The Trinity in Judaism?

What Rublev painted (and why it’s Israel-rooted)

Andrei Rublev’s Trinity is a visual meditation on Genesis 18 (“the three” who visit Abraham at Mamre). Key detail: Rublev omits Abraham and Sarah so the viewer contemplates the three angelic figures themselves. 

The icon’s classical home is the State Tretyakov Gallery; their notes and Russian Orthodox sources consistently call it the “Old Testament Trinity / Hospitality of Abraham.” A Soviet Era filmmaker Andre Tarkovsky made a famous film about the icon painting monk.

 
Exegetical roots inside Israel’s own tradition
Jewish reading of Gen 18: Rashi: the “three men” are three angels, each with a mission (heal Abraham, announce Isaac, destroy Sodom). That is, Israel’s tradition already treats the scene as a multi-personal divine visitation mediated by angels.

  
Mamre / hospitality is itself a mitzvah lens (hachnasat orchim), showing how the narrative is framed within covenantal ethics—not later metaphysics.

Targumic “Memra” (the Word) gives a Jewish matrix for speaking of God’s self-manifestation: see Boyarin on the Memra and early binitarian currents in Judaism. These are native Jewish categories later echoed in Christian usage.

For the broader scholarly backdrop, see studies on “Two Powers in Heaven,” which trace how some Second-Temple and early rabbinic discussions handled multiple divine manifestations without abandoning monotheism.

  

This is not a foreign import — it’s a native biblical and Jewish category, later read christologically by the Church. But if we want the apostles’ meaning, we have to hear it first in Israel’s language. That’s why thinkers like Rabbi Elijah Benamozegh are so valuable: he’s affirming without being polemical, reminding us that the Church’s truths are best understood when re-rooted in Israel’s categories.

For more on this Hebraic framing, see 

Sabellianism: Clarifying Heavenly Flesh — showing how early controversies look different when we start from the soil of the Tanakh and Oral Torah rather than only later metaphysics.

When the Framework Speaks Louder than the Text

How Inherited Grids Shape Our Reading

One of the subtle but pervasive influences on evangelical theology is the way inherited theological frameworks can become more determinative than the biblical text itself. This is not a matter of bad intentions—many of these frameworks arose as attempts to summarize Scripture faithfully. Yet once a structure is fixed in place, it can act as an interpretive filter, quietly shaping what we see and what we overlook.

A case in point is the Reformed covenant of works / covenant of grace schema. While often presented as the Bible’s own storyline, these two covenants are not explicitly named or defined in Scripture. They are theological constructs, developed post-biblically, which then become the default lens for reading Genesis, Romans, or Galatians. The danger here is methodological: exegesis becomes a search for proof texts to fit the grid, rather than a narrative encounter with the living God who speaks through the whole canon.

This propositionalism—the drive to secure doctrine through isolated verses—tends to fragment the text and disconnect it from its own covenantal flow. It also flattens the complex interplay of creation, fall, promise, exile, and restoration into a binary contrast: works versus grace. The richness of God’s redemptive trajectory, with its layers of calling, testing, and covenant fidelity, is reduced to a theological equation.

The same dynamic appears in ecclesial debates, including the question of women in ministry. When patriarchal frameworks are assumed at the outset, select passages (e.g., 1 Timothy 2:12–14) are elevated as universal and timeless, while counterexamples (Phoebe, Junia, Priscilla, the daughters of Philip) are either reinterpreted or minimized. The framework dictates the outcome before the exegetical work begins.

Covenantal Realism resists this reduction by insisting that the biblical narrative itself—not post-biblical categories—must set the terms of the discussion. The covenants of Scripture are not abstract contracts but lived relationships within God’s unfolding mission. They form a trajectory that moves from the creation mandate through the patriarchal promises, Sinai’s vocation, the prophetic call to justice, and the Messianic renewal of the Spirit-filled witnessing Edah. Within this trajectory, leadership is shaped by faithfulness to the covenant and the mission of God—not by fixed hierarchies tied to gender or primogeniture.

In this light, the real interpretive question is not, Does Scripture affirm male leadership?—it clearly does in many places—but rather, Does the gospel freeze that pattern, or does it free us into new arrangements where mission shapes structure? 

