to the nations). By translating Edom (אדום) in a way that reads as Adam (אדם, “man”) – which in unpointed text is a one-letter difference – the LXX preserved a sod-level insight: that the prophecy is about humanity seeking God, not merely Israel triumphing over a neighbor. James, at the Jerusalem Council, seized on this inspired nuance . Thus, the Greek version acted almost like a commentary, giving the early Church a clearer picture of God’s plan for the Gentiles than they might have gotten from the Hebrew alone. It was as if the Holy Spirit had prepared the Greek text for the age of the Church, ensuring the inclusion of the nations was “known from of old” – as James says, “the Lord…makes these things known from long ago” , which the WikiNoah entry intriguingly links to a rabbinic phrase about decrees of old.
Another famous instance is Isaiah 7:14. The Hebrew prophet speaks of a “young woman (almah)” conceiving and bearing a son named Immanuel. The Septuagint, however, rendered almah as parthenos, “virgin.” This wasn’t a Christian edit – it was done by Jewish translators pre-dating Christ. Why would they choose that word? Perhaps because of an oral tradition that this prophecy had a larger messianic context or simply to clarify the miraculous nature expected (since the Hebrew almah can imply a young maiden of marriageable age, often assumed to be chaste). Whatever the case, when Matthew cites this verse regarding Jesus’ virgin birth, he is directly using the LXX’s wording, a detail that surely helped many Greek readers grasp the miraculous claim. Here the Greek translation carried a weight of interpretation (virginity, not just youth) that isn’t explicit in the Hebrew text. Was this a “deeper” meaning? Many Church Fathers and later scholars believed the Holy Spirit inspired the LXX translators to choose words that would later prove revelatory. It’s as though God seeded the Gentile language Scriptures with clues to the Messiah – clues that the Oral Torah of the time understood, but the plain Hebrew might obscure.
Moreover, the Talmud relates a fascinating story about the making of the Septuagint.
When King Ptolemy gathered 72 Jewish elders to translate the Torah into Greek, they independently miraculously produced identical translations – but not literal translations . The rabbis say each of them, guided by God, intentionally altered certain phrases to avoid theological misunderstandings . For example, instead of translating “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” which might be misread as “In the beginning, a god created…,” they all wrote “God created the beginning…” to make clear God is the subject, not “the Beginning” as a separate entity. They made about a dozen such changes . What is this if not Oral Torah at work in the translation process? The elders applied their knowledge of theology and potential heresies to tweak the text for a Gentile audience. In doing so, they inserted the intended meaning directly into the Greek text. This incredible anecdote (found in the Tractate Megillah or Sofrim) shows that the Jewish leadership was keenly aware that translation involves interpretation, and they took measures to ensure the Greek version reflected an accurate understanding, not just the raw letters of the Torah. Thus, the Septuagint emerges not as a mechanical word-for-word translation, but as an interpretive tradition set in writing, sanctioned (begrudgingly perhaps) by the Jerusalem establishment of that era. Little wonder some rabbis later lamented that the day of this translation was as calamitous as the day the golden calf was made – they feared sacred knowledge in a foreign tongue could be misused. And yet, ironically, it was through that Greek translation that countless people found the God of Israel and recognized Yeshua as the Messiah.
For the evangelical Christian, recognizing the role of the Septuagint can be eye-opening. Most modern English Old Testaments rely on the Masoretic Text (the medieval standardized Hebrew text), which in some places differs from the LXX and the New Testament quotations. We often gloss over those differences, not realizing their import. But when we see that the New Testament writers and early Church were using a Bible infused with Jewish oral interpretive elements, it explains a lot. It explains why the New Testament sometimes quotes prophecies that read differently than our Old Testament (they were quoting the Hidden Torah embedded in the LXX). It explains why the early Christians found so many messianic foreshadowings – they inherited a way of reading Scripture from Second Temple Judaism that was deeply typological and expansive. The letter to the Hebrews, for instance, treats the Old Testament in a very fluid, almost midrashic way (like seeing Melchizedek as a type of Christ, or the Tabernacle as copy of heavenly things). That approach was not dreamed up out of thin air; it was part of the Jewish milieu and is reflected in the Greek Scriptures they used.
In practical terms, this means that Christians have been beneficiaries of the Oral Torah tradition without realizing it. When we read in Hebrews 11 that by faith Moses “esteemed the reproach of Christ greater riches than Egypt’s treasures,” we are accessing a tradition that saw the sufferings of Israel as connected to the coming Messiah. When we read Jude quoting the Book of Enoch or Paul speaking of the Rock that followed Israel in the wilderness (and “that Rock was Christ”), these are drawn from the well of Jewish oral lore, now grafted into our New Testament. It is a rich irony that the Church, which later distanced itself from “Pharisaic traditions,” was built in no small part on textual traditions handed down by those very Pharisees and their predecessors in the form of the LXX and commonly known interpretations. The Hidden Torah had, by God’s providence, already gone global through the Greek Bible by the time of Jesus.
