The Parting of Early Jewish Jesus Followers
from Rabbinic Judaism and Imperial Christianity
Introduction
In the first centuries of the Common Era, a profound schism unfolded that shaped two major world religions. This split occurred between the Netzarim (Nazarenes) – the early Jewish followers of Jesus (including his own relatives, the Desposyni) – and the increasingly distinct bodies of Rabbinic Judaism and Imperial Christianity. What began as a Messianic sect within Second Temple Judaism gradually found itself excluded from the Jewish qahal (community) and also marginalized within a gentile-dominated ecclesia (Church). The historical recorde pre 70 CE are explored in the cannonical epistles like Jude and the contributed to the Netrarim being called Notzarim, a term for Christians today in modern Hebrew.
Using a lens of the Bible’s mission in a full covenatal sense Torat Edom – i.e. viewing Rome/Christianity (often called “Edom” in Jewish parlance) as an instrument in the divine plan – we will trace this complex parting from 70 CE through the Middle Ages. We affirm from this perspective that Messiah ben David has already come (fulfilled in Jesus of Nazareth), and we explore how the early exclusion of Jesus’ family and Jewish disciples led to a theological exile of this covenantal remnant. The journey spans the fall of Jerusalem, the Council of Yavne, evolving Messianic expectations, and the polemics of medieval sages like Rashi and Nachmanides, as two mutually exclusive institutions – the Rabbinic synagogues and the Roman Church – emerged from what was once a single faith community.
70 CE: Destruction of the Second Temple and Its Aftermath
The cataclysmic fall of the holy city marked a decisive turning point for both Jewish and nascent Christian communities. In 70 CE, the Roman legions under Titus crushed the Great Jewish Revolt and razed Jerusalem and its Temple to the ground . Eyewitness accounts by the Jewish historian Josephus paint the horror of those days: “Jerusalem was so thoroughly laid even with the ground… there was left nothing to make those that came thither believe it had ever been inhabited”. This utter devastation ended the Second Temple era and abruptly deprived the Jewish people of their spiritual center of sacrifice and pilgrimage. The loss sent shockwaves through every sect of Judaism, including the community of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem.
For the early Jewish Christians, the Temple’s destruction had a profound theological significance. According to Christian sources, Jesus had foretold the Temple’s fall as judgment (cf. Luke 19:41–44), and now that prophecy was seen as fulfilled. The Jerusalem church, led by Jesus’ brother James the Just until his death a few years prior, had already endured tensions with the Judean establishment. With the Temple gone, these Nazarenes found themselves both vindicated in their apocalyptic expectations and forced, along with all Jews, to rethink worship without a Temple.
Crucially, they believed the Messiah had come and offered Himself as the final sacrifice, obviating the need for animal offerings. Meanwhile, Rabbinic leaders emphasized biblical passages about God desiring repentance over sacrifice: “Bring no more futile sacrifices… Wash yourselves, make yourselves clean” (Isaiah 1:11–17) . In other words, prayer, Torah study, and acts of mercy would substitute for sacrifices in the post-Temple age – a view shared in principle by the Jesus movement, albeit with Jesus’ atonement at the center.
In the immediate wake of 70 CE, Yochanan ben Zakkai – a leading Pharisee who escaped the siege – established a rabbinic academy at Yavne (Jamnia). There, Judaism began a process of reconstruction. The priesthood and Temple rituals were replaced by the authority of rabbis and a liturgy of the synagogue. The embryonic Rabbinic Judaism that emerged from Yavne sought to unify Jewish practice and belief to survive in a world without a Temple. It’s within this crucible that the divergence between Rabbinic Jews and Jewish Christians sharpened. At this stage, followers of Jesus were still a minority within Judaism, but one that now stood out more clearly: they had a Messianic conviction not shared by the rest. The question loomed – could these “Nazarenes” remain part of the Jewish community, or would they be cast out as heretics?
