The Marys in the Gospel of John — (Part Four)

Mary Magdalene and the Garden of the True Brother: 

Resurrection, Recognition, and the Rebirth of Family

“Mary.”

She turned and said to Him in Aramaic, “Rabboni!”
—John 20:16

Before Peter arrived.
Before John believed.
Before the church proclaimed the resurrection…

Mary Magdalene was already there.
At the tomb.
In the garden.
Weeping.
Searching.

Alone—until she heard her name spoken by the Voice that knew her from the beginning.
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Not Just a Disciple—But Family

Mary Magdalene is too often misunderstood.

She is not a prostitute.

Not the woman caught in adultery.
Not a footnote to the apostles.

She is, rather, the first to bear witness to the resurrection.
She is, in a very real sense, family.

When Jesus speaks her name, He is not merely confirming He’s alive.

He is restoring kinship, mending what was broken since Eden:
“Go to my brothers and say to them,
‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father,
to my God and your God.’” (John 20:17)

This is the first time in the Gospel that Jesus calls the disciples “brothers.”
Something has shifted.

This is not just resurrection—it is re-familying.
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The Reversal of Cain and the Vindication of the Woman
In the last post, I explored how Jesus bore the shame of Jose Pandera, the possible brother behind the woman caught in adultery. A brother whose sin may have been covered, misremembered, and then projected onto Jesus in the rabbinic texts as “Yeshu ben Stada.”

Jesus bore it without protest.

He bore the guilt of his house.
He stooped into the dust—and began the Harrowing of Hell.
But now, on Easter morning, the silence is broken.

Mary weeps.

And Jesus does not bend this time.
He stands.
He speaks.
He says her name—“Mary”—and in that naming, He restores the daughter of Eve, and welcomes her into the family of God.

The curse of Cain—“Am I my brother’s keeper?”—is finally answered:
Yes.

Jesus is the Brother who kept her.

Who waited for her.
Who revealed Himself not to rulers or scribes, but to the one who stayed near.
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She Thought He Was the Gardener—Because He Was
This is no mistake of perception.

Mary mistaking Jesus for the gardener is a divine wink.

He is the Gardener.
• The New Adam, standing in the reopened Eden.
• The One who cultivates family out of loss.
• The One who turns graves into gardens,
and solitary tears into shared testimony.
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Easter as Family Reborn
Easter is not just victory over death.

It is the rebirth of the human family.

• Where Peter denied, Mary stayed.
• Where Rome crucified, God resurrected.
• Where Cain murdered, Jesus restored.

And who is the first to see it?

A woman.

A sister.

A disciple.

A daughter.

A Magdalene.

She becomes the first apostle—because she is the first to be re-membered into the family of God.
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He Is Not Ashamed to Call Them Brothers (and Sisters)

Hebrews says it clearly:
“He is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Hebrews 2:11)

This includes James the Just.

It includes the failed disciples.

It includes even Jose, if he fell.

And it includes Mary—called by name, in the garden, in the morning of new creation.
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The Garden is Family Again
Easter is not just resurrection.
It is recognition.
It is naming.
It is the return of the Gardener.
And the healing of the family.
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He is risen.

He has called us by name.

And the garden is family again.

The Harrowing of Hell — (Part Three)

The Woman Caught in Adultery: 

Jose Pandera and the Gospel in Dust

“And once more He bent down and wrote on the ground.”
—John 8:8

She had no name.

Dragged into the Temple courts.
Accused.

Exposed.

Shamed.

A pawn in a trap, a test for the Teacher.

And He—silent. Stooping. Writing in the dust.

For generations, the woman in John 8 has been remembered as a symbol of mercy. But as I’ve been exploring in this series—first with two separate essays (1) (2) on the Samaritan woman in John 4, then Mary of Bethany in John 11—every woman in John’s Gospel holds more than her name or moment. She holds a thread. A revelation of Jesus. A disruption of systems. A mirror to the hidden things.

John 8 is no exception.

But to see it rightly, we must descend.
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The Missing Man
The story is half-told.

We know the woman was caught in adultery.
But where is the man?

The Law of Moses was clear—both were to be judged (Lev. 20:10; Deut. 22:22). But only she is brought forth. The man? Absent. Or silent. Or worse—protected.

Unless…

Unless he was there the whole time, stone in hand, shame hidden behind a veil of legalism.

Unless the man was one of the accusers.

Or one of the family.
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Jose Pandera: A Brother’s Hidden Shame
The Gospel of Mark names Jesus’ brothers—James, Joses (Jose), Judas, and Simon (Mark 6:3). We know James becomes a pillar. Judas writes an epistle. But Joses? Nothing. A name and then silence.

Yet early Jewish polemics, particularly in the Toledot Yeshu, remember a figure called Yeshu ben Pandera—a slanderous parody of Jesus. This “Pandera” tradition describes a man born of scandal, accused of sorcery, associated with shame.

But what if—as I argued in Is Jesus in the Talmud? Part Two—this distorted memory wasn’t about Jesus at all?

What if Pandera wasn’t His father…
…but the hidden name of His brother?

Jose Pandera.

A man whose sin—real and hidden—was woven into rabbinic memory, confused across time.

And Jesus, the true Son, bore it all in silence.
He did not protest.

He did not expose him.

He stooped.

He wrote.

He shielded.

