How to Read the Bible as a Story – Part 2

From Solomon to Exile:

The Tragedy of Israel & Judea’s Kings and the Prophetic Cry

The Bible does not flatter its heroes. If you’re reading it as a book of moral examples, you’re going to be shocked. If you’re reading it to find the pure and noble lineage of a holy people, you’re going to be disturbed. Because once David dies and Solomon takes the throne, the tragedy begins to unfold—and it doesn’t let up.

Solomon builds the Temple, yes—but at what cost? He also builds altars to foreign gods. He marries empire. He taxes the people. He expands Jerusalem, not as Zion, but as a royal estate. He becomes Pharaoh in reverse. And God splits the kingdom after him.

This is how the story of the kings begins: not with majesty, but with division. Jeroboam takes the north and builds his own religious system to keep power. Rehoboam in the south rules Judah with arrogance. And the prophetic silence after Solomon is broken not by priests or scribes—but by Elijah, a man who lives in exile even within the land. Elijah’s fire from heaven is not just a miracle—it is a warning: Israel is drifting.

From this point forward, the Bible reads like a descent. King after king fails. Occasionally a light shines—Hezekiah, Josiah—but the pattern is clear: Israel cannot govern itself. Not spiritually, not politically. The kings fail, and the people follow.

And this is where the prophets step in.

The prophets are not fortune tellers. They are covenant prosecutors. They do not preach private religion—they bring lawsuits in the heavenly court. Hosea marries a prostitute to embody Israel’s infidelity. Amos cries out from the fields for justice. Micah strips the high places bare and dares to say the Temple is not safe. Isaiah walks naked to declare Judah’s shame. Jeremiah is thrown into a pit. Ezekiel eats exile as bread and sees visions of alien glory.

These are not gentle devotional voices. These are voices of judgment. They are calling out not just sins, but distortions—distortions of Torah, distortions of inheritance, distortions of justice. They speak against kings and priests alike. They warn that exile is not an accident. It is judgment. And not just geopolitical judgment, but divine judgment.

Jerusalem is not holy because it’s Jerusalem. The Temple is not safe because it’s the Temple. The prophets remind us that covenant is not magic. It is not nationalism. It is not DNA. It is obedience. It is justice. It is Torah.

And the exile comes.

Did you notice a few minutes in the name Muhammedim 😬

Assyria wipes out the north. Babylon crushes the south. Jerusalem burns. The Temple falls. Zion is a ruin. The glory departs. And still, the prophets speak.

Habakkuk stands watch and asks: why? How can God use the wicked to judge the righteous? And God answers: you haven’t seen wicked yet. But even then, the righteous will live by faith.

Zephaniah declares the Day of the Lord—already burning, already begun.

Ezekiel watches the heavens open in Babylon, because exile doesn’t silence God. In fact, exile clarifies who is really listening.

And Daniel—Daniel sees that this is just the beginning. Empire will rise and fall again and again. The beasts will not stop. Babylon will become Persia, then Greece, then Rome, then what comes after. And the Son of Man will come not merely to take back Jerusalem, but to sit at the right hand of power.

What the prophets make clear is this: the Bible is not Israel’s success story. It is Israel’s judgment story. It is God’s indictment against every attempt to create holiness without Him.

The exile is not a plot twist. It is the center of the story. And if we don’t read it that way, we will never understand Jesus. We will mistake Him for a teacher, a healer, or a martyr. We will miss that He is the Judge of Israel, the Prophet greater than Moses, the Exile come home, the Temple not made with hands.

We will miss that the prophets saw Him. Not clearly, perhaps, but in fire, in whisper, in dreams, in mourning.

And if you want to read the Bible rightly, you must listen to the prophets. Read them not as sideshows, but as the main act. They are the soul of the Tanakh. They interpret the kings. They interpret the exile. They prepare the world for the return of the Presence.

Don’t rush through them. Don’t read them like riddles to solve. Read them like lawsuits, like psalms, like tears written in stone.

The prophets didn’t fail. The kings did.

The prophets weren’t marginal. They were central.

And in the middle of their judgment, they always left a window open. A remnant. A voice crying out. A new covenant.

Not yet, but coming.

How to Read the Bible as a Story - Part 1

Reimagining the Biblical Narrative from Genesis to David

One of the most intriguing contextualizations of the Bible I’ve come across is Jo’s argument that the Bible is best read as a chronological story, not a theological reference book or a fragmented anthology. The Bible is a library, yes—but one that, when ordered narratively, opens a far more compelling and honest story than we’ve often been taught.

1. Read Genesis… then Job?
Jo suggests—and I’ve long suspected—that the true chronological unfolding of the Bible places the Book of Job immediately after Genesis, before Exodus, simply because Job has such an ancient style. This reordering gives space to reconsider the Edomite lens of early Scripture. Job, likely an Edomite figure (descended from Esau) becomes a literary and theological counterweight to the Jacob narrative. In other words, Edom had a voice—and it was wise. They were after all Abraham’s grandsons. But not so fast, lets go back into Genesis…

2. Reframing Genesis: Ha-Adam and the Sons of God
Genesis opens with layered cosmic anthropology—not primitive myth. It begins with Ha-Adam, the archetypal human fashioned from dust and divine breath, whose fall is not merely personal, but cosmic. This Ha-Adam is the template of humanity’s condition: exiled, relationally fractured, and drawn into the corruption of power.