To appreciate this is not to elevate the Septuagint over the Hebrew or to say the Masoretic Text is wrong. Rather, it is to recognize that God used the LXX as a tool to reveal mysteries of His plan at the right time. The Masoretic Hebrew text would later be solidified, and indeed in some cases the Masoretes rejected readings that the LXX (and Dead Sea Scrolls) preserve. We have cases like Deuteronomy 32:8, where the LXX (and a Dead Sea Scroll) read “He set the bounds of the peoples according to the number of the sons of God” whereas the Masoretic says “sons of Israel.” The LXX reading seems to preserve a more ancient, perhaps more mystical idea (that the nations were allotted under angelic princes) that the Masoretes might have deemed theologically sensitive and thus didn’t include. The early Church, reading “sons of God,” linked it to their understanding of principalities and spiritual warfare. Again, a deeper layer was accessible to them via the Greek text. This is just one example of many. Psalm 22 in Hebrew says “Like a lion, my hands and feet” (a cryptic phrase) whereas the LXX reads “They pierced my hands and feet,” which directly evokes crucifixion. It’s still debated which is the original, but the point is clear: the LXX provided readings that allowed Christians to see Christ in the Old Testament more vividly, and many of those readings may well derive from ancient interpretations or textual variants that Judaism itself once cherished.
Thus, the “Hidden Torah” is not about secret codes or Bible codes; it’s about the wealth of interpretation and meaning that God invested in Scripture through His people over time. Some of it was hidden in the sense of being in another language or in technical discussions among scholars. But in the fullness of time, God sovereignly arranged that much of it would be broadcast to the nations. Paul writes in Romans 16:25-26 of the “revelation of the mystery hidden for long ages past, but now revealed and made known through the prophetic writings by the command of the eternal God, so that all the Gentiles might come to the obedience that comes from faith.” This aptly describes what happened: the prophetic writings (the Scriptures) were always the repository of the mystery, but only when their proper interpretation was made known (through the Gospel, using tools like the LXX) could the Gentiles fully obey in faith. The image of a veil is used by Paul in 2 Corinthians 3 – he says a veil lay over the hearts of many Israelites when they hear the Torah, a veil only removed in Christ. Intriguingly, we could say a kind of veil also lay over the Torah itself, in that the deeper intent was not immediately clear until Christ’s coming unveiled it. The Septuagint was part of that unveiling process, preparing the way.
In traditional rabbinic teaching, it was often said that one should not begin to study sod—the hidden or mystical dimensions of Torah—until the age of forty, and only after having thoroughly mastered p’shat, remez, and drash (the plain, allegorical, and homiletical levels). This was not just a matter of knowledge, but of spiritual maturity, implying that the mysteries of God required a depth of character and submission to tradition. Yet Yeshua began his ministry at age thirty (Luke 3:23), publicly proclaiming the kingdom of heaven and unveiling layers of Torah in ways that astonished even the learned. He spoke in parables—mashalim—that hinted at sod, and declared things like, “You have heard that it was said… but I say to you…” (Matt. 5), opening windows into divine intention beyond surface commandments. This shocked many and stirred controversy, especially among those who believed He was speaking above His station. But in the tradition of prophets like Jeremiah (who was called young), Yeshua defied the rabbinic age barrier not out of rebellion, but because He was the very Word made flesh. He was the sod, revealed in the flesh (Col. 1:26–27). Just as Joseph ruled Egypt before forty and Daniel received dreams as a young man, Yeshua disclosed mysteries early—not because He lacked reverence for tradition, but because the time had come. The maturity required was not of years, but of origin: He came from above. This helps explain why He was misunderstood not only by Rome and the crowds, but by the Torah scholars themselves. They saw a thirty-year-old carpenter—and missed the Sar haPanim revealing the deep things of God. Frankly, the LXX was Oral Torah or even Mishnah in Greek Garb.
In summary, the Septuagint stands as a testimony that God’s Word is living and multi-layered. It teaches us that translation can be an inspired act, carrying forward meaning as well as words. It also humbles us to realize that Christianity’s Scriptures are indebted to Judaism’s sages. Rather than breeding overconfidence that we alone understand the Bible, it should instill gratitude and a desire to learn even more from the context and methods of those sages – of course, now with the illumination of knowing the Messiah to whom all Scripture points. The Hidden Torah has been brought to light in Christ, yet we suspect that there remain treasures yet to be uncovered as Jews and Christians study the Word together, bringing their respective insights. As Jesus said, “every scribe instructed concerning the kingdom of heaven is like a householder who brings out of his treasure things new and old.” The LXX was an old treasure for the new covenant age. And there are surely more riches to be mined as we reconcile the Masoretic and Septuagint, the Oral and Written, the Hebrew and Greek understandings – all under the guidance of the same Holy Spirit.
The Masoretic Text: Preservation or Scribal Lockdown?
Speaking of the Masoretic Text (MT), it occupies an important place in this discussion of hidden and revealed Torah. The Masoretes were Jewish scribes of the early Middle Ages (circa 6th–10th century CE) who meticulously standardized the Hebrew Bible’s consonantal text and added vowel markings and notes (the Masorah) to ensure accurate transmission. Thanks to them, we have an extraordinarily stable Hebrew Bible today. However, a question arises: in their quest to preserve, did the Masoretes also in some ways narrow the scope of the textual tradition? Were they sensitive to diverse local minhagim (customs) and variant readings, or did they represent a kind of scribal hardening after the Temple’s destruction – freezing one official version at the expense of others?