Yavneh and the Birkat HaMinim: Excluding the Nazarenes
In the late first century, under the leadership of Rabban Gamliel II at Yavneh, the rabbis took a fateful step that helped formalize the break. They introduced a new benediction into the daily Amidah prayer, known as the Birkat haMinim (“Blessing on the Heretics”). Despite its name, it was actually a curse directed at sectarians. The Talmud relates that “Shimon ha-Pakuli arranged the eighteen blessings before Rabban Gamliel in Yavne,”after which Gamliel asked, “Is there no one who knows how to draft the Birkat ha-Minim?” – whereupon Shmuel ha-Katan composed it.
This extra nineteenth blessing cursed the “minim,” a term which encompassed various dissenters. Though not explicitly naming the Nazarenes, later sources and textual variants leave little doubt that Jewish Christians were a primary target. In fact, some ancient versions explicitly cursed the “Notzrim” (Nazarenes) alongside other heretics.
The purpose of the Birkat haMinim was to flush out those in the synagogues who had deviated from rabbinic orthodoxy. A member of the Nazarene sect, who worshipped Jesus as Messiah, would find it impossible in good conscience to recite a curse upon “heretics” that likely included themselves. If they omitted or hesitated in this prayer, it would expose their allegiance. Thus, the new benediction became a litmus test of communal loyalty – effectively an act of excommunication. One talmudic anecdote describes Shmuel ha-Katan himself leading prayer the following year and momentarily forgetting the words, causing a suspicion of minim to fall on him – indicating how closely this prayer was policed.
Scholars debate the exact timing of the Birkat haMinim’s introduction. Some suggest it may have been formulated around 85 CE at Yavneh (when Gamliel was consolidating the post-war Jewish community) . Others argue it was crystallized later, perhaps after the Bar Kokhba revolt (135 CE), as implied by the church father Justin Martyr’s mid-2nd century testimony. Either way, by the early 2nd century it was in use. Justin Martyr, in his Dialogue with Trypho (c. 155 CE), laments to a Jew: “You curse in your synagogues all those who are called Christians” . He notes that Jewish authorities were instructing their people to pray against the followers of Jesus, and he saw this as a fulfillment of biblical prophecy that Christians would be persecuted. The curse in the synagogue, as Justin describes, meant that the breach was growing irreparable – the Nazarenes were no longer welcome in the very community that had given them birth.
Thus, only a generation or so after Jesus, the official Jewish leadership took steps to define the faith in a way that excluded the Nazarenes. From a Torat Edom perspective, this moment is poignant: the legitimate covenantal remnant (Jews who believed in Messiah ben David) were essentially forced out of Israel’s main assembly. They would have to forge their identity elsewhere, often among gentile believers, or remain a persecuted fringe on the margins of the synagogue. This was the beginning of what we term a theological exile of the early Jewish church – a scattering not geographically (many still lived in Judea and Galilee) but spiritually, as they no longer had a place in the Jewish qahal.
Early Reactions: Talmud and Church Fathers on the Other
By the early 2nd century, Rabbinic Judaism and the Christian Church were consciously differentiating themselves, often in opposition to one another. The Jewish rabbis referred to Jewish Christians obliquely in their writings as minim (heretics) and eventually Noẓerim (Nazarenes) in later strata . The emerging Mishnah (compiled c. 200 CE) and Tosefta preserve hints of these conflicts – for example, a baraita warns against “books of the minim” and even against healing a min on the Sabbath (Jerusalem Talmud, Avodah Zarah 2:2), likely alluding to Gospel books or Christian Jews. Such references show Judaism closing ranks against those seen as apostates.
On the Christian side, the Church Fathers wrote increasingly about the Jews as a separate group, often with polemical edge. Justin Martyr in Dialogue with Trypho not only bemoaned the synagogue curse, but also tried to persuade Jews that Jesus was the Messiah using Hebrew Scripture – indicating that by his time, dialogue was happening from the outside. He speaks of “you and your teachers” as distinct from “us” and accuses Jewish leaders of persecuting Christians even beyond the prayer: “the other nations carry out the curse, putting to death those who simply confess Christ” . Another early writer, Ignatius of Antioch (c. 110 CE), warned Christians not to “Judaize,” implying that by then following Jewish law was seen as incompatible with Church loyalty. These admonitions underscore that a boundary between the communities was solidifying.