In contrast, Adam at the end of Chapter 5 as the father of Seth may represent a second tier or the second Adam: the beginning of the human line that will continue through Noah and ultimately to Abraham. Two layers: one symbolic, one historical—yet both deeply real.

But the story deepens with a puzzling phrase:

“The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful…” (Gen. 6:2)

Here, we must be careful. Many read this as describing angelic-human interbreeding, leading to the Nephilim. But this interpretation, though sensationalized in popular readings, obscures the deeper and more Hebraic reading—one with major implications for understanding how Islam, Judaism, and the early Christian traditions diverge.

The “sons of God” (b’nei Elohim) are not angels. They are godly men, likely rulers or judges, who took wives with regard for the covenant of the day or Derech Eretz. The act was not celestial transgression, it was the righteous lineage of Noah.

The Nephilim—“the fallen ones” or “mighty men of old”—who were already there and after the flood represent the resulting social breakdown. This was a pre-Flood civilization driven by domination, pride, and hybridized spiritual confusion—not genetic monstrosity.

To read this text rightly is to see the corruption of humanity within its own line, not from outside. This matters.

It preserves the human story—and affirms that God’s redemption comes through fully human vessels, not half-divine hybrids.

This reading aligns with the deep monotheism of Islam, which firmly rejects any notion of divine-human intermingling and upholds a continuous, fully human, and divinely appointed prophetic line—from Adam to ‘Muhammad’. It’s no accident that Islam elevates Ibrahim (Abraham) as the father of monotheism—not Noah, Enoch, or any figure associated with angelic hybrid mythologies.

Moreover, Islam’s principle of ‘missionary marriage’ echoes beneath the surface of Genesis 6, when the “sons of God” take wives from the “daughters of men”—read here, perhaps, as the line of Seth engaging the daughters of Qayin (Cain) or Qeinites (see sidebar). The subtext, when read this way, reinforces a human-divine boundary and hints at Islam’s inherited critique of mythic distortions.

However, a corruption enters when Greek philosophical categories are imposed onto the Abrahamic faiths. This is precisely what Paul warns against in Titus 1:14, where he refers to “Jewish fables” that promote speculative genealogies and deterministic thinking—ideas foreign to the covenantal freedom of biblical revelation. 

3. Edomite Roots of Israel’s Story
Israel’s Scripture begins in Genesis, but Israel’s national memory is forged in Exodus. Before that, much of what we now call “Bible” draws from older, interwoven traditions—many of them rooted in Edom, Midian, and other lineages not strictly aligned with Ancient Near Eastern politics or imperial narratives.

Remember: Moses learns from Jethro, a Midianite priest. These interwoven streams strengthen the idea that the early faith of Israel was not isolated but refined in conversation with surrounding peoples. If Job is an Edomite text, it belongs to a different line—one not centered in Israel but adjacent to it. And if that’s true, it bolsters the honesty of the Bible as a story. Israel includes the wisdom of its neighbors, even its enemies. The suffering of Job, his uprightness, and his wrestling with God all precede Moses and Torah. It is wisdom without covenant, righteousness apart from Sinai—and that’s crucial.

A Midrash — “When Edom weeps, God listens. When Israel boasts, God hides.”


4. Mount Sinai: Revelation, Rebellion, and Refinement
After Genesis and Job, and the mysterious 400-year descent into Egypt, we arrive at the great rupture: the Exodus. But more central than the liberation itself is what happens after—at the foot of Mount Sinai.

This is the true birth of Israel as a covenantal people. It’s not just the escape from Egypt—it’s the encounter with the Divine in fire, cloud, and thunder. A nation is gathered, trembling, at the mountain. God speaks. Torah is given.

This is not mythology. I believe this event is placed firmly in real geography, aligning with the Jebel al-Lawz theory (Jeboa Beach and the Hijaz), suggesting that Sinai may indeed be located in what is now northwestern Saudi Arabia. But beyond location, the theological gravity of Sinai matters most.

It’s a moment of entrustment—and immediate betrayal.

Even before the ink of the covenant is dry, Israel builds a golden calf. The people who just walked through the sea and stood under fire now demand a god of their own making. This isn’t a mistake—it’s a spiritual diagnosis. Israel is not ready. Not yet.

And so begins forty years of wandering.

This wilderness generation, called to exterminate the Canaanites and inherit the land, recoils in fear. What could have taken days becomes a generation-long spiral. The land was promised, but the heart wasn’t ready. They had exited Egypt, but Egypt had not exited them.

Was Joseph’s act of bringing his family to Egypt a preservation—or a setup? Was Goshen a place of refuge or the comfort zone that made slavery inevitable? These are the provocative questions Jo raised. Maybe what began as a blessing devolved into bondage. And Sinai becomes the moment where freedom must be redefined—not just politically, but spiritually.