To answer, we must recall that before the Masoretes, there was more than one text tradition of the Hebrew Scriptures. During the Second Temple period, and even into late antiquity, manuscripts evidenced plurality. The Dead Sea Scrolls (150 BCE – 70 CE) show that “there was indeed a Hebrew text-type on which the Septuagint was based and which differed substantially from the received MT”. Some DSS manuscripts align more closely with what became the Masoretic Text, but others align with the Septuagint or Samaritan Pentateuch or have unique readings, revealing a degree of fluidity in the transmission. Scribes at Qumran sometimes exercised freedom, making corrections or choosing between variants, indicating that a “living tradition” of Scripture was in play . Even in the early centuries CE, Jewish communities like those in Babylon and those in Israel had slightly different scriptural wordings and pronunciations (Nusach Eretz Yisrael vs. Nusach Bavel). There were also different schools of Masoretes – most prominently the Ben Asher and Ben Naphtali schools – which had hundreds of slight differences in vowels and accents .
By the 10th century, Aaron ben Asher’s text (exemplified by the Aleppo Codex) became largely accepted as the standard.
This effectively ended the era of plurality. The Masoretes did compare various codices and note differences in their margins, but ultimately, later copies would harmonize to one authoritative line. The phrase “in this period living tradition ceased” stands out: as the Masoretic codices were prepared, the organic, locally adaptive transmission of the text gave way to a fixed text . On the positive side, this eliminated confusion and guarded against wild alterations – a remarkable achievement of providence, as the MT has proven extremely reliable. Yet, one might argue it also masked or suppressed some nuances preserved in alternate streams. The Samaritan community, for instance, kept their version of the Torah, and the Greek and Syriac translations followed others. The Masoretes, due to geographical and historical distance from the Temple era, might not have fully appreciated certain older readings that no longer made sense to them or fit their theology. They were pious guardians, yes, but also products of their time.
One often-overlooked factor is that by the time of the Masoretes, Hebrew was no longer a spoken mother tongue for most Jews. Aramaic had long been the vernacular since the Babylonian exile, and by late antiquity, many Jews also spoke Greek, Arabic, or later Ladino, Yiddish, and other Judeo-languages. Hebrew was primarily reserved for prayer and sacred study—used liturgically but not conversationally. This created a linguistic gap, which the Jewish community bridged through Targums (Aramaic paraphrases and translations of Scripture), and later through theological reflection in other local tongues. But it also meant that when the Masoretes added vowel points and cantillation marks to the previously consonantal Hebrew text, they were working with a language whose original spoken pronunciation and musicality had been filtered through centuries of diaspora influence. Scholars have noted that Jews returning from Babylon already spoke Hebrew in an Aramaic-influenced accent, and by the Masoretes’ time, the exact phonology of Biblical Hebrew had faded. A contributor on a Hebrew language forum once pointed out that “by a millennium later, the accurate Biblical-era pronunciations were… nil.”
The Masoretes preserved the consonantal skeleton of the text with astonishing fidelity—as comparison with Dead Sea Scrolls has shown—but the vocalization system they introduced reflects their best reconstruction, not an exact preservation of ancient usage. In some cases, their choices may have obscured the original meaning by placing “the wrong dots” based on interpretive tradition or regional custom. This becomes important in verses where meaning hinges on subtle vocalization. For example, the divine name YHWH is written with four consonants; the Masoretes pointed it to produce “Yehovah,” but many scholars believe they were borrowing the vowel marks of “Adonai” (Lord) to signal reverent substitution—thus, “Yehovah” may not have been meant as an actual pronunciation. Similarly, in Psalm 22:16, the Masoretic pointing renders a phrase as “like a lion (they are at) my hands and feet,” whereas some earlier versions and scholars suggest the original meaning was “they pierced my hands and feet”—a difference that hinges on one consonant and its vocalization. The Masoretes likely followed what made sense in their context or what had been handed to them orally, but the possibility of linguistic drift across centuries should caution us from treating vocalization as infallible. This is not a critique of their integrity—it’s a recognition of how sacred language, when divorced from daily use, can become fossilized or altered subtly over time, despite sincere efforts to preserve it.
Where the Masoretes might not have been sensitive to local minhag was in cases like spelling variants or certain song traditions. The Tiberian Masoretic tradition that became dominant may have overshadowed the Babylonian and Palestinian vocalization systems (which we know existed in fragmentary form). Each community had its minhag of how the Scripture was read melodically and pronunciation-wise. When one system prevailed, those nuances faded. It’s telling that the Karaites (a Jewish ‘sola scriptura’ sect) and Rabbanites had slight differences in manuscripts; even Saadia Gaon, a major rabbi, initially resisted Ben Asher’s supremacy. Eventually, though, everyone conformed.
Why does this matter theologically? Because if the Masoretic Text represents a snapshot of one strain of tradition, then other strains (like those preserved in the LXX or Dead Sea Scrolls) are also part of the inspired tapestry. In the context of our theme, some aspects of the “Hidden Torah” might remain hidden if one only reads the MT without comparison. For instance, Psalm 96 in MT vs LXX has an interesting difference: one of the verses about “worshipping God” has an extra phrase in LXX. Or Jeremiah in LXX is shorter and arranged differently than MT, possibly reflecting an earlier edition of that book. The Masoretes in their isolation (many centuries after the Temple, possibly in Tiberias and Babylonia, far from the Land by then under foreign rule) might not have had access to all these alternate traditions or considered them authoritative. So, in a sense, their work, while preserving the text, also ended the era of open scriptural development.