Crucially, a watershed event further widened the rift: the Bar Kokhba revolt (132–135 CE). Rabbi Akiva and other leading sages hailed Simon bar Kosiba (Bar Kokhba) as the promised Messiah who would restore Israel’s independence. Jewish Christians could not accept this, for they already believed the Messiah had come in Jesus.
According to early Christian testimony, Bar Kokhba regarded the Christians as dangerous traitors in his war. Eusebius of Caesarea, quoting Justin Martyr, records that “the Christian author Justin Martyr tells that Simon [Bar Kokhba] commanded Christians ‘to be led away to terrible punishment’ unless they denied Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah and cursed Him” .
In other words, Bar Kokhba forced Jews under his control to renounce Jesus on pain of death. Many Jewish believers chose martyrdom rather than blaspheme their Lord. This episode effectively severed whatever ties remained – after Bar Kokhba, no follower of Jesus could be seen as a loyal Jew in the eyes of the rabbinic establishment, since they had refused to support the national Messiah. Conversely, Christians saw the failure of Bar Kokhba’s rebellion (and his death) as divine confirmation that Jesus was the true Messiah and that Jewish messianism without him was futile.
The aftermath of 135 CE brought further separation. Jerusalem (renamed Aelia Capitolina by the Romans) was rebuilt as a pagan city with a ban on Jewish residence. Significantly, the line of Jewish bishops of the Jerusalem church – which had persisted for a century – now came to an end. Up to that point, the Jerusalem Christian community had been led by Jewish relatives and followers of Jesus (the Desposyni). After the revolt, a gentile Christian named Marcus was installed as bishop of Aelia Capitolina. The Church in Jerusalem thus lost its Jewish character.
What remained of the Nazarene community in Palestine either fled or lived in small pockets (some scholars identify them with the group later called the Ebionites or Nazarenes who lingered beyond Jordan and in Syria). These believers kept observing Torah and identifying as Jews, but both the Roman authorities and the Jewish authorities now viewed them with hostility. By the late 2nd century, Church fathers like Irenaeus and Tertullian speak of the Ebionites as heretics for insisting on Jewish practices, even as the rabbis viewed those same Ebionites as minim for believing in Jesus – a tragic double rejection.
The Rise of Two Exclusive Institutions
Over the next few centuries, Rabbinic Judaism and Imperial Christianity developed into fully separate institutions, each claiming to be the true continuation of God’s covenant people. What had been a family quarrel became a chasm. On the Jewish side, the academies of Torah study (in Galilee and Babylonia) produced the Talmud and a robust rabbinic tradition. On the Christian side, the Church increasingly defined orthodox doctrine in ecumenical councils and spread across the Roman Empire. Both communities solidified their identity markers – for Jews, strict adherence to Torah (now as interpreted by rabbis) and separation from gentile idolatry; for Christians, faith in Christ apart from the works of the Law, and a universal mission to the nations.
The split was not only social but theological. The Church by the 4th century (especially after Emperor Constantine’s conversion) began to see itself as the “New Israel.” Church leaders argued that because the majority of Jews had rejected Jesus, God had rejected the Jews – a doctrine later termed supersessionism. For example, Origen in the 3rd century taught that the destruction of Jerusalem was God’s punishment on the Jews, and that in their wandering they bore witness to Christian truth. By the time Christianity became the Imperial religion (with Theodosius in 380 CE), laws were enacted to make the separation clear: Jews were forbidden from proselytizing or even from circumcising non-Jewish slaves, and Christians were forbidden from observing Jewish rites. The once-Jewish church had transformed into a predominantly gentile one, with its center in Rome and Constantinople – the very embodiment of Edom in rabbinic eyes.