When the framework no longer speaks louder than the text, we can hear the Spirit’s summons to align our leadership patterns with the New Creation in Messiah, where authority is redefined by service, and the image-bearing vocation is restored to both male and female. This is precisely where complementarian apologists like Wayne Grudem and John Piper fail to listen. In Recovering Biblical Manhood and Womanhood, their defense of male headship is presented not as one possible reading shaped by context, but as an unalterable creation-order mandate.

The framework—patriarchal hierarchy—becomes the fixed lens, and the text is marshaled to fit it. While they occasionally speak of servant leadership, they refuse to let the New Creation vision of Galatians 3:28 or the Spirit’s distribution of gifts in Acts 2:17 challenge their structure. In doing so, they reverse the biblical priority: instead of letting the gospel reshape leadership in light of Messiah’s servant authority, they guard a framework inherited from a particular reading of Genesis 1–3 and enforce it as universal. Their method is not one of yielding to the Spirit’s re-ordering work, but of preserving a pre-determined system, ensuring that the framework speaks louder than the text and certainly not Jewish midrashim (interpretations) that subtly affirm the gospel beyond the Covenant of Works and Grace and much more fully than simply male-headship.

Cast Out or Carried In? Reclaiming Hagar in Light of Galatians 4

“You are the God who sees me.” — Hagar, Genesis 16:13

“Cast out the slave woman and her son.” — Galatians 4:30

In previous page found in the Preamble and Definitions — Hagar and the Samaritan Woman as Keys to Covenant Renewal, I explored how these two marginalized women became unexpected vessels of divine encounter. Hagar, the Egyptian handmaid, and the Samaritan woman at the well—both represent figures who lived outside the covenantal mainstream, yet were seen, spoken to, and sent by the God of Israel.

But for many readers of Paul, this story hits a wall in Galatians 4.
There, Hagar appears not as the honored outsider, but as an allegorical symbol of bondage, cast out alongside her son, Ishmael. Paul declares, “These women are two covenants”—Hagar linked with Sinai and slavery, Sarah with promise and freedom. And then he quotes the chilling line: “Cast out the slave woman and her son, for the son of the slave shall not inherit with the son of the free woman.”

Is Paul reversing the honor we gave Hagar? Is she merely an object lesson now—a discarded vessel of law and coercion?

The answer is more layered. And within that tension lies a mystery worth revisiting:

 Can someone be cast out by man, yet carried in by God?
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The Midrash Behind Paul’s Allegory
First, we need to understand Paul’s method. Galatians 4 is not a Greek-style abstraction but a midrashic contrast, rooted in Second Temple Jewish ways of reading. Paul isn’t denigrating Hagar as a person—he’s constructing a prophetic framework: Sinai as coercion versus Jerusalem above as promise.

“Now Hagar is Mount Sinai in Arabia…” (Gal 4:25)

That location—Arabia—is not incidental. It evokes Ishmael’s territory. Paul isn’t choosing Egypt, Hagar’s homeland, but instead the desert of divine encounter—the same wilderness where Moses received the Law and where Elijah heard the still small voice. Arabia is where God speaks outside the camp. Paul is saying: Sinai delivered truth, but its structure was mediated, coercive, and temporary—meant to guard until faith was revealed (Gal 3:19–25).

Paul’s contrast is not between good and evil, or Jew and Gentile, but between bondage-based covenant identity and the freedom of the promise—a promise given before Sinai, in the days of Abraham, when Hagar too walked the land.
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Hagar, the One Who Named God
In Genesis 16, it is not Sarah or Abraham, but Hagar who becomes the first person in Scripture to name God:

“You are El Ro’i—the God who sees me.” (Gen 16:13)

She is also one of the first to receive an angelic visitation. She receives covenantal promises—not unlike Abraham himself:

A son with a name given from heaven

A nation multiplied through his descendants

A destiny forged through suffering and endurance

In Torat Edom terms, Hagar represents a proto-covenantal figure—a ger toshav, one grafted in not by law but by divine election and affliction. She does not climb the hierarchy of Israelite status, but instead becomes a mother of nations through exile, not empire.