And in that act, He became the true Goel—the kinsman redeemer who bears not only bloodline, but guilt.
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From Cain to Christ: Stones and Blood
This is not just legal drama—it is Genesis replayed.

Cain killed Abel and asked, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Abel’s blood cried from the ground.

In John 8, Jesus bends to the ground.
But no blood yet cries. Only dust, disturbed by the finger of God.

The woman is spared.

The brother is hidden.

The stone, untouched.

Because the Stone the builders rejected had already begun His descent.
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The Harrowing Begins in the Dust
Tradition tells us that after the crucifixion, Jesus descended into Sheol—the Harrowing of Hell—perhaps to release HaAdam’s seed and the righteous dead.

But I submit to you:

The Harrowing began here.
Not in a tomb.

In a courtyard.

With a woman condemned and a brother in hiding.

Jesus descends into the shame.

Into the silence.

Into the hidden guilt of His own house.

He doesn’t throw the stone.

He becomes the place where stones are dropped.

“He is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Hebrews 2:11)
Even Joses.

Even the one whose fall would become a slander remembered as Yeshu Notzri.

Even the one whose silence would be louder than accusation.
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Tiberius, Nero, and the Offspring of Pandera: The Unfolding of the Beast
In my post, Nero as 666?, I argued that while Nero embodied the Beast, he was only the most grotesque face of a much older system—the empire of accusation, the machinery of counterfeit glory, and devouring justice.

But Jesus did not live under Nero.

He confronted Tiberius’ world, not Nero’s.

And yet—the Beast was already stirring.

The Temple elite—like Caesar—used theological authority to manage appearances, to protect men while sacrificing women.

They had learned how to use Torah like Rome used law: as a trap.

And Jesus walked right into it—not to avoid it, but to disarm it.

He saw what others could not.
He saw the anti-Christ system before it had a name.
He saw the Beast beneath the robe, the lie behind the law, and He said:

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

No one could.
Because everyone knew…
Someone was missing.
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Ben Stada, Ben Pandera: A Memory Misnamed
Rabbinic texts refer to a shadowy figure called Ben Stada, sometimes conflated with Ben Pandera—a seducer, a deceiver, a man of sorcery, hanged on the eve of Passover.

Most Christians, understandably, have assumed these are garbled references to Jesus.

But the contradictions are striking. The timelines, the locations, the accusations—they don’t fit the Gospel accounts.

What if these were not corruptions of Jesus of Nazareth,
…but veiled allusions to another?

A man tied to scandal.

Linked with adultery, sorcery, and shame.

A man whose sin became unspoken family memory.

A man or a son from Jose Pandera.

A nephew known as the magician by Josephus.

If so, these “ben” figures—Ben Stada, Ben Pandera—are offspring of slander, born not only from Roman suspicion but rabbinic discomfort with something closer to home.

They are names that preserve trauma through distortion.

But Jesus bore even that.

He bore the slander of memory, the misnaming, the projected guilt.

He bore it all the way down.
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The Gospel in Dust and Descent
So yes—Nero would come, and the Beast would roar an antichrist from his own famy.

But Jesus was already harrowing it in John 8.

Before Rome’s lion devoured martyrs,

He stood before a woman devoured by the law. Could she be Mary Magdala?

Before Tiberius’ coin was handed back,
He gave back something deeper: our hidden stones.

And where Cain once cried, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”,
Jesus answered with His body, with His silence, with His descent.

He harrowed not only hell, but history.

Not only Sheol, but shame.

Not only Rome’s brutality, but our forgotten brothers.

He stooped.
He wrote.

And He bore the name that wasn’t His,
so we could bear the name that is.

“He is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Hebrews 2:11)

Even Joses.
Even the woman.
Even those of us who walked away, stone in hand,
knowing… we were the ones missing from the scene.
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The Gospel Written in the Ground
This is the Gospel I believe in:

The Gospel that shields the woman without denying her guilt.

The Gospel that refuses to expose the brother, but bears his shame.

The Gospel that begins its descent long before the Cross—in the dust, with the accused, beneath the crushing weight of public spectacle and silent complicity.

This is the Gospel that unmasks the Beast, rewrites slandered names, and harrows not only Hell, but family history.

It is a Gospel written in dust,

where stones fall,

and grace is etched in silence.

The Marys in the Gospel of John (Part Two)

Behold Your Mother: Mary, and the New Jerusalem

“But the Jerusalem above is free, and she is our mother.”
— Galatians 4:26

At the foot of the cross, in a moment heavy with both agony and glory, Jesus turned to His mother and said, “Woman, behold your son.” And to the beloved disciple: “Behold your mother.” (John 19:26–27)

For centuries, these words have echoed through the Church. But few stop to ask: What kind of “mother” was Jesus revealing? And to whom? Was He initiating a Marian cult? Or was He unveiling something deeper—a covenantal mystery stretching from Eden to Zion, from the seed of the woman to the heavenly city?

In the Gospel of John, Mary is not merely venerated—she is veiled, clothed in biblical memory, and placed at the center of redemptive history. But in the hands of Rome—Edom by another name—she has been taken captive, exalted beyond Scripture, and transformed into something she never was: a throne. A queen. A cultic object. The true Mary, the one who leads us into the New Jerusalem, has been buried beneath marble, gold, and theological accretions.