Rabbinic writings of late antiquity and beyond reflect this widening gulf. The Midrash and later commentaries begin to use Edom (Esau) as a codeword for Rome or Christianity. In Jewish imagination, Esau and Jacob – the biblical twins – became symbols for the goyische Church and Israel respectively . Edom (Rome) might rule for now, but Jacob (Israel) would eventually prevail. This covert language allowed rabbis to critique the Christian oppressors or discuss them in scriptural guise. For instance, Genesis 33:4 (“Esau ran to meet him…”) is expounded in some midrashim with reference to encounters between Rome and Israel. The “voice of Jacob and hands of Esau” (Genesis 27:22) was popularly interpreted such that when the voice (prayer) of Jacob is weak, the hands (power) of Esau prevail – a nod to the power of the Church wielding the sword, versus the spiritual strength of Israel’s prayer . Thus, each side read their sacred texts in a way that reinforced their distinct identities and missions: the Church saw itself as fulfilling Israel’s promises, while the rabbis saw themselves as surviving Esau’s onslaught.
By the early Middle Ages, Judaism and Christianity existed as mutually exclusive worlds. A Jew who accepted Jesus would be seen as leaving the Jewish community entirely and joining the Church (often through baptism), and a Christian who adopted Jewish practices or identity was viewed as an apostate by the Church. The two communities interacted, but mostly through polemics and sometimes violence, rather than fellowship. Symbolically, medieval art often personified the Church and the Synagogue as women: “Ecclesia” crowned and triumphant, and “Synagoga” blindfolded and fallen . This iconography (visible on cathedrals like Strasbourg) conveyed the message that the Church had supplanted the Synagogue. In Jewish thought, correspondingly, the enduring exile and suffering of the Jews (galut) was seen as temporary, and the success of the Church (Edom) as a paradoxical part of God’s plan – a Torat Edom, wherein even the gentile church unknowingly advanced God’s purposes until Israel’s ultimate redemption.
Evolving Messianic Expectations
A key aspect of “The Split” was the transformation of messianic expectations in the two communities. In Jesus’ time and earlier, many Jews expected a Messiah who might suffer for Israel’s sins and then reign in glory. Hints of a suffering messiah appear in texts like Isaiah 53 and certain Dead Sea Scrolls. Indeed, Targum Jonathan (an Aramaic translation from the early centuries) interpreted Isaiah 53 in a messianic way , and midrashic comments suggested the Messiah might carry illnesses or burdens for Israel (e.g. b. Sanhedrin 98b). Likewise, passages like Zechariah 12:10 (“they shall look upon me whom they have pierced and mourn for him”) were seen by some as referring to a pierced messianic figure.
However, after the rise of Christianity – which claimed these prophecies were fulfilled in Jesus of Nazareth – the Rabbinic approach to messianic prophecies shifted. Classical Jewish commentators increasingly downplayed or reinterpreted verses that Christians used for Jesus. A striking example is Isaiah 53: by the 11th century, the great Rabbi Rashi explicitly taught that the “Suffering Servant” in Isaiah was not the Messiah at all, but a metaphor for Israel suffering among the nations.
This interpretation, which may have existed in germ earlier, became dominant in Jewish exegesis, largely to counter Christian claims. Similarly, Psalm 22 and Zechariah 12:10 – with their imagery of pierced hands and mourned-for only sons – were explained by Rashi and others as referring to Israel’s historic trials or a righteous remnant, not to the Messiah . The prophet Micah’s prediction that Messiah would be born in Bethlehem (Micah 5:2) was either applied to a past king (like David) or allegorized.
In short, post-Jesus Rabbinic interpretation “moved the goalposts” of messianic expectation: any prophecy that appeared to fit Jesus was given a different meaning, and the Messiah’s coming was pushed into an indefinite future.