It’s a bit like canonizing one family’s recipe – you ensure it won’t change, but you also lock out other family’s variants that might have been just as authentic. The Masoretic Text is our standard and rightly so for Hebrew study; yet, as students of the Bible, we benefit from a critical comparison of the Masoretic with the older sources. Doing so has yielded some gems: for example, Deuteronomy 32:43 in the Dead Sea Scrolls and LXX has lines about angels rejoicing and God avenging the blood of His servants, which are absent in the MT. Hebrews 1:6 in the New Testament quotes this extended version (“Let all God’s angels worship Him”), but you won’t find it in a standard MT-based Deuteronomy. It was hidden simply because the Masoretic transmission by the Middle Ages no longer included it – perhaps due to a scribal decision or a lost line. Only with the Dead Sea discoveries and awareness of the LXX did that verse come back to light .
This invites a thoughtful critique (in the best sense) of the Masoretic tradition: not to disparage it, but to acknowledge its context. The Masoretes probably saw themselves as fixing the text for all time in the wake of upheaval – the Temple was gone, Jews scattered, sects like Jewish Christians or Gnostics were claiming weird readings, so the authoritative rabbis said this is the text. In doing so, they were likely not very interested in preserving readings used by sectarians or Christians (especially if they thought those readings supported Christian claims). Some scholars suggest that in a few cases, the Masoretes (or their predecessors) intentionally adjusted minor things to counter Christian interpretation (the so-called tikkunei soferim or “scribal emendations” noted in rabbinic literature – e.g., changing “they pierced my hands” to “like a lion” as mentioned, or “your Holy One see decay” in Psalm 16 to “see the Pit”).
Whether those specific ones were intentional is debated, but the concept is historically attested: scribes did make some changes for theological reasons even before the Masoretes. The Masoretes mainly inherited those and didn’t reverse them.
Additionally, local minhag in biblical reading (trope, cantillation) often carried interpretive weight. For instance, how you break a sentence with an accent can affect meaning. There were differences between Babylonian and Palestinian cantillation. When one was chosen as standard, alternate parses were lost. The Masoretes chose a system (the Tiberian accents) that we use now. But sometimes looking at the old Babylonian system might suggest a different way to read a verse. Modern scholars have tools to compare these now, which again can yield insight.
From an evangelical perspective, acknowledging this is valuable. It undercuts any notion of KJV-only-style exclusivism for the MT and encourages a richer study of Scripture. We can trust that God’s Word has been preserved in substance – the Masoretes did an amazing job with that, as proven by the substantial agreement between MT and most of the Dead Sea Scroll biblical texts (which are 1000+ years older). Yet, we also humbly recognize that God in His wisdom did not choose to preserve His Word in only one manuscript or one tradition. He allowed a degree of diversity that, when examined, doesn’t undermine the core message but actually fills it out. It’s like having multiple witnesses to an event – each adds a detail. The Masoretic witness is the primary one, but the Septuagint, Samaritan Pentateuch, Aramaic Targums, and DSS fragments are supplementary witnesses. By weighing them, we come closer to the autographic truth.
For the purpose of our topic: the Masoretic tradition, by “hardening” the text, may have inadvertently veiled some of the Messianic or universalistic nuances that earlier generations had seen. The Church, using the LXX, often found prophecies that Jewish commentators post-Masoretic period didn’t see as clearly in the MT. For instance, Isaiah 53 in MT and LXX are very similar, but if the Masoretes had had an anti-Christian bias, they might have tried to obscure it – thankfully they did not or could not. However, they did add margin notes like “the servant is Israel” perhaps which is like a double negative in a sense, because we believe Jesus of Nazareth fulfills Israel. The post-Temple hardening also meant that by the time medieval Jewish scholars debated Christians, they had a Bible that, in places, read differently from the Christians’ Bible, causing mutual accusations of tampering (ironically, each side thought the other changed the text) and such accusations persist today.
In wrapping up this point, it’s important to stress: we hold the Masoretic Text in high esteem; it is a cornerstone of biblical fidelity. But we do so with eyes open, understanding its history. The Masoretes were heirs of the Pharisaic/Rabbinic/Scribal tradition, centered in exile. They likely lacked “sensitivity to local minhag” in, say, the Land of Israel, simply because by 900 CE the vibrant diversity of second-temple Judaism was long gone. They saw themselves as keeping a sacred trust – which they did – but perhaps could not imagine how the Messiah had already come and illuminated many of these Scriptures in a new light. Thus, some hardness remained in their approach, a veil over their hearts as Paul might say. Where that hardness resulted in readings that downplay much Messianic interpretation, the Holy Spirit had already given the Church what it needed through the LXX and apostolic teaching. How marvelous is God’s plan! He let the Masoretes seal the text for the synagogue, while the Church preserved the broader textual witness in its tradition. Now today, we have the privilege of seeing all the pieces together – the puzzle is more complete for us than it ever was for our forebears.