So when Paul uses her as a symbol, it’s not a character attack—it’s a prophetic gesture toward two ways of relating to God:

One that operates by inheritance through coercion and institution

One that opens by promise, vision, and freedom
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The Wilderness Woman and the Heavenly City
Paul goes on to say:

“The Jerusalem above is free, and she is our mother.” (Gal 4:26)

This is not escapist language. It echoes the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman at the well:

“The hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem… but in spirit and in truth.” (John 4:21–24)

Both women—Hagar and the Samaritan—are displaced by religion and yet re-centered by divine voice. Both are met in wilderness settings. Both are theologically commissioned after direct encounters with the divine. And both become, in their own ways, mothers of a new people—not based on bloodlines or boundary-markers, but on vision and response.
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The Cast-Out Becomes the Cornerstone
Paul quotes Genesis 21:10: 

“Cast out the slave woman and her son.” But this must be read in light of another scriptural irony:

“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” (Psalm 118:22)

Hagar is the stone cast aside by Sarah—but she becomes a cornerstone in the broader story of God’s redemptive mission. She is a precursor to Moses, who is exiled and rejected but encounters God in the wilderness. She is a forerunner to Jesus, who identifies with the outcast and the suffering servant. She is a parallel to Paul himself, the persecutor turned apostle, sent to the nations.

In exile, Hagar becomes a mirror of the Messiah: She is afflicted, rejected, and made to wander—yet she is seen, named, and vindicated.

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Torat Edom and the Vindication of the Outsider
In Torat Edom, the covenant never ends with the insiders. The wound becomes the womb. The cast-out ones are often the ones God chooses to carry the next chapter.

Hagar is not destroyed in Galatians 4—she is transfigured into a signpost. The Sinai covenant, good and true as it was, is not the final vessel of God’s purposes. It was temporary, mediated, and subject to fading. But the Jerusalem above—like Hagar’s El Roi—is immediate, relational, and enduring.

To read Paul properly, we must refuse to collapse typology into theology. Galatians 4 is not a license for Christian supersessionism or spiritual elitism. It’s a liberating call to recognize that divine promise is never chained to human systems—not even the best ones. The promise is always breaking boundaries, lifting the lowly, and choosing the unexpected.
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Conclusion: Gospel through Hagar’s Eyes
So what do we do with Galatians 4?

We honor the typology but resist the flattening of narrative. We allow Hagar to speak, to cry, to name God—not just as a symbol, but as a person encountered. We acknowledge the paradox: that one can be cast out by the covenantal administration, yet seen and carried by the covenantal God.

This is the gospel through the eyes of Hagar. 

Not a gospel of status, but of mercy.

Not a gospel of exclusion, but of encounter.

Not a gospel that forgets the wound, but one that births through it.

“Rejoice, O barren one who does not bear… for the children of the desolate one will be more than those of the one who has a husband.” (Galatians 4:27, citing Isaiah 54:1)

That is the old-time religion—the one that begins at wells, in deserts, and among those who are finally seen.

The Mistake of Many Prophetic Frameworks Today

 

Sequel to The True Temple

When Jesus stood in the shadow of Herod’s magnificent Temple and said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19), He was speaking of something far more scandalous than many realized. He wasn’t threatening a building—He was revealing a new order. He was telling us that the true meeting place between God and humanity was no longer stone and gold, but flesh and Spirit.

He was the Temple.
And when He rose from the dead, He didn’t just vindicate His claim—He transferred the architecture. The Spirit that once filled a holy house now fills a holy people.

“You also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house…” (1 Peter 2:5)

“Do you not know that you are God’s temple?” (1 Corinthians 3:16)

The Temple didn’t vanish.

It multiplied.
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The Measured and the Unshaken
In Revelation 11, John is told to measure the temple, the altar, and those who worship there. It’s not a construction blueprint—it’s a spiritual survey. God is identifying the faithful, those who remain within His covenant, even as the outer court is trampled by the nations.

This is not about securing land or reviving old systems. It’s a prophetic sign: what matters is not the visible edifice, but the indwelt people. What is measured is not marble, but mercy. Not religious real estate, but relational fidelity.

In this apocalyptic moment, we see that the true Temple is preserved, even in persecution. Because it’s not external. It’s internal.

And it’s alive.
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The Lamb Is the Temple
Revelation reaches its climax with a city descending—not a rebuilt sanctuary, but the New Jerusalem, radiant with divine glory. And then comes the line that shatters all expectation:

“I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb.” (Revelation 21:22)

This is the fulfillment of everything the tabernacle, the Temple, and the body of Jesus pointed toward. Not a place set apart from the world—but a world transfigured by  God’s presence.