The Torah given at Sinai is not just law—it is covenantal reality. But the people stumble repeatedly. Murmuring. Rebellion. Korah’s challenge. The incident at Meribah. It’s not a triumphant tale—it’s a prolonged confession of hard-heartedness.

And yet, God does not abandon them.

Even in wrath, there is mercy. The tabernacle is constructed. The cloud leads them. Manna rains from heaven. Sinai isn’t the end of the story—it’s the center. It’s the moment where God chooses to dwell with a people who continually fail Him.

And that’s what makes the Bible holy.

5. The Bible Critiques Its Own Heroes - Joshua and Judges
One of the most profound and often overlooked truths about the Bible is this: it does not protect its protagonists. It isn’t a hagiography. It’s not a sanitized myth or a nationalist epic. It’s a confession. A self-critique. The patriarchs are flawed. The prophets weep. The kings fall. And even the people of God—the Israelites—stumble, forget, rebel, and suffer the consequences of their own actions.

Jo emphasized this sharply, especially as the story progresses beyond Leviticus, into Numbers, Deuteronomy, and into the conquest narratives of Joshua and the unraveling found in Judges.

This is where many readers struggle—especially with the parts of Scripture that depict genocidal mandates, divine judgment, and a God who commands the destruction of entire peoples. These are not easy texts. They are not meant to be. Jo didn’t dismiss this discomfort—he lingered in it, so listen to his talk below.  Because it’s precisely in these darker moments that we begin to understand what the Bible is doing: it’s not just telling us about Israel; it’s telling us about humanity—and about God’s willingness to enter into that mess.

The conquest of Canaan, often cited as one of the most controversial episodes in Scripture, marks a sharp turn in the biblical story. It’s the fulfillment of a promise, yes—but it’s also the beginning of a spiritual collapse. The generation that enters the land may be militarily brave, but their spiritual trajectory is already fragile. They confuse conquest with covenant. They believe possession is permanence.

But the story shows otherwise.

By the time we reach the Book of Judges, the degeneration is clear. What was supposed to be a holy people has become indistinguishable from the nations they were meant to confront. The line between Israel and Canaan becomes blurred.

Judges ends with the haunting phrase:

“There was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in his own eyes.” (Judges 21:25)

That’s not a statement of freedom—it’s a confession of lost purpose.


6. Qahal and Eda: Who Belongs? Ruth
Biblical religion is layered, and nowhere is this clearer than in the distinction between the Eda (the greater assembly) and the Qahal (the holy congregation of the Lord). Not everyone in the community of Israel could stand within the inner assembly. Some were part of the Eda, but excluded from the Qahal. This distinction matters theologically, and narratively.

Take Moab, for example. Out of the Erev Rav—the “mixed multitude” that left Egypt—many were grafted into Israel at Mount Sinai. But the Moabites, according to Torah (Deut. 23:3), were barred from entering the Qahal “even to the tenth generation,” due to their antagonism and failure to show hospitality in Israel’s journey.

And yet, Ruth, a Moabitess, enters the story like a sunbeam piercing a thick cloud. Her loyalty to Naomi, her boldness, and her humility elevate her above her national origin. She may not be permitted in the Qahal, but she is embraced by the Eda—and she becomes the great-grandmother of David. 

This introduces a theological paradox: exclusion and election woven together in the lineage of Israel’s greatest king.

7. Davidic Faith Born in Exile. - 1 Samuel
When we meet David in 1 Samuel, he is not yet the royal figure of stained-glass windows—he is a fugitive. Hunted by Saul, misunderstood by his family, and often surrounded by the discontented and desperate, David’s early years are marked by rejection and isolation.

This is where Davidic faith is born—not in a palace, but in the wilderness. Not through victory, but through exile. And it is here that the Psalms begin to take shape.

“Though my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.” — Psalm 27:10

This is not the voice of a triumphant shepherd boy—it is the cry of the forsaken. A man with no place, no inheritance, no security. David is not the happy harpist of children’s books—he is the broken poet, the displaced heir, the bruised psalmist. And it is in this ruptured space that something eternal is revealed: the birth of a personal, covenantal faith.

The Psalms are not courtly prayers—they are tefillot from caves. They are theology written in the dark. And that is why they endure.

Biblical religion, as we know it, is not born in temples or tabernacles—it is born in the raw encounter between God and the one whom everyone else has forsaken.

David’s tears, his longing, his fear, and his praise become the emotive core of Israel’s worship. The fugitive gives birth to the liturgy.

The man who writes, “I will not fear though war break out against me” (Ps. 27:3), is the same man who wept, trembled, and doubted.

And this is why David’s faith is messianic. It isn’t polished—it is true. It points not only forward to a future king, but downward into the human soul, and upward to a God who chooses the broken.


8. Was Jesus of the Line of David?
Jo as a good Orthodox Jew ends with a provocation for us Christians that echoes through the genealogies of Matthew and Luke: Can the Messiah truly come from David’s line if that line was cursed?