Chronology was adjusted as well. Early Christians pointed to Daniel 9:24–27 – the prophecy of “70 weeks” – as evidence that the Messiah should have come before the Second Temple’s destruction (and indeed Jesus did, in their view). In response, Jewish tradition (e.g. Seder Olam Rabbah, 2nd century) recomputed the years to make Daniel’s timeline end in the past or far future. Rashi, commenting on Daniel 9, applied the “cut off anointed one” not to the Messiah but to figures like King Agrippa (a first-century leader) or the High Priest Onias III, thus disconnecting the prophecy from Jesus. By making the “Messiah” in Daniel refer to someone or something else, Rashi ensured it could not be wielded as proof for the Christian claim.
Another fascinating development was the Jewish idea of two Messiahs. Confronted with scriptures that seemed to describe a suffering, dying redeemer on one hand and a victorious king on the other, rabbinic tradition eventually posited Mashiach ben Yosef (a Messiah descended from Joseph/Ephraim) who would come and suffer or die in battle, followed by Mashiach ben David who would reign gloriously. Hints of this dual-Messiah concept appear in the Talmud (Sukkah 52a describes a great mourning in Jerusalem as for the death of Messiah ben Joseph). By splitting the Messianic role into two figures, Jewish theology could accommodate the seeming contradictions – the Messiah ben Joseph idea effectively absorbed the “suffering messiah” prophecies, leaving Messiah ben David as the triumphant, unbeaten king. This doctrine gained traction after the disappointments of failed messiahs like Bar Kokhba. In contrast, Christians integrated all these prophecies into one Messiah with two comings: first coming in humility to suffer, and second coming in the future to conquer.
As one chart succinctly compares, Judaism came to expect two persons (one to suffer, one to reign), whereas Christianity expected one person in two phases . The divergence in messianic expectation was thus complete – each side had a fundamentally different schema to make sense of Scripture, each excluding the other’s solution.
Moreover, the mission and role of Messiah changed in Jewish thought. In the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple hopes, the Messiah was often a redeemer from sin and a restorer of Israel. Early Christian preaching emphasized Jesus as the Lamb of God who atones for sin, aligning with passages like Isaiah 53 (“he bore the sin of many”) . But Rabbinic Judaism de-emphasized the Messiah’s role in atonement, reserving atonement for God alone through repentance, prayer, and Torah. Instead, the Messiah became primarily a national hero who would regather the exiles, rebuild the Temple, and usher in an era of peace. Nachmanides, in the 13th century, argued vigorously that world peace and justice are the true hallmarks of the Messianic Age – and since these have never been fulfilled, the Messiah cannot have come. He pointed out that “since the appearance of Jesus of Nazareth, the world has still been filled with violence and injustice”, and in fact he claimed Christians had been among the most warlike, not exactly beating swords into plowshares . Thus in Jewish expectation, Messiah ben David’s mission was still unfilled, pending a future golden age; whereas Christians believed that the core messianic work (redemption from sin, inauguration of God’s Kingdom) was accomplished, and only its consummation awaited.
In summary, the early covenantal remnant who followed Jesus preserved the older Jewish messianic hopes – seeing them fulfilled in Yeshua – while Rabbinic Judaism in reaction reformulated those hopes to justify its stance that the Messiah had not yet come. This theological divergence became self-reinforcing: each generation of Jews and Christians inherited a different set of interpretations, making reconciliation increasingly difficult. It was as if two ships had set sail from the same harbor in 70 CE, but then charted opposite courses.
The Desposyni and the “Hidden” Jewish Church
Amid this growing divide, one tragic subplot was the suppression and obscurity of Jesus’ own family and the original Jerusalem community (sometimes called the Edah, or assembly). These Desposyni – a Greek term meaning “belonging to the Master,” referring to Jesus’ blood relatives – played a prominent role in the first decades of the movement. The New Testament and early Christian writings indicate that Jesus’ brother James led the Jerusalem church, and other relatives like Jude had followers as well. They were devout Jews, respected even by some fellow Jews (Eusebius reports that James was nicknamed “the Just” and revered for his piety). However, after 70 CE and especially after 135 CE, the influence of Jesus’ family waned as the Church became predominantly Gentile in composition and leadership.