The whole city becomes the Holy of Holies.

No need for curtain or court. No veil. No priestly caste.

The Lamb is the light, and the people walk in it.
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Becoming, Not Rebuilding
This is the mistake of many prophetic frameworks today: they keep waiting for something to be built that has already begun to be formed.

The Temple is not coming back—it’s becoming us.

Not in political reconstruction, but in covenantal renewal.

Not in a mountain made holy again, but in a people made ready.

When Jesus ascended, He didn’t leave a blueprint for a new sanctuary. He left His Spirit—and a commission.

We are His Body. We are His Temple. We are the place where heaven touches earth, if we will walk in faith, justice, mercy, and 

love.

So look not to scaffolds, but to saints.

Look not to architecture, but to Acts.

The final Temple is not a monument.

It’s a movement.

And it’s becoming.

The Eschatology of Jesus and the Cursed Fig Tree

A Rebuke of Political Zionism and a Call to Prophetic Faithfulness

Jesus approached the fig tree looking for fruit.

It had leaves—signs of life, of promise—but no fruit.

So He cursed it (Mark 11:13–14).

This wasn’t just about a tree.

It was a living parable—an eschatological sign against a religious-political system that had leaves without covenant obedience, temple without mercy, national pride without prophetic truth.

The fig tree was Israel—not as a people beloved by God, but as a system posturing righteousness while rejecting the One who came to gather her children.

And He wept.

Today, the modern state of Israel, for all its technological and economic achievements, bears a haunting resemblance to that fig tree. National leaves. Military power. Religious symbolism.

But where is the fruit?

Where is the justice, the humility, the mercy (Micah 6:8)?

Where is the welcoming of the stranger, the honoring of the least, the recognition of Messiah?

This is not a denial of Israel’s irrevocable calling (Romans 11:29)—but a warning:

The return of the land without the return of covenant is not fulfillment.

It is a delay.

It may even be a sign of judgment.

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The Cursed Fig Tree: Leaves Without Fruit
As Jesus approached the fig tree, He expected fruit. The tree had leaves—promising signs—but no reality beneath. He cursed it.

This was not arbitrary.

The fig tree symbolized the covenant people (cf. Hosea 9:10; Jeremiah 8:13). But more specifically, it represented a religious order that was externally alive but internally barren.

Jerusalem’s leadership—its priesthood, its national pride—had maintained the rituals, but rejected the heart. They had the Temple, but not teshuvah. They had the Law, but not love.

“Because you did not recognize the time of your visitation…” (Luke 19:44)

Today, that same indictment could be spoken over a modern political Zionism that has elevated power over prophecy, walls over welcome, and vengeance over vision.
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When Will Cain Put Down His Jealousy?
“Christ is the end (telos) of the law, so that there may be righteousness for everyone who believes.”
—Romans 10:4

If Jesus is the goal of the Law, then clinging to its outer garments while rejecting its fulfillment is not faithfulness—it is blindness (2 Corinthians 3:14–16).

Modern Zionism claims a covenantal inheritance—but it often does so while refusing the Covenant-Keeper Himself. It seeks identity in land, but not in Lamb.

It is Cain with a flag:
Armed. Entitled. Jealous.
Jealous of Ishmael.
Jealous of the Gentiles.

Jealous of the mercy poured out on the least, the outsider, the one who didn’t “deserve” it.

“They made Me jealous by what is no god… so I will make them jealous by those who are not a people.” —Deuteronomy 32:21 (cf. Romans 10:19)
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The Zion the Psalmist Saw
“Glorious things are spoken of you, O city of God.”
—Psalm 87:3

Psalm 87 redefines what it means to belong to Zion. It lists Babylon, Philistia, Cush, Tyre, Egypt—traditional enemies of Israel—and declares of them: “This one was born there” (v. 4–6).

This is no mere poetic flourish. This is the heart of the gospel.

Zion is not a militarized ethnos. It is a sanctuary for the nations. A people. A presence. A praise.

Citizenship is granted not by blood—but by grace.
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The True Zionism: A Mission, Not a Border

“You will be My witnesses…”

—Acts 1:8

Not empire-builders.