Edom as a Mirror: A Call and Critique to the Church (West and East)
We come full circle to Edom – a word that has surfaced several times in this discussion. Edom was the nation descended from Esau, Jacob’s twin. In the Bible, Edom often opposed Israel, and prophecies arose of Israel’s eventual triumph over Edom’s hostility. By late Second Temple times and definitely in rabbinic literature, “Edom” became a code for Rome – initially the pagan empire that destroyed the Second Temple, and later, by extension, Christendom once the Roman Empire turned Christian. Both the Western Church (centered in Rome) and the Eastern Church (centered in Constantinople, the “New Rome”) came to be seen under the umbrella of Edom in Jewish eyes. This was partly due to lived experience – persecutions, Crusades, and theological disputes – but partly due to a theological reading of history: as Isaac and Esau struggled in the womb, so the Church and Synagogue struggle in the world. As Esau was the elder who seemed to get the upper hand for a time, so the Gentile world religion of Christianity dominated over Israel for a time. But, as the prophecy to Rebekah said, “the older shall serve the younger” – implying that ultimately, the faith of Israel (the “younger” in that it came after Esau by seconds!) would be vindicated and Edom would take a humble place.
The Amos 9 prophecy that James quotes in Acts 15 is key. In the Hebrew, it said Israel would possess Edom and other nations under God’s restored kingdom . Taken one way, this sounds like military conquest or at least a subjugation of Gentile powers under Israel’s rule. Indeed, many Jews of Jesus’ day expected the Messiah to do just that – throw off Rome/Edom and literally make Israel rule over them. But in Acts 15, we see a Holy Spirit-inspired understanding: the true fulfillment of possessing Edom is in converting Edom. James’ use of the Greek reading (“the rest of mankind may seek the Lord”) shows that Edom’s remnant becomes part of “mankind seeking God.” In other words, Edom (Rome, the Gentiles) would be possessed not by force of arms, but by the embrace of the gospel; Israel would “possess” them in the sense of adding them as an inheritance, as brothers and sisters now calling on Jacob’s God. This is a revolutionary shift – from conquest to conversion, from dominion to fellowship. It is also a direct challenge to the Church: if the Gentiles are fulfilling Amos 9 by coming into the Tent of David, then the Church must identify not as a separate triumphant empire, but as a people folded into Israel’s promises. The Church is not a new Israel that cuts off the old, but the means by which the old Israel’s mission (to bless all nations) comes to fruition.
Sadly, much of Church history didn’t heed this nuance. Instead of humbly joining Israel, the Church often set itself up over Israel, claiming her promises exclusively (and sometimes her land and rights, too). The Western Church under Rome at times literally fulfilled “possessing Edom” in a carnal way – by subjugating Jewish people, or by worldly pomp that mimicked imperial power more than Christ’s servanthood. The Eastern Church, while often more tolerant of Jews early on, eventually developed its own triumphalism and anti-Jewish polemics (for instance, in Byzantine hymnography contrasting the “disbelief of the Jews” with the faith of the Church). In rabbinic eyes, therefore, both West and East – Edom all around – failed to live up to the picture of Amos 9 as understood by James. Instead of seeking the Lord alongside Israel, they often tried to make Israel their footstool.
Jewish theologians through the centuries thus offered a critique of Edom even as they held out a hope for Edom. The figure of Edom/Rome in Jewish legend is sometimes surprisingly sympathetic. One Midrash imagines a future where the prayers of Isaac on behalf of Esau/Edom are finally answered, and Edom repents and is included in the redemption. Another famous vision is in the Talmud: Mashiach (Messiah) sits at the gates of Rome (Edom), among the poor and sick, binding his wounds and waiting for the time to be revealed. We saw a reflection of this earlier: “Sar haPanim is currently binding wounds at the gates of Rome (Edom), from whence he will come to bring about the Messianic Era.” . What a picture – the Messiah is in Rome, in Edom, suffering with the people there, patiently ministering until the appointed hour. This suggests that the fate of Edom is integral to the story of redemption. The Messiah does not slay Edom outright; he heals and gathers the broken in Edom until the day he can fully manifest. In another mystical text (the Kin’at Adonai Tzevaot), it even describes two Messiahs sitting in “Great Rome” and “Small Rome” sorting the holy sparks needed for Israel, their suffering somehow atoning or easing Israel’s punishment . These cryptic images convey a truth: God has a redemptive plan for Edom (the world of the Church) as well, and the Messiah is at work there – even if in hidden form, even if Edom doesn’t recognize him fully.
When Jews called the Christian Jesus a gilgul (reincarnation) of Esau , it was a scathing comment on how they saw the Church behave; but it also hints at a twinship: Esau is Jacob’s twin. The Church is like a twin to Israel – tragically separated, often hostile, yet sharing the same womb of Scripture and the same Father (the God of Abraham). Twins can reconcile, as eventually Jacob and Esau did in their lifetime – though Edom’s descendants later warred with Israel. The prophetic hope, however, is that in the Messianic era Edom and Israel will be reconciled under God’s reign. The rabbis saw Obadiah’s prophecy (“Saviors shall ascend Mount Zion to judge the mount of Esau, and the kingdom shall be the Lord’s”) and Amos’s as pointing to a time when Edom’s arrogance will be judged and she will either be destroyed or absorbed into holiness. They left room for individual Edomites to convert – indeed, the Talmud notes some famous sages like Rabbi Meir were descended from Roman converts. So the door was always open for Edom to change.