It’s time we behold our mother again—on her own terms.
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The Mother Without a Name
John’s Gospel never calls Mary by name.

She appears twice: once at a wedding in Cana (John 2), and once at the crucifixion (John 19). In both instances, she is addressed not as “Mother,” but as “Woman.” This is no accident. John, the most symbolic of the Evangelists, is drawing on deep currents of Scripture. The woman at Cana is not just a mother at a wedding; she is Eve restored, Zion waiting, a womb preparing for water turned to wine, shadowing the mystery of new covenant life.

At the cross, her anonymity becomes even more charged. She is silent, standing. Jesus does not say, “Mother, behold your son,” but “Woman”—again calling forth the ancient promise of Genesis 3:15. The woman and her seed. The serpent and the enmity. The seed is bruised—but the serpent is crushed.

In this moment, Jesus unveils the Woman—not just Mary of Nazareth, but the mother of the redeemed. She is a figure of the covenant community, a sign of Zion, a symbol of the New Jerusalem.
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Mary as Zion: The City in the Wilderness
Paul writes in Galatians 4:26, “The Jerusalem above is free, and she is our mother.”

He’s not speaking metaphorically. He’s unveiling a spiritual reality—a city, a sanctuary, a mother who gives birth not by biology but by promise.

Just as Sarah was barren and gave birth through faith, so Zion—the city of God—gives birth to a nation in a day (Isaiah 66:8).

Revelation 12 picks up the thread: “A woman clothed with the sun… she was pregnant and crying out in birth pangs.” The dragon stands ready to devour her child, but the child is caught up to God, and the woman flees into the wilderness, preserved.

This is Mary, yes—but not as a marble Madonna.

This is Mary as Mother Zion, the covenantal woman through whom Messiah comes, and through whom a people of promise are born. The seed is Christ—but also those who keep the commandments of God and hold to the testimony of Jesus (Rev 12:17). She is the mother of us all.

And yet, where is she? Not on a throne. Not in a chapel. Not bathed in incense and adorned with a golden crown.

She is in the wilderness.
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Rome, Edom, and the Capture of the Woman
Edom, the brother who became a rival, always wanted what Jacob had: the birthright, the blessing, the covenant. Rome, the empire that once crucified the seed of the woman, has since tried to enthrone the woman herself. But not as Zion—not as the covenantal mother in exile. Rome needed something safer. Manageable. Usable.

And so it created a Marianism that is less about Mary and more about control.

It made her Immaculate, not in the sense of covenantal purity, but of metaphysical sinlessness that separates her from the human story.

It crowned her Queen of Heaven, a title once reserved for Ishtar and Astarte.

It gave her temples, rosaries, and apparitions—transforming her from humble servant to semi-divine mediator.

This is not the woman of Revelation 12. This is Edom’s Mary—a captive figure, adorned in imperial theology, used to reinforce a hierarchical Church that positions itself between God and man.

Rome took the mother and turned her into a monument, a means of access, an object of superstition. But in doing so, it missed her actual glory: that she is part of the people of God, not above them.

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The True Mary: Signpost to Zion
The true Mary is not a throne but a witness. She is the firstfruits of faith—the woman who said yes in quiet submission, who pondered mysteries in her heart, who watched her son rejected by the temple and crucified by the empire.

She is not seated above the Church—she is within it. She is not our mediator—she points to the Mediator. She is not Queen of Heaven—she is daughter of Zion, clothed with the sun, standing in the wilderness, awaiting the restoration of the city whose architect is God.

To turn Mary into an object of veneration is to miss her symbolic vocation. Like the ark of the covenant, she carried the Word. But she did not become the Word. She held the seed of promise in her body, and in doing so, became a sign of what the Church herself would one day become: a people filled with the Spirit, a bride prepared for the Lamb, a city descending from above.
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Behold Your Mother
When Jesus said, “Behold your mother,” He was not inaugurating a cult. He was unveiling a mystery. He was connecting the beloved disciple—and all who would follow—to a deeper reality. That those who are born of the Spirit, who are grafted into the promise, now have a new mother.

Not one made of stone. Not one crowned by men. But one who waits in the wilderness. One who bears children in exile. One who points not to herself, but to the Lamb.

Mary is not Rome’s to possess. She is Zion’s.

And Zion is not found in St. Peter’s Basilica or Santa Maria Maggiore. She is in the hills of suffering. The upper rooms of prayer. The underground places of exile and witness. She is the mother of the meek, the persecuted, the faithful remnant. She is not seated in a basilica—she is weeping at the tomb, watching for resurrection.

To behold your mother is to remember that we are children of promise, born not of flesh, nor of empire, but of G-d.

How to Read the Bible as a Story — Part 4

The Importance of the Maccabees

The “New Thing” Begins
If you’ve been taught to skip the Maccabees—or to treat them as historical filler between Malachi and Matthew—it’s time to go back. The Maccabean books are not just Jewish history. They are the pivot point. They hold the key to understanding the Gospels, the apostolic mission, and even why Paul speaks the way he does about Gentile inclusion. The “New Thing” that Isaiah foresaw begins here.

1–2 Maccabees: A New Kind of Warfare
For the first time in the biblical narrative, righteous people are martyred, not the wicked. This isn’t just another cycle of exile and return—it’s an apocalyptic shift.

Martyrdom becomes holy.