In Jeremiah 22:30, Jeconiah (also known as Coniah), a king in David’s line, is cursed: 

“No man of his seed shall prosper, sitting upon the throne of David, and ruling any more in Judah.”

If taken at face value, this curse complicates any messianic claim rooted directly in that bloodline.

Christian tradition has responded in two main ways:

1. Through the virgin birth, Mary carried Davidic lineage from a separate branch, preserving the royal bloodline while bypassing the curse on Jeconiah.

2. Joseph, though not the biological father, adopted Jesus into his house—granting Him legal Davidic status.

But Luke’s genealogy goes further: it doesn’t stop at David—it goes all the way to Adam, the “son of God.” This genealogy reframes the question entirely. Jesus is not merely a new David—He is the Second Adam, inaugurating a new humanity. The messianic line is not only about royal descent, but about restoration of divine image.


9. Canon and Chronos: The Protestant Problem
Jo also highlights an often-overlooked issue: the canon itself. Protestant Bibles omit key texts like 1 and 2 Maccabees, cutting out critical pieces of the story—especially the context for events like Hanukkah, which Jesus Himself observed (John 10:22), and setting the stage for the New Testament books.

By using a canon closer to the Anabaptist, Catholic, or Orthodox tradition, we retain the narrative integrity of Scripture. These so-called “apocryphal” books are not theological footnotes—they are narrative bridges, helping us trace the continuity of covenant, exile, return, and prophetic silence leading into the New Testament. They fill in the intertestamental space and guard against the idea that God’s story went dark between Malachi and Matthew. 

Closing Reflection
Don’t read the Bible like a reference manual—read it like the raw, unsanitized story it truly is.

Genesis and Job aren’t just Israelite history—they unveil a world where even Edom had wisdom.

The Psalms aren’t abstract theology—they are the soul cries of a fugitive, forming the backbone of authentic faith.

And Jesus doesn’t just emerge from a Davidic pedigree—He steps into the story as its true fulfillment, not just of kingship, but of what it means to be human.

The Bible makes more sense when read as a story—from Eden to exile to hope reborn in the wilderness.

Start there.

From Black and White to Color: JFK, Militancy, and the Unleashing of Chaos

“Breakfast where the news is read /

Television children fed…” 

—Jim Morrison, “Unknown Soldier —

The Doors”

The screen flickers.

A black-and-white world, orderly and restrained, where Walter Cronkite delivers the evening news with a solemn authority. The static hums, the picture sharp yet distant, as families gather around the warm glow of the cathode-ray tube. There is structure, predictability—a world where truth, or at least the illusion of it, still carries weight.

Then something cracks.

The image distorts, the colors bleed in. The assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK play in an endless loop, their grainy footage burned into the collective mind. The jungle nightmare of Vietnam interrupts dinner. Napalm blossoms across the screen in hues of orange and red, as The Rolling Stones wail in the background. Television is no longer a window—it is an altar of spectacle, broadcasting chaos into the living room.

By 1969, the transformation is complete. The screen is now electric with madness. Charles Manson grins in living color, his wild eyes reflecting a world that has spiraled beyond comprehension. Woodstock fades into Altamont, where the music turns violent, and the peace and love dream drowns in the sound of a switchblade slicing through the night. Anton LaVey sneers from a magazine cover, his Satanic Bible now a bestseller.

The children watching are no longer fed—they are consumed.

The TV glows brighter, more hypnotic. By the 1970s, the transition is irreversible. The veil of restraint has been lifted. What was once black and white has become an unrelenting carnival of color—vivid, immersive, and unfiltered. 

Truth is no longer delivered; it is manufactured. History is not reported; it is rewritten in real-time. The revolution is televised, but no one realizes they are the ones being programmed.

Breakfast is served.

I was born in 1962 — between the Bay of Pigs invasion and the Cuban Missile Crisis — and into a family of Eastern European cultures fresh and thriving in the New world.  Our father, a World War II displaced person from the remnants of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was born on the day Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic in 1927. His next son arrived on the very day John F. Kennedy was assassinated—a moment in history that also marked the passing of the Christian Apologist C.S. Lewis and the Skeptic Aldous Huxley. Then his third son was born when Nixon took the U.S. off the gold standard, igniting the petrodollar system. A family steep in history and attuned to the signals emerging from it.

Thus these are not mere historical footnotes; they are personal markers in a larger story we have lived through, a story of upheaval and transformation.

We watched the world shift from black and white to color—not just on television screens, but in spirit. The assassination of JFK was more than the loss of a president; it was a rupture in history, the removal of a restraint, and the beginning of an era in which deception, lawlessness, and spiritual corruption accelerated at an unprecedented rate.

It is impossible to talk about JFK, the 1960s, and the eschatological alignments of our day without addressing the role of the modern state of you know who. Many avoid the subject, afraid of being labeled or misunderstood, but we must be clear-eyed. The biblical narrative does not revolve around America or Rome—it revolves around the People of the Bible. But the question is: which People?

Was the establishment of the militant Σiovist State in 1948 the fulfillment of prophecy? Or was it a geopolitical project masquerading as biblical restoration? This is not merely a theological debate—it is a question that cuts to the heart of modern history and the spiritual reality we now inhabit.