Eusebius, preserving the account of the 2nd-century historian Hegesippus, gives a rare glimpse of the Desposyni’s fate. During the reign of Emperor Domitian (~95 CE), a paranoid effort was made to hunt down any remaining descendants of the House of David (perhaps to preclude a rival messianic claimant). Grandsons of Jude, who was Jesus’ brother “according to the flesh,” were brought before the Emperor . When Domitian interrogated them, he discovered these Christian relatives of Jesus were poor farmers. They showed him their calloused hands and explained that Christ’s kingdom was “not of this world” but a heavenly one to come at the end of days . Domitian, realizing they posed no political threat, released them. Eusebius notes, “upon their release they became leaders (rulers) of the churches, being witnesses and also relatives of the Lord”, and they lived on until the time of Trajan . This remarkable note suggests that around the turn of the 2nd century, Jesus’ kin were still honored in some Christian circles, providing continuity with the original Jewish nucleus of the faith.
But as decades passed, these relatives died out (one tradition says that a certain Simon bar Clopas, a cousin of Jesus, succeeded James and was crucified under Trajan’s persecution around 107 CE). With the Bar Kokhba revolt and subsequent ban on Jews in Jerusalem, the Jerusalem church was reconstituted as a Gentile community, severing the line of Jewish Christian bishops. The covenantal remnant – those Jews who believed in Jesus – found themselves increasingly isolated. Some joined Gentile churches in the Diaspora (where they had to give up Torah observance to be accepted), while others clung to a Torah-observant faith in Jesus that pleased neither side. By the 4th century, Church father Epiphanius could describe a sect of Nazarenes in Syria who kept the Jewish Law and revered Christ – he knew of them, but they were a curiosity, small and despised by both synagogue and church. The mainstream Church regarded the Desposyni’s teachings as Ebionite heresy (Ebionites were said to deny Christ’s divinity and insist on circumcision – views attributed, perhaps unfairly, to the remaining Jewish Christians). Meanwhile, the synagogue’s liturgy still contained the Birkat haMinim to curse them.
In a theological sense, the exclusion of the Desposyni and their flock meant that the authentic Jewish voice within Christianity was muted for centuries. The Church lost direct touch with its Jewish roots, enabling misunderstandings and even anti-Jewish theologies to take hold. On the Jewish side, the absence of the Nazarenes from the community meant that Judaism developed with no internal testimony pointing to Jesus as Messiah. The two sides evolved in almost total segregation – a divergence not only of communities but of narrative memories. This was the “theological exile” of the early Jewish believers: cut off from Israel and gradually unrecognized by the Gentile Church (which came to see itself as the true Israel, often denigrating the Jews). From a Torat Edom perspective, one might say God’s plan permitted this divide for a long season – the Gentiles would carry the gospel to the ends of the earth, while the Jews would preserve the Torah and await the fullness of time. Yet the cost was a long and painful alienation between brothers, akin to Joseph and his brothers estranged in Egypt, not recognizing each other.
Medieval Polemics: Rashi and Nachmanides
By the High Middle Ages, the parting of the ways had long been accomplished, but it continued to be theologically refined and defended by both Jews and Christians. Two towering Jewish sages, Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzḥaki, 1040–1105) and Ramban (Rabbi Moses Nachmanides, 1194–1270), were on the front lines of Jewish-Christian polemical encounter – Rashi mostly through his Bible commentary and Ramban in open debate with Christian authorities. Their contributions illustrate how the medieval Jewish intellect responded to the claims of Christianity, further entrenching the split.
Rashi of Troyes, living in northern France in the wake of the First Crusade, wrote commentary on the Hebrew Bible that became standard for nearly all Jews. In doing so, he often had to address (sometimes implicitly) interpretations that Christians used as proofs for Jesus. We have already noted Rashi’s treatment of Isaiah 53 as referring to Israel, which diverged from many earlier Jewish interpretations that saw it as messianic.