For the Western and Eastern churches today – who might not think of themselves as Edom, but from a Jewish perspective that shoe fits – these themes are both a call and a critique. The critique is: Have we acted like Esau, casting off restraint, being prideful, exploiting the birthright? Have we been, as Obadiah condemns Edom, “standing aloof” when our brother Judah was mistreated, or even participating in his misfortune? The history of Christian anti-Semitism sadly says yes, too often we have. That must be confessed and repented of. The call is: It’s not too late to fulfill Amos 9 in the right way – to seek the Lord as part of the restored tent of David, not as conquerors but as companions. James’s decision in Acts 15 was essentially inviting Gentiles to take their place alongside the Jewish believers, not displacing them. He was saying, You don’t have to become Jews, but you do have to leave paganism and come humbly to worship the God of Israel. The Tent of David imagery implies dwelling together under one sukkah, one covering of God’s presence.
Tragically, within a few centuries, a new “tent” was erected – a Gentile imperial Church that largely pushed the Jews out. That is the opposite of what Acts 15 signaled. Therefore, Jewish thinkers see the current state of Christendom as Edom still in need of redemption. And many Christians would agree: the Church is always in need of reformation and revival, to cast off worldly power and return to biblical truth. In Jewish eyes, one of those truths is the recognition of Israel’s ongoing chosenness and the Torah’s value – things Edom (Christendom) often denied. Thus, the call to Edom is to come back to the brother you hated, to reconcile with Israel and Israel’s God in truth.
Interestingly, Eastern Orthodox theology has a concept of “Eden” (delight) and sometimes contrasts it with “Babylon” (worldliness), but perhaps “Edom” doesn’t feature in their self-understanding as it does in Jewish critiques. Yet, Russian Orthodox and others have started to recognize the Jewish roots more in recent times, as have many Protestants (especially evangelicals and Messianic movements). We live in a day when, for the first time in almost 2000 years, significant numbers of Christians are rediscovering the Jewishness of Jesus (read Harvey Falk: Jesus the Pharisee) and extending hands of friendship to the Jewish people. This could be seen as Edom beginning to seek the Lord together with Israel, rather than over Israel. In Acts 15’s aftermath, after James’s speech, the whole assembly – Jews and Gentiles – rejoiced at the decision. It was a moment of unity. We long for the day when such unity is global: when the Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox descendants of “Rome” lay down any vestiges of supersessionism and acknowledge their debt to Israel, and when Jewish people in turn welcome these Gentiles not as threatening oppressors but as fellow worshipers of Israel’s Messiah. That will be a day when the family feud of Jacob and Esau is healed at last.
Amos 9:12 in the Masoretic text said Israel would yarash (possess/inherit) the remnant of Edom. The Hebrew word has a nuance of inheritance – which is interesting because in the end, Edom might be seen as an inheritance given to the people of God. Not as plunder, but as a gift – the gift of expanded family. Isaiah 19 has a stunning prophecy where Egypt and Assyria (another traditional enemy) are called “my people” and “the work of my hands” by God, alongside Israel “my inheritance.” God promises, “Blessed be Egypt my people, Assyria my handiwork, and Israel my inheritance.” Here we see the same dynamic: former enemies all blessed and called God’s own. The inheritance of Israel includes her former foes turned friends. This harmonizes with the Acts 15 interpretation: the Gentiles called by God’s name become part of the people of God. Paul too envisioned this when he spoke of the Olive Tree in Romans 11: wild branches (Edomite/Gentile) grafted in among the natural branches (Israel), sharing the richness of the root, and warned the wild branches not to boast over the natural ones. That warning was not heeded in history; Edom boasted and even cut off some natural branches (physically, in persecution). But God is able to graft them back, Paul says – and that is happening as more Jewish people come to faith in Yeshua, and as Christians repent of past arrogance.
In Jewish eschatology, Edom’s final judgment is linked with the coming of Messiah. Christian eschatology too speaks of a final showdown involving the nations and Israel (Armageddon, etc). We won’t delve into end-time scenarios here, but suffice it to say: both faiths expect that when Messiah is revealed in glory, the false pretenses will be stripped away. Edom’s power will crumble, and only those within Edom who have attached themselves to Israel’s God will enter the kingdom. The Book of Revelation portrays something similar in the fall of “Mystery Babylon” (which could be seen as a cipher for Rome or corrupt Christendom) and the call to “come out of her, my people, lest you participate in her sins” – again a call and critique to God’s people lost in a worldly system. Perhaps Revelation’s Babylon = Edom = any world-religious system that opposes the true purposes of God. But the fact that God calls “my people” out of her indicates He has people in Edom who will be saved as they return to covenant.
The role of Edom, then, has been twofold: a foil and a potential friend. In one sense, Edom (the Church Empire) by its missteps pressed Israel to clarify its own identity and hold fast to Torah – a foil that kept Israel distinct. In another sense, Edom also preserved and spread Israel’s scriptures and knowledge of Israel’s God to the ends of the earth – thus acting as a (sometimes unwitting) friend of the ultimate plan. Now, at the time of the geulah (redemption), Edom is summoned to truly become a friend, even family. The prophetic call is that Edom will lay down its weapons and pride, and Israel will extend a hand of peace through Messiah. Edom also permiates the cultural and ethic nominalism so prevalent today as found in the ‘secular’ modern State of Israel.