JFK, Σiovism, and the Nuclear Standoff

One of the least discussed aspects of JFK’s presidency was his opposition to their nuclear ambitions. In the early 1960s, Kennedy pushed hard for inspections of their nuclear facility, suspecting they were secretly developing nuclear weapons. He repeatedly pressed their Prime Minister for transparency, making it clear that he did not want a nuclear-armed militant state in the Holy Land.

Their Prime Minister, who saw their Atomic ambitions as a strategic necessity, resisted. After years of tense exchanges, he abruptly resigned in June 1963. Five months later, Kennedy was dead. His successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, not only abandoned JFK’s pressure on them but became the most pro-Σiovist president up to that point. Under Johnson, The State occupying the Holy Land was able to continue its nuclear program unchecked, and by the late 1960s, it had acquired nuclear weapons.

JFK’s death removed the last major restraint on their military expansion.

If we are looking at biblical patterns, this was a pivotal moment.

Was Kennedy’s assassination a necessary step in solidifying this militant Middle East State as a regional superpower?

Did his death mark the point where the U.S. fully aligned itself with their lobby, no longer as a neutral arbiter but as an enforcer of its geopolitical ambitions?

How does this fit into the unfolding drama of Gog from Magog?

Ezekiel 38–39 describes a great conflict in the last days, in which a coalition of nations (Gog and Magog) rises against the religion revealed in the Bible. Many have tried to map this onto modern geopolitics, often identifying Russia as Gog. But what if Gog is not just one nation, but a broader system—a power structure that includes Western-backed powers through covert operations in conjunction with such collective militancy as it resides today in the Holy Land?

The 1960s:

When the Restraint Was Torn Away
JFK’s assassination was not just a political event; it was a spiritual turning point.

After his death, the world unraveled at a terrifying pace.

1967: The 666-Day War – Seized Jerusalem and the West Bank. This was hailed as a prophetic fulfillment, but it also marked the beginning of the militant Σiovist State’s deepening control over biblical lands—not as a covenantal restoration, but as a geopolitical maneuver.

1967: The Summer of Love – While the occupying state was consolidating power militarily, the West was collapsing morally. The counterculture movement, fueled by drugs, Eastern mysticism, and radical rebellion, swept through America and Europe.

1968: MLK and RFK Assassinations – The killing of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy sent a clear message: any leader who sought justice or questioned the power structures at play would be removed.

1969: Charles Manson and the End of the Hippie Dream – The Manson murders exposed the darkness beneath the love and peace façade. The same year, Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible was published, and the occult influence on pop culture became more overt.

It was as if, after JFK’s death, something had been unleashed.

There is no need to futurize this or push it into some yet-to-come apocalypse. This was the apocalyptic breaking-in of disorder—not in a way that awaited some future man of lawlessness, but in the very real, tangible disintegration of moral and spiritual restraint that has shaped the world we now live in. The forces that had once been held back were no longer in check.

This was not some coming deception. The deception was already here.

Which People of G-d or Gog?

The Militant State and the Grand Illusion
This is the most sensitive subject in biblical prophecy discussions. Many Christians automatically equate it with the fulfillment of prophecy, believing that any opposition to such a reality is opposition to God’s plan. But we must ask:

Is the such a regime the Israel of God? Or is it a political construct that has co-opted biblical language for its own ends?

If the real battle of Gog from Magog is about the nations aligning against the the collective return of the four corners, what role does the their current state play in that alignment?

Are we witnessing the groundwork being laid for a false messianic expectation—one that will deceive even those who believe they are on the right side?

Many assume that Gog from Magog refers to an external attack on them. But what if the real deception is already within?

Jesus warned in Matthew 24:24:

“For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect.”

The militant state has positioned itself as the fulfillment of biblical prophecy, but its actions—from nuclear secrecy to its deep ties with Beast driven globalist powers—suggest something else.

This is not about an anti-occupier position, nor a Holy Land regathering as a place of blessing—it is about the need to discern the difference between the biblical covenant and a political project that has used the language of prophecy to advance its own agenda.

The Road Ahead:

Seeing Through the Illusion
When I was young, the world was black and white—simple, structured, and restrained. Then it shifted to color, and with it came an explosion of deception. The change was not just technological; it was spiritual.

Kennedy’s death marked a shift.

The rise of such militancy as a nuclear power and the whole Western war machine marked a shift.

The cultural and moral collapse of the West marked a shift.

We are now living in the aftershocks of those events. The alignments of Gog from Magog are being exposed, not as a future moment of cataclysm, but as the reality we are already in.

But we are not without hope.

We must discern the difference between biblical nd political militant  Σiovism. The covenant remains, but that does not mean every political move made by them in name is righteous.

We must recognize that lawlessness has been growing for decades. The restraint that was removed in the 1960s has not returned, and we are living in the consequences of that reality.

We must prepare, not for some distant deception, but for the ongoing battle over truth. The world will not end in an instant—it is already unraveling, and many are blind to it.