Not enforcers of national boundaries.
Not purveyors of eschatological propaganda.
Witnesses.

Of the resurrection.
Of reconciliation.
Of a Messiah who breaks down dividing walls (Ephesians 2:14).

The tragedy of political Zionism is not just in its violence—it is in its betrayal of mission. It puts land above life. Tribe above truth. Power above prophecy.
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The Apocalypse of the Lamb
The Book of Revelation unveils not the triumph of one nation, but the Lamb who was slain (Revelation 5:6).

Its climax is not a war—but a wedding.

The New Jerusalem descends from heaven (Revelation 21:2). It is not built by tanks, treaties, or technocrats.

“The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” —Revelation 22:2

This is the final eschatology of Jesus: not war, but healing.

Not vengeance, but reconciliation.
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The House Isaiah Saw
“In the last days, the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established…”
—Isaiah 2:2–4

Isaiah saw a house, not a state.

A place of prayer for all nations (Isaiah 56:7).

A sanctuary of shalom, not a center of surveillance.

When Jesus quotes this in Mark 11:17—“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations”— He is rebuking a Temple system turned into a nationalist marketplace.

If that was judged, what of a state that bears its name but not its purpose?
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The Mission Hasn’t Changed
The gospel is not a tribal document. It is a missional announcement:

“Through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed.”
—Genesis 12:3 (cf. Galatians 3:8)

Acts 15 confirms this: Gentiles were not required to become Jews or relocate to Jerusalem.

They were called to moral clarity, spiritual purity, and humility before the God of Israel.

They were grafted into a covenant of mercy, not a geopolitical campaign.
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A Call to Wakefulness

Political Zionism is not the gospel.

It is a distortion of Israel’s calling.

Christianity should NOT act as Edom enthroned.

It is the testimony of resurrection, the witness of a crucified Messiah who reconciles Jew and Gentile in one new humanity (Ephesians 2:15).

“For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent…”
—Isaiah 62:1

But that Zion is not armed with drones.

It does not deport the stranger or bomb the poor.

It is the city of God, whose architect is the Lord, whose King wore a crown of thorns.
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Final Word

Let us be clear:

The return of land without the return of covenant is not fulfillment.

A nation bearing leaves without fruit is still under warning.

The true Zion is not fenced—it is flung open by the resurrection of the King.

Let Cain repent.
Let Abel rise.

Let Jacob and Esau’s reconcilation prevail.
Let Gog fall.
Let the house be built.

And let the nations come—and be healed.

(cf. Revelation 22:2)

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
—Matthew 5:9

Pre-Millennialism or Pre-Messianic Age?

Reclaiming A.B. Simpson’s Urgency and the Prophetic Hope

Why Simpson’s vision of the Kingdom still matters

Introduction
At the recent Council of the Christian and Missionary Alliance (C&MA) in Columbus, Ohio 2025, delegates reaffirmed a pre-millennial understanding of Christ’s return. 

Though unsurprising, this decision reaffirms a core tenet of our movement: the conviction that a coming Messianic Age remains central to the hope of both Scripture and the early Church.

Yet what was not clarified is equally important. There was no distinction made between historic premillennialism—the position held by our founder, Dr. A.B. Simpson—and the more rigid dispensational frameworks that emerged later. These later systems, heavily shaped by ‘flat’ or easy readings of the Apocalypse of John, continue to dominate much of the popular evangelical imagination. But Simpson’s voice was different. And it is precisely that voice we need to recover today.
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First Immanency and Simpson’s Mission
As Franklin Pyles rightly emphasizes, Simpson’s eschatology was never theoretical. It was deeply practical and rooted in mission. He believed in what we might call a First Immanency—not just the belief that Christ would return soon, but that His return was near in a way that demanded urgent obedience. For Simpson, imminency was not a speculative timeline. It was a call to faithful action.

“This gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.” — Matthew 24:14

This verse wasn’t background noise to Simpson’s theology—it was its beating heart. “The Coming King” was not just a doctrinal tag; it was the driving force behind the Alliance’s global mission. In The Fourfold Gospel, Simpson named Jesus as Savior, Sanctifier, Healer, and Coming King. But that final title was never about apocalyptic escape—it was a summons to urgent, worldwide engagement and Kingdom preparation.