Purity begins within. The Maccabees don’t go out to fight the Greeks until they’ve purged idolatry from their own ranks.

The sword is taken up—but only after repentance.

As Jo often says: “The Maccabees didn’t win because of violence. They won because they repented first.”

Violence without internal cleansing would have just been more empire.

Yichus and Edom: The Conversion of Nations
Here’s where it gets even more overlooked. The Maccabean victory leads not just to Jewish independence—it leads to conversion.

Edomites and Nabateans are absorbed into Israel.

This is Noahide Judaism in action: righteous Gentiles joining the covenant through basic faithfulness, not full legal adoption.

Herod the Great descends from this converted Edomite line.

Herod Agrippa II—his descendant—eventually hears Paul and nearly becomes a Christian.

This is not accidental. This is theological warfare. 

As Jo teaches:
“The true warfare is conversion, not destruction. The armies of Gog are slain by the Word, not the sword.”

The Maccabees prefigure this. Jesus fulfills it.

From the Maccabees to the Gospel: Hillel vs. Shammai
The Maccabean legacy fractures into two Pharisaical rabbinic visions:

Shammai: strict, legalistic, exclusionary.

Hillel: generous, covenantal, inclusive of the Noahide righteous.

Jesus of Nazareth does not emerge from nowhere. He walks in the path of Hillel. He eats with sinners. He welcomes centurions and Canaanites. He represents the true “new thing” Isaiah spoke of: not a political conquest, but a purified, expanding Israel open to all who fear God and do what is right.

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So how should we read the Bible?

Don’t skip the Maccabees.

Don’t miss the turn.

The New Testament doesn’t begin in Matthew—it begins when the righteous are first willing to die rather than assimilate, when Judah purges itself, and when the sword is wielded only after repentance.

That’s when the “new thing” begins.

That’s when the war turns.

And that’s how we learn to fight—by converting Edom, not killing him.

From Darkness to Light: Holy Week, the Lord’s Supper, and the Messianic Havdalah

Introduction: A Holy Week of Separation and Transition
Holy Week is the culmination of the divine movement from darkness to light. Traditionally, it has been framed as a remembrance of Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection. However, a deeper engagement with Jewish timekeeping, particularly the interplay between the Last Supper, Passover, and First Fruits, reveals that Jesus’ Passion follows a pattern of separation and renewal.

This movement—from bondage to freedom, from exile to redemption—is also deeply embedded in the Jewish practice of Havdalah, the ritual that marks the transition from the Sabbath or a festival back into everyday time. When Jesus rose from the dead, He inaugurated the ultimate Havdalah—the transition from the old creation into the new. By recognizing this, we can recover a twofold approach to the Lord’s Supper and reframe Holy Week as an Exodus for all nations.
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The Upper Room: The First Separation Meal (Havdalah before the Passion)

A Different Meal, a Different Calendar

It’s often assumed that Jesus’ Last Supper was a Passover Seder. But the Gospel of John carefully tells us otherwise.

“Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come…” (John 13:1)

This signals a divergence from the Synoptic Gospels. While Matthew, Mark, and Luke present the Last Supper as a Passover meal (held on the evening of the 14th of Nisan), John places it the night before, and has Jesus crucified on the Day of Preparation—when the lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple courts (John 19:14).

This means the meal Jesus shared with His disciples was not the standard Passover, but something else:

an anticipatory, priestly meal—a ritual of separation. A havdalah of sorts. A declaration that the true Exodus was beginning.

Where the Temple authorities were preparing lambs, Jesus was preparing Himself.

Where the Sadducean calendar dominated Jerusalem, Jesus and His disciples lived by a deeper rhythm, perhaps closer to the older Essene or Galilean calendars, but more importantly, orchestrated by Heaven.

In this sense, Bethany becomes the site of the real preparation. The Temple may have been bustling with priests and sacrifices, but it was in a house of the afflicted that the Lamb of God was washed, anointed, and received in faith.

In Jewish tradition, Havdalah is the ritual that marks the end of sacred time and the beginning of something new. It involves a cup of wine, a candle, and fragrant spices—symbolizing joy, the light of God, and the lingering sweetness of the Sabbath. In many ways, the Last Supper functioned as a Messianic Havdalah, marking the separation of the disciples from the world and preparing them for what was to come.

Key Elements of the Last Supper as Havdalah:

Wine (The Cup of Redemption): Jesus took the cup and said, “This is my blood of the new covenant” (Luke 22:20). Like the Havdalah wine, this signified the transition to a new reality.

The Light (Departure of Judas): In Havdalah, the candle represents the transition from holy time to the ordinary world. In John 13:30, Judas leaves the meal and enters the night, a moment of spiritual transition.

The Spices (Anticipation of Resurrection): While not explicit at the meal, the anointing of Jesus earlier by Mary of Bethany (John 12:3) echoes the Havdalah spices, symbolizing the lingering fragrance of the Messiah’s presence, even in His coming death.

Thus, the Last Supper was a separation meal, not the full Passover Seder. It was an anticipation of deliverance, just as Havdalah anticipates the week ahead.
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The Crucifixion and the Great Sabbath: A Havdalah of the Cosmos
Jesus’ death, burial, and resurrection unfold in a precise rhythm that corresponds to Jewish timekeeping. His crucifixion aligns with the separation of the Passover lambs. His burial occurs just before the Great Sabbath, and His resurrection falls on First Fruits, when the new grain was waved before God in the Temple.