JFK’s assassination was not just the loss of a president—it was a warning. It was the moment when the gates were opened, when the shift from black and white to color revealed a world spiraling toward its final confrontation.

Now, we must ask ourselves:

Are we seeing clearly? Or are we still being deceived?

A Purim Reflection- Who are Israel’s Enemies?

 A Purim Reflection

Esther stands as a pivotal figure in biblical history, embodying both divine providence and human courage. Chosen as queen in a foreign empire, she navigated the treacherous court of Ahasuerus with wisdom and restraint, ultimately risking her life to advocate for her people. Her story is one of strategic silence and bold action—she did not rush into battle, nor did she remain passive in the face of impending annihilation. Instead, she used the tools at her disposal—her position, her influence, and her faith—to expose the schemes of Haman and bring justice through divine reversal.

Esther’s role in the Purim story highlights the interplay of hidden yet active divine intervention (hester panim), where God operates through the faithful actions of individuals rather than overt miracles. She stands as a model of prudent resistance and redemptive leadership, demonstrating that victory over Amalek does not always come through warfare, but often through courage, wisdom, and the right moment of revelation.

The Unfolding Reckoning:

Gog, Edom, and the Eschatological Struggle

History repeats itself, but with each cycle, the weight of past failures compounds, leaving the world trapped in ideological paralysis. The 20th century’s scars—Holocaust guilt, post-colonial entanglements, and Cold War geopolitical engineering—have created an inability to confront present atrocities with clarity. The response to genocide, oppression, and systemic destruction is no longer dictated by moral principle but by historical burdens, ideological fixation, and elite manipulation.

At the heart of this crisis lies the theological question of Amalek, Edom, and Gog, prophetic archetypes that do not merely describe past enemies but define the recurring forces that shape history’s final reckoning. These forces manifest in nation-states, ideological systems, and elite power structures, creating a world order where the distinction between oppressor and victim is intentionally blurred. And where does the Church stand in this? Bound to Edom’s imperial legacy, or as the suffering remnant that witnesses against it?

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Amalek:

The Eternal Foe and the Response

of Charedi vs. Chardali Jewish Thought
Unlike Edom, which remains redeemable in the Messianic Age, Amalek is framed in Torah as irredeemable, a force that must be blotted out (Deuteronomy 25:19). This concept has been politicized and weaponized—especially within Zionism—to justify perpetual war, yet within Jewish tradition, there are two fundamentally different responses to Amalek that reveal a deeper theological divide.

1. The Charedi (Haredi) Response: Waiting on Hashem’s Justice
The ultra-Orthodox Charedi approach to Purim, and to the concept of Amalek, is deeply theological, not militaristic. Charedim recognize that the command to blot out Amalek is ultimately Hashem’s battle, not Israel’s. Their response to Purim’s remembrance of Amalek is not preemptive warfare but prayer, Torah study, and reinforcing faith in divine justice.

This position refuses to nationalize the fight against Amalek—for to do so would be to usurp Hashem’s role as the divine judge. The Charedi position remains messianic, not militaristic—they believe Amalek will be destroyed, but not by the hands of the Zionist state, whose power they often reject as illegitimate.

2. The Chardali (Hardal) Response: The Nationalization of Amalek
In contrast, the Chardali (Chardal) movement—a hybrid of Charedi piety and Religious Zionism—has merged Jewish eschatology with modern nationalism. For Chardalim, Amalek is not an abstract spiritual concept but an existential national enemy. This has led to a theological justification for aggressive military action, territorial expansion, and perpetual warfare under the logic of “never again.”

While the Charedim await Hashem’s intervention, the Chardalim take up the sword in the name of divine justice—blurring the line between self-defense and preemptive aggression. This view has led to Zionism’s militarization of biblical eschatology, creating a reality where Israel now acts in the spirit of Edom while condemning others as Amalek.

This tension is crucial in understanding the modern political and theological crisis—Israel casts its enemies as Amalek, yet in its militarization and imperial mindset, it has embraced Edom’s ethos of domination.

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The Gog Encompassment:

The Final Reckoning
The biblical vision of Gog and Magog in Ezekiel 38-39 describes the climactic apocalyptic battle, where a great coalition of nations encircles Israel. But this is not just an external war; it is an internal reckoning—a confrontation between the forces that claim to serve divine justice and the reality of how they wield power.

Are we witnessing the encompassment of Gog?

The alignment of global powers into ideological blocs, each claiming moral high ground while perpetuating atrocities.

The failure of nations to speak truthfully about unfolding events, because they are still captive to the ideological narratives of the past.

The reemergence of total war ideologies, where “might makes right” and the language of justice is weaponized for destruction.

And where does Edom fit into this?

If Rome, Spain, and Christendom have historically been cast as Edom, then what is the modern Zionist state but its latest manifestation? The paradox is undeniable—Zionism, which claims to restore Israel, has instead adopted Edom’s very ethos: militarism, imperial control, and national supremacy.

Thus, the eschatological irony of our time is this: Israel, having rejected spiritual Israel (Ephesians 2), now fights as Edom against those it deems Amalek. The Zionists, who brand their enemies as genocidal, have themselves embraced the Edomite structures of empire and power.