Some feared this focus on Christ’s return would distract from mission. In truth, it fueled it. This is what Simpson helped correct: the idea that eschatology weakens mission. In fact, it strengthens it—when rightly framed. What we must reject is easy eschatology—one that avoids the symbolic depth of Scripture for fear it complicates our agenda. As the Lord says, “My ways are not your ways” (Isa. 55:8).

Revelation invites us not to predict, but to perceive—to read symbol with faith, and live with holy imagination. Simpson’s vision calls us to think deeply, act boldly, and proclaim creatively. The Kingdom is not only coming. It is already breaking in.

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Why Does History Go On and On?
Today, the global news stream is relentless—conflict, catastrophe, collapse. We scroll through endless tragedy and wonder: Will anything ever truly change? History drags on, seemingly with no resolution in sight.

But this is not a new question. The Apostle Peter spoke of it long ago:
“Where is the promise of his coming?” — 2 Peter 3:4

We don’t ask this mockingly, but out of lament. We cry out as those waiting for history’s fulfillment.

Simpson would answer this cry the same way he answered it over a century ago:

History continues because one prophecy remains unfulfilled—one promise still burns in God’s heart and must burn in ours.

“This gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.” — Matthew 24:14

This is not just a timeline—it’s a mandate. Not speculation about empires. Not identifying the Antichrist. The return of Christ hinges on global proclamation. Simpson saw history as God’s field for gospel sowing, and the Church as the laborers—not through conquest or mere humanitarianism, but through proclamation of the reign of Christ in power, word, and Spirit.
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Beyond Charts: A Sabbath Cosmology
This contrasts sharply with much of today’s premillennial discourse, which has become entangled in speculative literalism and doctrinal gridlock. In truth, the term premillennialism deserves rethinking. Simpson stood closer to the early Church chiliasts, who anticipated a real, embodied reign of Messiah—not as domination, but as covenantal restoration and perhaps NOT for a literal Thousand Years.

Our modern eschatological categories—“millennium,” “rapture,” “tribulation”—are often shaped more by post-Enlightenment frameworks than the biblical prophets. 

Augustine’s amillennialism was symbolic but framed within a questionable ecclesiology and certainly supersessionistic. Later dispensationalism dissected history into epochs. Simpson bypassed both and I believe for his love of the Jewish people would be more aligned to the Hebraic rhythm of sacred time.

In Jewish cosmology, time unfolds in six “days” of labor followed by a seventh—the Sabbath of the Lord. The Messianic Age is not merely a thousand-year marker, but the redemptive culmination of covenant history.

Reframing “premillennialism” as pre-Messianic ageism captures this vision more faithfully. The “thousand years” in Revelation may signify not a precise duration, but the very character of the age—an age marked by witness, suffering, and perseverance. It is the age out of which the martyrs emerge, whose testimony defines much of John’s vision across Revelation’s chapters—yet always with the Lamb on the throne.

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Simpson’s Remnant and John’s Revelation
In The Coming One, Simpson wrote:

“Both find their historical fulfillment in the faithful few who have ever existed in even the darkest ages of medieval corruption… There has ever been a little flock, of which He says: ‘They shall be mine in the day when I make up My jewels.’”

This remnant vision includes the sealed 144,000 in Revelation—not merely as a theological metaphor, but as a covenantal remnant of Israel. It stands as a witness to Jewish faithfulness through suffering, exile, and pacifism—from the early centuries of Islamic conquest, through the endurance of the Middle Ages into the complex struggles of modern Zionism.

This remnant recalls the parables of the Treasure and the Pearl, where what is hidden and costly is preserved through trials. Eschatology must not be reduced to a flat timeline or simplistic scheme—it demands depth, memory, and covenantal imagination.

👉 The Messiah at Rome’s Gates: Exile, Healing, and the Threshold of Redemption

Perhaps the Millennium mentioned in Revelation is not a word in sequence, perhaps we are in the final battle of Gog and Magog?

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With Whom Will He Reign?
This reframing raises a crucial question—not just when Jesus will return, but how, and with whom. For Simpson, unity with the Jewish people was not a sidebar to prophecy. It was central to the eschatological mystery.

👉 A.B. Simpson: Spiritual Zionist, Open to Mystery

But what kind of unity are we talking about? Simply grafting Messianic Jews into Protestant categories? Or something more profound—a reconciliation with the Jewish narrative itself, and a partnership that fulfills God’s promises to Israel and the nations?