Rashi’s influence here was immense – after him, virtually all rabbinic commentators took the “Servant” to be Israel or a righteous remnant, not the Messiah. Likewise, Rashi commented on Psalm 22, Daniel 9, Micah 5:2, and other texts in ways that undercut Christological readings, providing Jews with an apologetic armor against missionary arguments . It is notable that Rashi sometimes quotes midrash selectively or even offers novel interpretations to achieve a non-Christological meaning. This indicates how conscious the medieval Jewish scholars were of the claims of the rival faith, and how important it was for them to assert Jewish interpretive independence. By solidifying these interpretations, Rashi helped ensure that the Jewish and Christian exegetical traditions would remain divergent, speaking past each other on key prophecies.
A century and a half later, in 1263, Nachmanides (Ramban) faced Christianity’s claims head-on in the Disputation of Barcelona, a public debate ordered by King James I of Aragon. Ramban was the sole representative of Judaism, while the Christian side was led by Friar Pablo Christiani, a Jewish convert to Christianity who attempted to use Talmudic and biblical sources to prove Jesus is the Messiah. The very setup of the debate – “whether Jesus was the Jewish Messiah” – shows that the fundamental question of the split was front and center. Nachmanides acquitted himself brilliantly. He argued that the Messianic Age described by the prophets (universal peace, an end to wickedness, Israel restored) had obviously not arrived: “It surely cannot be that the Messiah has come. Was it not said that when the Messiah came all wars would end…?” . He pointed out that “the world has still been filled with violence and injustice” since Jesus’ time, and in fact that “among all religions… the Christians were the most warlike” – a daring rebuke in front of a Christian king. Therefore, Jesus could not be the promised Messiah in Ramban’s view, because the empirical reality defied that claim.
Nachmanides also tackled the interpretation of specific prophecies. When Friar Paul pressed Isaiah 53 as evidence that the Messiah would suffer and die (and thus Jesus fits), Ramban famously responded: “the passage in Isaiah 53 speaks only of the people of Israel, who are often called ‘My servant’” . He thus stood by Rashi’s reading and by the traditional stance that Isaiah’s suffering servant was Israel personified, not the Messiah at all. Ramban further made a clever argument: if the rabbis of the Talmud really believed in Jesus (as Pablo tried to suggest by quoting aggadic tales that sound messianic), why did they remain observant Jews and not follow Jesus like Pablo did? He noted that sages like Rabbi Akiva, who lived after Jesus, chose Bar Kokhba if anyone – which shows they did not secretly accept Jesus. This line of reasoning undermined attempts to co-opt the Talmud in support of Christianity.
Another contention was the divinity of Messiah. Nachmanides asserted that the Jewish belief always viewed the Messiah as a human leader – “a person of flesh and blood, without ascribing him divine attributes” – whereas the Church’s idea that God was incarnate in a man was, to him, blasphemous or absurd. He famously said that if Christians hadn’t been habituated to this idea from childhood, they would never accept it; it simply doesn’t comport with reason or Jewish faith. Here we see how far apart the theologies had grown: the Christian side could barely conceive of a non-divine Messiah, and the Jewish side recoiled from a divine one.
In the end, King James awarded Ramban a prize for his skill, acknowledging that he had spoken well (though later, Dominican pressure led to Ramban’s brief exile). The Disputation of Barcelona is a microcosm of a millennium of divergence: each side brought forth its strongest proofs and interpretations, yet neither convinced the other. The debate only underscored the deep chasm in worldview. Nachmanides’ articulations became part of Jewish apologetic literature (Sefer ha-Vikkuach).
Meanwhile, Christian polemicists continued to refine arguments (often quoting rabbinic texts selectively) to missionize the Jews. But significantly, by this time the Jewish-Christian polemic was a conversation between two completely separate religions – the Nazarenes of old were long gone. It was no longer an internal dispute within Judaism (as it might have been in the first century), but an external debate across a great divide.