If we view this through the lens of Havdalah, we see another transition:

Crucifixion (Separation from the Old Creation): The moment of Jesus’ death (John 19:30) mirrors the extinguishing of the Havdalah candle. Darkness covers the land (Mark 15:33), and the world enters a state of waiting.

Burial and the Great Sabbath (Lingering Between Two Worlds): Jesus rests in the tomb on the Sabbath, much like the pause after Havdalah, when the soul feels the departure of the holy day.

Resurrection (The True Havdalah Light): On the first day of the week, as the women come to the tomb, the true light of the world shines forth, marking the transition from the old age into the Messianic age.

The Great Sabbath in the Jewish calendar is always a time of expectation, when the future redemption is anticipated. Jesus’ resting in the tomb on this day signifies that the work of salvation was complete, yet something greater was about to dawn.
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A New Havdalah: The Resurrection as the True Transition into Light
Jewish tradition holds that Havdalah is not just the end of the Sabbath but also a preparation for the world to come. After the candle is extinguished, life continues, but with the knowledge that another Sabbath is approaching.

Jesus’ resurrection is the ultimate Havdalah—not merely the end of Holy Week but the beginning of the New Creation.

Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb “while it was still dark” (John 20:1), witnessing the transition from darkness to light.

Jesus appears as the Gardener (John 20:15), evoking the renewal of the world and the restoration of Eden.

In Luke 24:30, Jesus breaks bread with His disciples, mirroring the return to communal joy after the solemnity of Holy Week.

If the Last Supper was the separation meal, then the post-resurrection meals were the true Passover feast, where Jesus revealed Himself as the risen Messiah.
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How This Changes Our Lord’s Supper Observance
The Church has historically emphasized the Lord’s Supper as a memorial of Jesus’ death, yet the structure of Holy Week suggests a twofold pattern—first, a Havdalah of separation, and second, a celebration of resurrection.

A Proposed Twofold Structure for the Lord’s Supper:

A Separation Meal (Maundy Thursday or Preparation Day):

A solemn remembrance, focusing on separation from darkness.

Emphasizing Jesus’ words of self-examination (“One of you will betray me”).

Including elements of Havdalah—wine, light, and fragrant remembrance.

A Resurrection Meal (First Fruits Sunday):

A joyful breaking of bread, emphasizing the risen Christ.

Recognizing that the meal is not just about death but the transition to new life.

Reclaiming the Messianic promise that all nations are now part of the redeemed exodus.

By reintegrating this twofold pattern, we recover the full story—not just Jesus’ suffering, but His transition from death into eternal light.

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Conclusion: The Ultimate Havdalah and the Call to the Nations
Havdalah is not just a Jewish tradition—it is a prophetic sign of separation, renewal, and expectation of the world to come. When Jesus celebrated the Last Supper, He was marking the end of the old creation and the beginning of something new. When He rose from the dead, He inaugurated the true and final transition from darkness to light.

This realization calls for a new approach to Holy Week and the Lord’s Supper—one that embraces the full movement of redemption. Jesus is the Passover Lamb, but He is also the Light of the World, leading us into the final exodus.

Thus, when we partake of the bread and the cup, let us remember:

It is not just a meal of death but a meal of transition.

It is not just a remembrance of suffering but an anticipation of the world to come.

It is not just a solitary act but a global calling—to bring all nations from darkness into light.

Just as Havdalah ends the Sabbath while looking forward to the next, so too does the Lord’s Supper proclaim His death until He comes (1 Corinthians 11:26)—the final Havdalah when the true Light will never be extinguished.

Where the Leaven Is Gone

Bethany, the Anointed Lamb, and the Cleansing Before Passover
 
As Passover approached, the streets of Jerusalem bustled with the cleansing rituals of Aviv. Homes were being swept, leaven purged, and lambs inspected for blemish. But not all preparation took place in the city. A few miles outside Jerusalem, in the humble village of Bethany, a deeper preparation was unfolding—a liturgical and prophetic drama, hidden from the Temple elite yet fully aligned with the heart of Torah.

Bethany, or Beit-Anyah—literally “House of the Poor” or “House of Affliction”—had become something of a refuge for Yeshua of Nazareth. It was the place of intimacy, of grief and glory, of tears and triumph. It was there that Lazarus was raised, signaling the end of death’s dominion. And it was there that the Lamb of God was quietly being readied for His final ascent.

John tells us that Yeshua arrived in Bethany six days before the Passover (John 12:1), around the 9th of Nisan. These were the days of cleansing, when households removed leaven in anticipation of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. Yet Jesus does not go to the Temple to be ritually purified. He goes instead to a house that is already clean—the house of those who believe.

There, in the home of Simon the leper, a gathering takes place. Some scholars suggest Simon may have been healed by Jesus, possibly even a quiet follower from the Hillelite school—a Pharisaic stream more open to Yeshua’s vision of the Kingdom. This wasn’t a political gathering. It wasn’t a Sadducean alliance. It was a Passover havurah, a household of the remnant, where faith, vulnerability, and covenantal love were shared.

And then comes the anointing.