Isaiah’s last chapter puts it plainly:

“Heaven is My throne and the earth is My footstool… Where is the house you will build for Me?” — Isaiah 66:1

The final vision is not a temple of stone or a kingdom of coercion, but the descent of divine presence—a reign of justice, humility, and healing. It is a vision rooted in the Hebrew prophets, where so much remains unrealized and yet to be fulfilled.

Texts like Isaiah 2, 19, and 63 & 66 plus Micah 4, offer a more expansive and redemptive horizon than even the apocalyptic frameworks often drawn from Daniel’s historical imagery.

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The Kingdom Must Be Preached
This is why Simpson resisted the idea that the Kingdom would come merely through education, medical aid, or cultural uplift. In Larger Outlooks on Missionary Lands, he warned against the belief that societal improvement could substitute for gospel proclamation.

“We do not believe that this is the Scriptural standpoint of missions… If we are to do effective work, we surely must understand and work in harmony with the plan of our great Leader.” — A.B. Simpson

Yes, the Kingdom must be modeled. But it must also be proclaimed. Not either/or—but both. The Church must never forget that proclamation is the engine of fulfillment.
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A Prophecy That Answers History’s Ache
Simpson’s missionary vision—and Jesus’ prophecy in Matthew 24:14—reveal not only the why of history’s long arc, but the what now of the Church’s mission.

We are not called to wait for the world to burn.

We are called to bring the King back!

This is the prophecy that answers the ache of creation. It declares that even the delay is mercy—and that every act of gospel faithfulness brings the Kingdom closer.

From this mountaintop, we glimpse the end: not extinction, not collapse—but Kingdom.

Until that day, the mandate is clear:
Preach. Proclaim. Display. Declare without end!  

Prepare the world for the Coming One.

Let us not merely say He is coming soon.

Let us live—like Simpson—so the world knows:

He may come today. Maranatha! 

Sources
Franklin Pyles, The Missionary Eschatology of A.B. Simpson, Read here

A.B. Simpson, The Fourfold Gospel. PDF Download

A.B. Simpson, The Coming One,  pp. 32–33.

A.B. Simpson, Larger Outlooks on Missionary Lands (1895).

Revisiting Jude’s Confrontation and the Crisis of the Name

 

The Epistle of Jude does not merely warn against abstract heresy—it stands as a direct response to a historical and spiritual rupture that dishonored the Name of the LORD. The urgency and severity of Jude’s language (“contend earnestly,” “clouds without water,” “twice dead”) reveals a moment of deep instability, one tied to a false and dangerous corruption: the rise of a pseudo-messiah rooted in the conflated figure of Ben Stada—the son of Jose Pandera. 

This Ben Stada figure, known in rabbinic sources, may have emerged from a fusion of messianic expectation, political chaos, and spiritual counterfeit. Over time, legends surrounding him mutated and merged with narratives about Jesus of Nazareth, particularly through heretical streams that redefined Jesus via figures like Mary Magdalene—most famously in the so-called “gnostic gospels.” These texts weaponized the confusion, blending Jewish messianic categories with Hellenistic esotericism, all while tearing the Son of Man from His Jewish context. 

Notably, the terms Notzrim (נוצרים) and gnostic (γνωστικοί) sound strikingly similar. This phonetic nearness may not be coincidental. As the true Nazarene tradition—rooted in Torah fidelity and the family of Jesus—was being expelled from the synagogue (cf. Birkat HaMinim), a rival version took shape. Gnostic distortions masqueraded as hidden knowledge but in fact erased Israel, undermined covenant, and offered a disembodied redeemer stripped of prophetic continuity. 

The crisis at Yavneh, therefore, was not merely halakhic—it was cosmic. It was a battle for the Name, for the lineage of covenantal memory, and for the Gospel’s integrity. Jude’s epistle is the last trumpet before this breach fully opened. His letter deserves to be read not as a marginal book of warning, but as the frontline document of resistance against what would become the most enduring theological counterfeit in history.

El Pacto es una Herida

Mirando más allá de los sistemas teológicos

y volviendo a la revelación y la misión

“Todo esto lo he hecho por ti; ¿qué has hecho tú por Mí?”