This is not merely political hypocrisy—it is a profound eschatological distortion. If Israel now fights as Edom, then what does that mean for the remnant of true Israel?

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The Role of the Church:

Bound to Edom or the Suffering Servant?
If the West, entangled in Edom’s imperial legacy, cannot speak, and if the Jewish world remains divided between Charedi faith and Chardali militarism, then where is the Church?

The Church faces an unavoidable reckoning:

Will it continue to serve as an arm of Edom, justifying empire, militarism, and economic oppression?

Or will it reclaim its true calling—not as a Western colonial entity, but as the Body of the Suffering Servant, aligned with the oppressed, the broken, and those cast out by the world’s empires?

This is not about political alliances, nor is it about taking a side in the power struggles of Zionism or Islamism. It is about something deeper: the recognition that the only true justice is divine justice, and that neither the West nor the modern nation-state of Israel can claim to be the righteous agent of God’s will while perpetuating violence.

The only solution is a return to the biblical vision of the prophets:

A world where justice flows like a river (Amos 5:24).

A world where swords are beaten into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

A world where the nations finally recognize the futility of their violence (Micah 4:3).

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Conclusion:

The Breaking Point
The world stands at a breaking point! 

The ideological narratives that have shaped modern geopolitics—including Protestant Christian idealogies—are reaching their inevitable collapse. Whether it be Zionist nationalism, Western imperial guilt, post-colonial vengeance, technocratic control, or theocratic aspirations within certain Reformed traditions, these frameworks have distorted both theology and history, leading to misguided allegiances and ethical failures.

The West cannot atone for the Holocaust by justifying new atrocities.

Christian Reformed supersessionism must repent—replacement theologies have fueled arrogance rather than humility before God.

Zionism, emboldened by its Evangelical supporters, cannot continue to portray itself as the oppressed while operating as an imperial force.

Secular nations cannot claim righteousness while their economies are built on exploitation and death.

The unraveling of these narratives is not merely political but deeply theological. Truth must be reckoned with—both in history and in the present.

This is not a call for another revolution, nor is it a naïve plea for world peace. It is a call to recognize that we are already in the reckoning—and that those who continue to align themselves with Edom’s structures within Christianity will find themselves on the wrong side of history, and more importantly, on the wrong side of divine judgment.

The cycle continues, and we stand at the precipice—watching, waiting, and praying.

The only question left is this: when the reckoning unfolds, where will we stand?

Who is Israel? Rethinking Jewish Identity, Jesus, and the Covenant

Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, and the crowd shouted 

“Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” 

(Matthew 21:9)

But did they really understand what was happening? Or DO WE?

For many, this was the arrival of a political messiah, a king who would drive out the Romans and restore Jewish sovereignty. Others were skeptical, unsure whether Jesus truly embodied the hopes of Israel.

Today, the same confusion remains. What does it mean to be Israel? Who belongs to God’s covenant people? And how does the modern discussion of Jewish identity align with the biblical vision?

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Beyond Bloodlines: Rethinking Jewish Identity

In both Jewish and Christian circles, identity is often reduced to genetics, halakha, or politics. Some define Jewishness purely by bloodline, while others insist on strict rabbinic adherence. Many Christians, influenced by dispensationalist theology, see modern Israel as a prophetic clock, assuming that national events must align with end-times prophecy.

But biblical identity has never been that simple. Neither the way Dispensationaism defines prophecy.

The Torah and the history of Israel reveal a more complex and covenantal reality—one that Jesus Himself came to fulfill.

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1. Jewish Identity Has Never Been Only About Bloodline nor Cultural Gene Pool

Many assume that Jewish identity is strictly hereditary, but this is not the case. Even in ancient Israel, covenantal participation was as important as ancestry.

Caleb, a Kenizzite (Numbers 32:12), became a leader in Israel despite not being ethnically Israelite.

Ruth, a Moabite, became an ancestor of King David through her faith and covenant loyalty.

Elijah (the prophet who confronted Ahab Jezabel and the prophets of Baal) was a Tishbite (Tishbi) could be related to the Hebrew root “shavah” (תָּשַׁב) meaning “sojourner” or “settler”—implying he was a Ger Toshav (resident alien) rather than a native-born Israelite.

The “mixed multitude” (Erev Rav where we get the name Arab) in Exodus 12:38 left Egypt alongside Israel and became part of the covenant community.

By the Second Temple period, Jewish identity had developed into a more legal and social structure, divided into categories:

Yikoth A – Kohanim (Priests): Those descended from Aaron, with strict genealogical requirements. Remnants of the Kohanim lineage can still be traced within Jewish gene pools today, maintaining their historical and ritual significance.