Mary—already known for sitting at the feet of the Rabbi—takes costly perfume and anoints His feet. The fragrance fills the house. But this is more than sentiment. She is preparing the Lamb. Just as the Passover lambs were set aside and inspected (Exodus 12:3), so Yeshua is set apart and consecrated. Her act is both priestly and prophetic. She is cleansing the true House of God—not with water and ash, but with faith and tears.

Meanwhile, a storm brews in Jerusalem. The chief priests—not just any Jews, but the Sadducean-aligned authorities, deeply compromised by power and politics—plot to kill not only Jesus but Lazarus too (John 12:10). Why? Because Lazarus is proof. He is the testimony that death is no longer in charge. He is a living prophecy that the old order is passing away.

John’s Gospel often uses the phrase “the Jews” not to refer to all Jewish people, but specifically to these Temple elites—those allied with Rome, with Herod, or with the radicalized Zealot sects. They are the ones threatened by the resurrection. They are the ones whose leaven of hypocrisy Yeshua warned about.

And so, in the days of Aviv, as homes are being cleansed, the house in Bethany is already pure. The Lamb has been anointed. The remnant has gathered. The cry of affliction will soon become the cry of redemption.

This is the real Feast of Unleavened Bread—not just the removal of dough, but the purging of false authority, the unveiling of divine justice, and the preparation of the Son to become the once-and-for-all offering.

“Cleanse out the old leaven, that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened. For Messiah, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed.”
— 1 Corinthians 5:7

Douglas Murray on Joe Rogan: Reprobate Clarity and the Posh Lament of Edom:

Douglas Murray just sat across from Joe Rogan—a pot-smoking podcast pope for the spiritually numb—and offered, with all the eloquence of a dying empire, a lament for the West. Across from him sat an unbaptized high priest of confusion, puffing clouds of weed while nodding along to a narrative of civilizational suicide. Occasionally chiming in was their jester-in-residence: a comedian whose anti-Israel takes betray just how far the West has wandered from the God of Abraham.

It’s tempting to applaud Murray. He speaks in full paragraphs. He names things the Left fears to whisper. He’s posh, poised, and palpably aware that the world is collapsing. But let’s be clear: Douglas Murray is not the answer. He is Edom’s final spokesman, delivering a funeral sermon for a house already judged.

The irony is thick—Murray defends “Western values,” yet cannot name the source of those values. He sees the fruit rotting but won’t touch the root. The West was grafted into a covenant it never fully honored, and now, in its hubris, it tears itself apart. What Murray calls a “death cult” is, in Torat Edom, the unraveling of a counterfeit inheritance.

This review reads Murray’s Strange Death of Europe not through culture war nostalgia but through prophetic fire. His lament is accurate—but his vision ends in Edom, not Zion.

Introduction: The Civilizational Autopsy

Murray’s claim: Europe is committing suicide—culturally, demographically, and spiritually.

“Europe is committing suicide. Or at least its leaders have decided to commit suicide.” — The Strange Death of Europe, Introduction

Torat Edom’s reply: What Murray sees as cultural suicide is better interpreted as covenantal disinheritance—an Edomite trajectory. And with all the talk about Israel and Evil Hamas, he sure doesn’t understand religion or better revelation.

Europe, once grafted through Christendom, has become like Esau: full, wealthy, and weeping—but without true repentance (cf. Hebrews 12:16–17).
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Guilt Without Atonement: A New Ritual of Shame

Murray sees an unrelenting European guilt narrative—especially post-Holocaust, post-colonial guilt.

“Europe lost faith in its beliefs, traditions and legitimacy.” — Chapter 3

Torat Edom sees this as atonement dislocated from Torah—the sacrificial system has been replaced with public rituals of contrition, but no covenantal grounding (Leviticus 16, Isaiah 1:11–17).

Without a Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), the West performs endless pseudo-atonements—apologies, reparations, cancelations.

Cf. Romans 10:2–3 – “zeal for God, but not according to knowledge…”
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Demographic Displacement as Prophetic Echo

Murray focuses heavily on migration and birthrates.

“We are importing people into a void.” — Chapter 5

The deeper problem: the void is theological, not merely cultural.

Torat Edom reframes this through Deuteronomy 32:21 – “They made Me jealous by what is not God… so I will make them jealous with those who are not a people.”

Migration is not simply policy—it is a divine rebuke to covenantal abandonment.
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Esau and the Crisis of Sonship

Esau-Edom embodies a Western theology of might without birthright.

Genesis 25:34: “So Esau despised his birthright.”

Obadiah 1:3: “The pride of your heart has deceived you…”

Murray names the decay, but cannot name the source: Edom has lost the Father’s voice.

Without Torah, Europe becomes the older brother—estranged, bitter, trying to preserve legacy without love (cf. Luke 15:25–32).
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Identity and Its Discontents: The Cult of Victimhood

Murray critiques the rise of identity politics, especially the sacredness of victim narratives.

“We have been taught to believe that it is racist to assert that people should be encouraged to integrate.” — Chapter 9

Torat Edom sees this as Edom’s inversion of signs—grace and inclusion were always through covenant (Genesis 17:12, Exodus 12:48), not sentiment or bloodline.

The biblical distinction between Ger Toshav and Eda is blurred in the modern state, replaced with “equality” that erases covenantal belonging.