For evangelical readers, especially those from Western traditions, seeing themselves in the mirror of “Edom” can be jarring. It is far more pleasant to identify with Israel or at least with “grafted-in” Gentiles of the New Testament. But taking an honest look at church history shows plenty of Edomite behavior. Recognizing it is part of repentance. And repentance is the path to renewal. God disciplines those He loves; the troubled history of the Church (the Great Schism, the Reformation, etc., essentially West vs East splits, and now moral crises) could be seen as the struggles of Edom trying to find its way back to God’s tent. The solution is ultimately the same as it ever was: seek the Lord, and come under the tent of David – which in practical terms means to acknowledge the reign of the Jewish Messiah and the continued role of the people from whom he came. It means to celebrate the Jewish roots of our faith rather than cut them off. It means to read the Old Testament not as a discarded relic, but as our family history into which we were adopted. It means to love the Jewish people as elder brothers and sisters, even if not yet in the faith, and to provoke them to jealousy by embodying the holiness and blessing of their own covenant, not by persecuting or despising them.
If we do this, we will at last live out what the Council of Jerusalem decreed. James closed his remarks by affirming that the inclusion of the Gentiles by grace upheld “the words of the prophets” . The Church’s task is to continue upholding those prophetic words – including the ones that speak to her own refinement. The Veiled Messiah will be fully unveiled to the world when Jew and Gentile are united in witness. And the Hidden Torah – the knowledge of God – will cover the earth “as the waters cover the sea” when “the nations shall go up to Jerusalem year after year to worship the King, the LORD of Hosts” (Zechariah 14). In that day, Edom and Israel will be one in Messiah, and the Lord will be One and His Name One.
Conclusion: Unveiling the Messiah and Uniting under the Torah of Christ
We began with an image of veils and hidden things. Let’s remove the final veils now. Yeshua, the Veiled Messiah, emerges from the pages of both Testaments as Sar haPanim, the Prince of God’s Presence, carrying forward a chain of Jewish tradition that affirms his identity from the first century to medieval mystics . This Yeshua is not the estranged figure of much of church history, but the deeply Jewish Savior who fulfills and honors the Torah. Opposite him stands Yeshu haNotzri, the false messiah constructed by misunderstanding and misuse – a figure that served as a warning of how far adrift one can go by detaching from the roots. By distinguishing the true from the false, we allow the real Jesus to be seen in his full glory and covenantal context.
We also saw that the Torah, too, had hidden layers that God in His mercy chose to reveal to the nations – notably through the Greek Septuagint, which conveyed oral-traditional interpretations to a broad audience . The Word of God was not locked away for a spiritual elite; at the right time, it was translated and thus essentially unveiled. Today we hold the Bible in our hands, often unaware of the centuries of cross-cultural transmission that God orchestrated so we could understand His plan. We owe a debt to the Jewish scribes and translators, even as we test all by the revelation of Christ.
We reflected on the Masoretic textual tradition, appreciating its role in preservation but acknowledging it gave us one lens – a beautiful, precise lens, but one that might benefit from the prisms of earlier textual traditions to see the full spectrum of light . This encourages us to study Scripture deeply, in community with both Jewish and Christian scholars, letting iron sharpen iron.
Finally, we faced the legacy of Edom (Rome) in the Church – taking to heart the prophetic critique and call that Jewish thought offers. Rather than become defensive, we as believers in Jesus can humbly agree that the Church has often worn Esau’s garments, and we desire to exchange them for Jacob’s voice – the voice that cries “Abba, Father” and affirms, like Ruth to Naomi, “Your people shall be my people and your God my God.” The inclusion of the Gentiles was not a mistake; it was the mystery hidden for ages. But it was supposed to bring unity, not division. We are challenged to make that a reality in our time by repenting of pride and embracing God’s order.
For an evangelical audience, all this can catalyze a paradigm shift. Perhaps you grew up thinking of the Old Testament as a mere prelude, the Law as obsolete, the Jews as blind, and the Church as the new chosen. After exploring “The Veiled Messiah and the Hidden Torah,” you might see instead a continuity: the Old and New Testaments locked in a deep embrace, Torah and Gospel kissing each other in mutual truth and mercy. You might see Jesus not as an adversary to the Law, but as its living embodiment – and thus gain a new love for the Hebrew Scriptures, reading them with unveiled eyes. You might find yourself stirred to learn about the Noahide covenant and how the Apostles applied it, realizing that grace and law are not enemies but dance together in God’s plan. You might also feel the weight of responsibility: being grafted into Israel’s olive tree means you draw nourishment from the root (not cut the root off). It means the biblical feasts, the psalms, the wisdom literature – all of it – is part of your heritage in Christ. How rich is our inheritance!
In practical terms, this renewed understanding can lead to an enriched faith practice. Some may feel led to embrace a measure of Jewish practice (as many Messianic Gentiles do) – not out of legalism, but out of love and solidarity, much like a Ruth would. Others may simply integrate the spirit of the Torah more intentionally – for instance, keeping moral standards not just as rules but as family customs from our Father, or practicing generosity and kindness as extensions of God’s commands. The Sermon on the Mount will take on even greater depth when you see it as the Messiah teaching his disciples how to live out the Torah’s weightier matters of justice, mercy, and faithfulness.
Also, recognizing the Sar haPanim motif brings a new reverence in worship: when you pray, you can remember that Yeshua stands in the Holy of Holies above, presenting our prayers as incense before God’s throne (a very Jewish image – akin to the angel of the presence). This can deepen prayer life, knowing our Messiah is actively interceding as High Priest.