Conclusion: A Covenant Exiled and a Promise Deferred
The story of “The Split” is thus one of both historical events and theological estrangement. In the crucible of 70 CE, with Jerusalem in flames, the early Jewish followers of Jesus and the Pharisaic rabbis of Yavne faced stark choices. Over time, through decisions like the Birkat haMinim and reactions to new claimants like Bar Kokhba, the two groups drew lines that hardened into permanent boundaries. The Qahal (congregation) of Rabbinic Judaism and the Ecclesia (Church) of Christianity each evolved institutions, liturgies, and doctrines that were self-contained – and often defined in opposition to the other. For Jews, Christianity became Edom, sometimes an enemy, sometimes a puzzle in God’s plan, but ultimately a separate path. For Christians, post-biblical Judaism was a stubborn elder sibling at best, or at worst a blind guide who missed the time of visitation. The mutual exclusivity was so complete that each community even edited its memories: the Church downplayed or forgot the role of Jesus’ family and the Torah-faithful Nazarenes, while Judaism erased (or vilified) the memory of Jews who had accepted Jesus.
And yet, through a Torat Edom lens, one discerns the hand of Providence even in this painful separation. The early covenantal remnant – those first Jewish Christians – entered a long period of galut (exile) of sorts. Like Joseph sold by his brothers, they were estranged from their people. But Joseph’s story did not end in separation; it ended in reconciliation and redemption. The New Testament itself (Romans 11) speaks of a future day when “all Israel shall be saved”, when the partial hardening will be lifted. In that hope, one might envision a time when the schism is healed, when Jews and Christians recognize in each other the family resemblance that comes from worshiping the same God and (finally) the same Messiah. Until then, however, history and theology have taken divergent courses.
The Middle Ages ended with the two faiths still apart, though events like the Disputation of Barcelona show that the conversation – however adversarial – continued. Interestingly, even as he refuted Christians, Nachmanides admitted that questions of the Messiah are not of the highest dogmatic importance in Judaism – perhaps an echo of the ancient rabbinic caution against overly calculating the end. In a sense, mainstream Judaism “learned to live without a Messiah” for the time being, focusing on Torah. Meanwhile, the Church, having long ago staked its entire identity on the Messiah having come, pressed on to spread its message to the world, often forgetting the Jewish roots of that Messiah. Thus, two peoples of the covenant lived side by side, often in tension, each carrying pieces of the truth but no longer whole together.
Today, with the benefit of hindsight and renewed dialogue, Jews and Christians can study this history and perhaps find empathy. The Netzarim/Desposyni legacy – though largely lost to history – serves as a reminder of the road not taken: a path where Israel might have embraced its Messiah and remained one community. From a perspective of faith, one might say that Messiah ben David has come, and yet the messianic age tarried because the family was divided. The exclusion of the Jewish believers nearly two millennia ago led to a long theological exile, but not a permanent one. Both rabbinic and church traditions preserve, in different ways, the vision of a future reconciliation (whether it be the Messianic Age or the Second Coming). In the end, the story of “The Split” is not just about division; it also points toward the hope of reunion – the day when “Ephraim shall not envy Judah, and Judah shall not vex Ephraim” (Isaiah 11:13), and God will be one and His name one.
Sources:
Flavius Josephus, The Jewish War (esp. Book 6), as summarized in .
Talmud Bavli, Berakhot 28b (institution of Birkat haMinim at Yavneh) .
Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho (c. 155 CE), ch. 96, on the synagogue curse against Christians .
Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History, Book 3, ch. 19–20 (account of Domitian and the Desposyni) .
Livius.org, “Bar Kochba” (quoting Justin’s First Apology 31.6 about Bar Kokhba’s actions) .
Rashi’s Commentary on Isaiah 53 and Daniel 9, noted in .
The Disputation of Barcelona (1263), records in Nachmanides’ Sefer ha-Vikkuach, as cited .
Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Univ. of Pennsylvania Press, 2004).
Ray A. Pritz, Nazarenes and Ebionites in Early Church History (1988).
Ruth Langer, Cursing the Christians?: A History of the Birkat HaMinim (Oxford, 2012) .
Jewish Virtual Library, “Ecclesia et Synagoga” (on medieval Christian art depictions) .
Messianic Expectation Comparison Chart (2025) .