Cf. Malachi 1:2–3 – “I have loved Jacob, but Esau I have hated…”
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Pagan Retrieval vs. Prophetic Inheritance

Murray’s remedy? A return to Enlightenment values, Western classics, and reasoned debate.

“We may need to look back to the Greeks and Romans…” — Chapter 11

But Torat Edom exposes this as nostalgic paganism—Edom seeking comfort in Edom, while Jerusalem burns.

Cf. Jeremiah 6:16 – “Ask for the ancient paths…”—but Murray looks to Athens, not Zion.

Pagan retrieval cannot resurrect covenant.
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Prophetic Witness and the Role of Israel

Murray rarely mentions the Jews or the covenant—his critique is post-Christian but never truly theological.

Torat Edom asserts: the West’s true health lies in recognizing the oracles of God (cf. Romans 3:1–2) and returning to the covenant through the Jewish Messiah.

The preservation of the authoritative Matthew 23:1, 2 “ Obey the Pharisees for they sit in the seat of Moses…” Jewish Pacifist (Not Poltical Zionist) people is not merely cultural but eschatological: a witness against the death cult of abstraction and forgetfulness.
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Beyond Suicide—Toward Revelation

Murray rightly mourns the death, but he cannot proclaim resurrection.

The only path forward is not cultural revitalization but covenantal return—a tikkun (repair) grounded in divine inheritance.

Obadiah 1:21: “Saviors will ascend Mount Zion to judge Mount Esau, and the kingdom will be the Lord’s.”

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Conclusion: Europe, Israel, and the Death Cult of Moral Reversal
In The Strange Death of Europe, Douglas Murray paints a bleak picture of a continent unraveling under the weight of immigration, cultural self-loathing, and post-Christian decay. Yet buried beneath his defense of “Western values” is a revealing silence:

 

True Israel, the covenantal root of the West’s moral grammar, is treated as a political afterthought rather than a theological cornerstone. While Murray opposes Islamism, including Hamas—a U.S. and EU-designated terrorist organization—his framework still clings to Enlightenment categories, not prophetic ones.

He diagnoses Europe’s embrace of moral inversion but cannot name its spiritual cause: the rejection of Israel as the bearer of divine oracles (Romans 3:2). In Torat Edom, this is not just decay—it is the judgment of Esau, who sides with Amalek when Zion suffers.

The Lamb and the Dog

Most Messianic seders feel more like Christian plays with Jewish props than covenantal meals. Matza becomes a metaphor, wine becomes a symbol, and Jesus is slotted in as the Passover lamb—but the context, the halakha (Jewish Law), the structure that gave the lamb its meaning? Gone. What remains is a well-meaning approximation, often with little connection to the lived halakhic reality of ancient Israel or the deeper implications of covenantal identity.

This isn’t meant to be a cheap critique. It’s meant to ask a deeper question: Have we inherited a version of the Passover that skips the covenant in favor of the symbol? 

And more pointedly: Who are we in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus—if we’ve misremembered the seder?

The Real Passover: Not a Pageant, but a Covenant Rite
Let’s go back to the text—Exodus 12, Leviticus 23, Deuteronomy 16. The Passover was not a commemorative teaching tool. It was a halakhic act, a covenantal rite, governed by the Qahal (the assembly) and witnessed by the edah (the congregation of Israel).

The lamb was:
• Slaughtered at twilight on the 14th of Nisan
• Roasted whole, never boiled or stewed
• Eaten in haste, with matzah and maror (bitter herbs)
• Completely consumed or burned by morning
• Only eaten by those circumcised—those in the covenant

And if a sojourner (ger toshav) was to partake, they had to join the covenant (Ex. 12:48). This wasn’t an open invitation. It was a guarded rite, with deep theological and communal boundaries.

The Lamb Was a Rebellion
We forget this: in Egypt, the lamb wasn’t just a random animal. It was sacred. Particularly in the cult of Amun, rams and sheep were held in reverence. For Israelites to publicly slaughter lambs was a theological assault on Egypt’s gods, much like killing a sacred cow in India would be today.

This casts new light on what it means to say, as Paul does in 1 Corinthians 5:7, that “Christ our Passover lamb has been sacrificed.” This isn’t sentiment. It’s subversion. 

It’s an indictment of the world’s idolatrous systems. Jesus doesn’t merely fulfill the symbol—He enacts the rebellion. And the claim only makes sense within the halakhic, covenantal structure of Israel.

Paul’s Claim Is Halakhic, Not Just Typological
When Paul says Jesus is our Passover, he’s not allegorizing. He’s saying something legally and theologically profound. For those who are in Messiah, the covenant is open—but it is still a covenant.

It’s not a soft spirituality. It’s a grafting in (Romans 11), a re-entry into the guarded meal through the blood of the Lamb.

But if we don’t understand the requirements of the original Passover—circumcision, community, consumption under authority—then Paul’s statement loses its punch. We’re left with a shadow, not a substance.

What Messianic Seders Often Miss
This is where things get sticky. Many Messianic seders:
• Spiritualize the symbols
• Leave out the halakhic requirements
• Reduce the lamb to metaphor
• Forget the authority of the Qahal (assembly)
• Never mention the edah (witnessing body)
• Offer inclusion without covenant

In doing so, they reproduce a common Christian problem: claiming Jewish symbols without Jewish structure. The result is a well-meaning but theologically confused pageant.