Moreover, this understanding fosters reconciliation. If God has not rejected Israel (as Paul emphatically declares in Romans 11), neither should the Church. An unveiled Messiah means an unveiled heart for his brethren “according to the flesh.” We can support Jewish people in their calling, oppose anti-Semitism in all forms, and welcome Jewish believers in Jesus as a providential bridge in our time. Perhaps we will see more clearly that the schisms that gave us denominations often pale in comparison to the breach between Church and Synagogue – and that healing that breach is pivotal for the kingdom to fully come. Indeed, Jewish and Gentile unity in Messiah is “life from the dead” according to Paul (Rom 11:15), a precursor to resurrection and renewal of creation.
As we conclude, let us recall the apostle Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 3:16: “Whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away.” This applies historically (Israel turning to Messiah will remove the veil over their Scriptures) and personally (turning to Yeshua removes the veil over our understanding). By turning our hearts more fully to the Lord – the Jewish Messiah and Divine Savior – the veils of misunderstanding between Testaments, between peoples, between law and grace, begin to lift. Then we all, “with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image” (3:18). That image is glorious indeed: it is the image of Messiah united with His people, Torah within His heart, and His light shining to all nations.
The Veiled Messiah is veiled no longer. The Hidden Torah is hidden no more. Yeshua is revealed as Messiah ben David, Sar haPanim, yet also the atoning Mashiach ben Yosef who, like Joseph, forgave his brothers and saved the Gentiles from famine in the meantime . And the Torah is revealed as not merely law, but teaching, whose purpose in Messiah is to go forth from Zion to the whole world (Isaiah 2:3). We are witnessing the early stages of that prophecy’s fulfillment in our days, as more Christians seek the Jewish roots and more Jews peek behind the Christian veil to see Yeshua.
It is my prayer that this exploration has pulled back the curtain just a little more, allowing you to “see the King in His beauty” and the grand design of Scripture with fresh awe. The journey does not end here. In fact, it’s only a new beginning – a step further into the unified story of God’s redemption. Let’s step forward together, with eyes open and hearts burning within us, as the Messiah and His Torah are unveiled before us line by line, precept by precept, and face to face.
More References:
Jewish Machzor prayer invoking Yeshua Sar haPanim alongside Elijah and Metatron. This reflects an ancient chain of Kabbalah (received) tradition placing Yeshua in the heavenly throne room.
Sefer HaChesheq warns that Sar haPanim (even identified with Yeshua) is not a second god, but an extension of God’s power and mercy, aligning with strict monotheism.
WikiNoah.org provides a compendium on Yeshu haNotzri as a false messianic figure: associated with 666, Belial, Balaam, and other anti-God symbols . One source even calls him a reincarnation of Esau (Edom) opposing the true Jacob/Israel.
Acts 15 and Noahide laws: The Jerusalem Council’s prohibitions correspond to Noahide commands, presuming Gentile believers would observe basic morality (e.g. against murder, theft) as part of their turning to God . The four specific rules address idolatry and impurity issues, allowing fellowship and the indwelling Spirit to remain .
James cites Amos 9:11-12 in line with the Septuagint: “That the remnant of mankind may seek the Lord, even all the Gentiles who are called by My name”, rather than “possess the remnant of Edom”. This key difference highlights the inclusion of Gentiles as the goal. The WikiNoah article notes Acts 15 was understood in terms of Noahide law and even connects Amos’ words “known from of old” to rabbinic phrasing about ancient decrees.
Role of the Septuagint: Produced by Jews around 200 BC with Temple influence, it “reflects the Jewish understanding of the Bible” of that era . The Talmud relates the 72 translators made identical interpretive changes by divine guidance , indicating the LXX carries interpretive tradition (Oral Torah) within it.
Masoretic text and variants: Dead Sea Scrolls show textual diversity and scribal freedom prior to the Masoretic standardization. The Masoretes, in a period when “living tradition ceased,” compiled and fixed one set of readings, often choosing one school’s tradition while noting others. Debates exist on whether some Masoretic vocalizations lost original nuances .
Jewish critique of Edom/Rome: In WikiNoah’s collection, Abarbanel’s work links the false Yeshu to Esau/Edom. Jewish tradition sees Rome (and by extension the Church) as Edom – sometimes an adversary, but ultimately part of God’s plan to be subdued or redeemed in Messianic times. James’s use of Amos 9 flips conquest into conversion of Edom , setting a biblical precedent for integrating Gentiles as fellow-seekers rather than enemies.
Midrashic allusions: The Messiah binding His wounds at the gates of Rome (Edom) signifies Messiah’s presence in the heart of gentile world, suffering with them until the time of redemption. Another source speaks of Messiah(s) in “Great and Small Rome” sorting holy sparks, whose suffering aids Israel – hinting that the trials of the Messianic movement in gentile lands have redemptive value.
Relevance of Sermon on the Mount: While not explicitly cited above, its content resonates with the halakhic ethos of the Apostolic decree. The Council gave minimum requirements to enter fellowship, and Jesus in Matthew 5-7 calls disciples to maximum righteousness (far beyond minimum). This upholds that salvation is by grace (entry free, as in Acts 15) but true faith leads to fulfilling the spirit of the Torah (as Jesus taught).
Each of these points invites deeper study, but together they weave the story we have explored – of a Messiah and a Torah once veiled and hidden, now revealed and glorified in union. May we be among those “seeking the Lord” and walking in His light as this great narrative advances toward its climax. Amen!