Yikoth B – This includes Jews by faith and practice, incorporating Gerim (proselytes)—where the generic name “Hagar” originates—and other converts, such as Edomites and Nabateans, who were integrated into Jewish identity under Hasmonean rule, even figures like Herod. This category extends far back, arguably to Seth and the daughters of Cain, indicating a longstanding tradition of integration before the people of Israel. For example the Anshei HaShem in the pre-Noah world and the Gibborim, the mighty men of old. This means that Noah’s son Shem was not the founder of a genetic lineage or blood line for he was named after the way Jews say the Lord, HaShem = The Name

Yikoth C – Mamzerim, Afsuf (Mixed Populations), and Erev Rav: Groups that, while marginalized, were still part of Israel’s broader history — if you are Christian Believer in Mashiach or a Muslim beleiver in ISA as the Mosiach like the Sabians, and you live as disciple (Talmudim) and obey Acts 15 and Sura 42 in the Quran — one may already be in Yikoth B. Then Judaism considers you a Messianc Hebrew or Noahide. Why was such information in the writings of Augustine of Hippo? This will challenge many preconceptions you may have long held—and perhaps even held too tightly.

This reconfiguration of identity does not simply shift perspectives; it disrupts inherited assumptions and offers a radical way to reimagine the future. It breaks down artificial barriers, moving beyond ethnic lineage and re-centering covenantal belonging on divine redemption rather than mere genealogy.

The reality is that Jewishness has always been a combination
of lineage, law, and covenant.

It has never been a purely racial or national identity.
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2. Jesus and the Redemption of Israel’s Divided Lineage

If Jewish identity was fragmented by different social and legal categories, Jesus’ mission took on an even greater significance.

His Davidic bloodline (Matthew 1, Luke 3) confirmed His legal right to be King.

His Nazarene identity connected Him to the lost Northern Kingdom—the people who had “done evil in the sight of the Lord” and were scattered.

His baptism by John was not about personal repentance, but a Gula Chumrah (redemptive stringency), identifying with and redeeming the fallen northern bloodline.

His triumphal entry on a donkey (Zechariah 9:9) was not just a messianic Mashiach sign—it was also a fulfillment of the firstborn redemption (Pidyon HaBen) of Exodus 13, symbolizing His role as the rightful heir and redeemer of Israel.

Thus, Jesus’ mission was not merely to establish a new religion, but to restore the covenantal unity of Israel—both Judah and the lost tribes as Jeremiah foretold.

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3. Hebrews and the End of Lineage-Based Priesthood

The Book of Hebrews explains how Jesus fulfills Israel’s calling—not by replacing it, but by completing it.

Hebrews 7 declares that Jesus is the eternal High Priest, surpassing the Levitical system. This means that Jewish identity is no longer bound to genealogical priesthood but to faithfulness in Messiah.

Hebrews 9-10 shows that Jesus fulfills the sacrificial system, not by negating it, but by bringing it to completion in a way that applies universally to both Jews and Gentiles.

This means that true Jewish restoration is not just a return to the land, but a return to the covenant—a covenant fulfilled in Messiah.

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4. The Dispensationalist Fallacy: Israel as a Political Sign

Many modern Christians—especially those shaped by dispensationalist theology—view Israel primarily through a political and eschatological lens.

They assume that:

The 1948 establishment of Israel is the direct fulfillment of biblical prophecy.

Jewish identity is still defined by ethnicity and statehood rather than covenant faithfulness.

The final national repentance of Israel must occur in a set sequence, leading to the return of Jesus.

However, the Bible presents a more profound and theological vision of Israel’s restoration:

Israel’s return is always tied to repentance and renewal (Deuteronomy 30:1-6).

Jesus is already gathering Israel—not just politically, but spiritually—through both Jews and Gentiles under His kingship (Acts 15:16-17, Romans 11).

The New Covenant does not replace Israel but brings it to its intended fulfillment—to be a light to the nations through Messiah.

This means that instead of treating Israel as a mere sign, we must recognize her covenantal purpose—a mission that is fulfilled in and through Jesus, not apart from Him.

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5. What Does It Mean to Be Israel Today?

In light of all this, we must rethink how we understand Jewish identity in the context of biblical fulfillment.

Jewishness is not just genetics or political statehood—it is covenantal faithfulness.

The Messiah restores and completes Israel’s purpose—not by erasing Jewish identity, but by fulfilling it.

The modern state of Israel, while historically significant, is not necessarily the final fulfillment of prophecy—the ultimate restoration is spiritual and covenantal.

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Conclusion: A Covenant Restored in Messiah

The triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem was more than a political moment. It was the proclamation that the true restoration of Israel had begun—not through military conquest, but through the fulfillment of the covenant in Him.

Israel’s calling is not merely national, ethnic, or political—it is a divine mission that finds its fulfillment in the King who rode in on a donkey.

It is time to move beyond simplistic ideas of Jewish identity and prophecy and return to the biblical framework—one where Jesus, as the King and High Priest of Israel, brings the covenant to its true completion.

This is the true fulfillment of Israel’s mission—not a return to ethnic exclusivity, but an expansion of the covenant that upholds Israel’s unique role while inviting all nations into the redemption God has promised.

👉 GoG from Magog is raging, we must awake ! ❤️‍🔥

👉 click Rome and Abbasid Islam, the Victors 

who rewrote the Old, Old Story of Jesus and His Love.