The Crucifixion on the 14th: Fulfillment or Imposition?
John’s Gospel places Jesus’ crucifixion on the 14th of Nisan, aligning him with the slaughter of the lambs—just before the official seder would have taken place. This has been read as typological fulfillment, but there’s a legitimate question here: Did the early Christian framing impose its meaning onto the calendar to make Jesus “fit” the feast?

Regardless of how one resolves the calendar debate, what remains is this: Jesus as the Passover lamb only makes sense if we honor the framework he fulfills. Without the covenantal architecture of the real Passover, the crucifixion becomes an abstract sacrifice rather than a covenantal act of liberation.

Have We Missed the Whole Story?
This is the real question. If we’ve turned the seder into a stage play and forgotten its halakhic roots, who are we, really, in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus? Have we traded the Qahal for an audience? The covenant for a metaphor? The roasted lamb for a cracker?

The early believers were not trying to start a new religion. They were living in continuity with the covenant of Israel—expanding it through Messiah, not abandoning it. If we are grafted in, as Paul says, then we must ask: grafted into what?

Not into Christian reenactments of the seder. But into the covenantal body of Israel, with its sacred rhythms, its guarded meals, its high demands—and its gracious God.

Enter the Dog: The Syrophoenician Woman and the Sacred Table
This brings us to one of the most misunderstood passages in the Gospels: the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7 (and Matthew 15). Her story is often read as Jesus’ moment of stern compassion—but in reality, it’s a covenantal revelation. It’s where the lamb and the dog come face to face.

“Let the children be fed first, for it is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”
— Mark 7:27

To modern ears, this sounds harsh. But Jesus isn’t being rude. He’s stating the order of the covenant. The bread—like the lamb—is not for everyone. It belongs first to the children, the members of the Qahal.

In Torah terms, the bread of the table—like the sacred meat of the Passover—was for those in the household of faith, those circumcised, those marked by the covenant.

And so Jesus speaks as any Torah-honoring teacher would: the sacred food is not for outsiders, for the “dogs.”

But then comes the turn.
“Yes, Lord; yet even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
— Mark 7:28

She doesn’t argue the order. She accepts the halakhic boundaries, yet appeals to the overflow of mercy. She places herself not as a usurper, but as a ger toshav—a sojourner at the edge of the table. She speaks the language of covenant humility and recognizes the sanctity of the meal.

“For this saying, you may go your way; the demon has left your daughter.”
— Mark 7:29

Jesus grants her request because of this profound understanding. She has entered the story of Israel not through replacement but through humble participation. She sees the Lamb. She smells the bread. She knows that even crumbs from a covenant table can heal.

The Dog Who Understood the Lamb
This woman is the surprise guest at the seder. Not because the seder is universalized or sentimentalized—but because she knows where she is and what is at stake. She doesn’t need a new religion or a messianic spectacle. She needs one crumb from the covenant meal, and she knows that it’s enough.

She is the model for the outsider who becomes insider. She doesn’t demand inclusion. She enters the covenant by faith, humility, and reverence—the same traits that defined the original sojourners who ate the Passover lamb in Egypt. She speaks the language of Torah-faith without claiming to be part of the Qahal, yet her words open the door.

In her, we see what much of modern Christian and Messianic practice has missed: a right understanding of the sacred table. Not entitlement. Not theater. But submission, faith, and the hope that even a crumb from God’s table heals.

This is where A.B. Simpson, the founder of the Christian and Missionary Alliance, stands in surprising alignment with her.

Though Simpson didn’t frame it in halakhic terms, he understood the sacred power of the table. For him, the bread and cup weren’t just symbols—they were places of encounter, of healing, of kingdom power. He preached that Christ is our Passover, not just in fulfillment of Exodus, but in real-time deliverance, healing, and sanctification.

“There is healing in the broken bread. There is life in the cup. He did not just die to forgive us. He died to make us whole.”
— A.B. Simpson

Simpson’s theology invited the nations to the table—not by flattening the covenant, but by extending its healing mercy to the humble. Like the Syrophoenician woman, he understood that there’s enough in the crumb to heal the world—but only if we honor where the crumb came from.

He believed that Jesus didn’t replace Israel’s table—He opened it through Himself.

That through the broken lamb, even the gentile dog could rise and walk.

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The Lamb and the Dog
So what do we miss at the seder?

We miss the gravity. The order. The authority. The guarded joy of the covenant.

We rush to symbols and skip the substance.

We speak of the Lamb but forget the altar.

We offer crumbs before understanding the meal.

But if we let the lamb and the dog meet—if we let the covenant stand in all its weight and let humility do its work—then the table becomes what it always was: a place of liberation, belonging, and divine judgment against the idols of Egypt.

And the beauty?

There’s always enough bread.

Even for the dog who believes.

If we want to reclaim the meaning of the Last Supper, the crucifixion, and the resurrection, we must re-enter the halakhic reality of the Passover.

Not in a legalistic way, but in a covenantal one.

Not as cultural tourists, but as sojourners and grafted-in heirs, partaking not just in the matzah, but in the whole story.

The lamb was never just a symbol.

It was a test of allegiance.

A rejection of Egypt’s gods.

A meal of identity.

So too is Jesus.

We’re not just invited to remember.

We’re called to belong.

An Orthodox Jew explains Jesus and the Passover