“Y sucedió que, puesto el sol y ya oscurecido, apareció un horno humeante y una antorcha de fuego que pasaban entre los animales divididos.”

— Génesis 15:17

Ecce Homo

English Version

Dios no inventó el pacto para administrar a la humanidad.

Él se ató a Sí mismo.
Él pasó por la sangre, no Abraham.
Él se hizo responsable del futuro de la promesa, incluso hasta la muerte.

“Ten por cierto… que tu descendencia será extranjera… pero Yo juzgaré… y saldrán con grandes riquezas.”
(Gén. 15:13–14)

“En aquel día el SEÑOR cortó un pacto con Abram.”
(Gén. 15:18, literal)

El hebreo no dice “hizo” sino cortó—karat brit.

El pacto comienza en sangre y oscuridad, en el propio acto de auto-obligación de Dios.

Esto no es un contrato legal.

Es jesed ve-emet—amor firme y verdad (Éxodo 34:6)—una herida tomada voluntariamente.

Cuando los profetas hablan, claman desde dentro de esta herida:

“Pero Sion dijo: ‘El SEÑOR me ha abandonado…’ ¿Acaso olvida una madre a su hijo de pecho?… He aquí que en las palmas de mis manos te tengo esculpida.”

— Isaías 49:14–16

El pacto de Dios no olvida, incluso cuando su pueblo sí lo hace.

Él se marca con ellos. Lleva su nombre en su cuerpo.

Y así, cuando aparece el Siervo: “Mas Él fue herido por nuestras rebeliones… el castigo de nuestra paz fue sobre Él, y por Sus llagas fuimos nosotros sanados.”
— Isaías 53:5

El pacto alcanza su punto más profundo no en el Sinaí, ni en David, sino en un madero de ejecución romano, donde el Verbo hecho carne “confirmó las promesas hechas a los padres” (Rom. 15:8).

Allí, la herida queda expuesta.
El Dios que Recuerda en el Sufrimiento
“Se acordó para siempre de su pacto, de la palabra que ordenó para mil generaciones.”
— Salmo 105:8

Los Salmos no celebran la ley como un sistema abstracto.
Cantan la memoria de la misericordia.

El pacto se recuerda no en los tribunales, sino en el exilio, en el anhelo, en la tensión entre el abandono y el amor:

“¿Desechará el Señor para siempre, y no volverá más a ser propicio? ¿Ha cesado para siempre su misericordia? ¿Se ha acabado perpetuamente su promesa?”
— Salmo 77:7–8

La herida del pacto no es el fracaso de Dios—es Su fidelidad frente a la nuestra.

Cuando Isaías toma la voz del lamento, es la esperanza marcada de Israel la que clama:

“Di mi espalda a los que me herían, y mis mejillas a los que me arrancaban la barba; no escondí mi rostro de injurias y escupidas.”
— Isaías 50:6

Esto no es simplemente sufrimiento profético.

Es encarnación pactal.

Israel lleva la herida de la elección.

El Siervo lleva la herida de Israel.

Y sin embargo, la promesa permanece:

 “Te he puesto por pacto del pueblo… para sacar de la cárcel a los presos.”
— Isaías 42:6–7

Aquí, el Siervo no es sólo portador del pacto—Él es el pacto.

Él se convierte en la herida.

Se convierte en la atadura.

Se convierte en el fiel en lugar de los infieles.

Y así la herida se hace visible:

“Mirarán a Mí, a quien traspasaron, y harán duelo por Él como se llora por el hijo unigénito.” — Zacarías 12:10

El duelo no es sólo por la pérdida.

Es el duelo del reconocimiento.

Aquel a quien traspasaron es Dios recordando Su pacto de la forma más costosa posible.

Este es el escándalo del pacto:

Hiere a Dios.
Lo ata a un pueblo en rebelión.

Lo expone a la muerte, al rechazo, y aún así habla paz.

Y siglos más tarde, en otro tiempo y lugar, un joven noble se encontraba en una galería de museo en Düsseldorf. Su nombre era el Conde Nikolaus Ludwig von Zinzendorf, un hombre de privilegio y promesa. Criado en la tradición luterana, ya estaba empapado de las Escrituras. Pero no fue un sermón ni un sistema lo que traspasó su corazón—fue una pintura.

Frente a él colgaba una obra de Domenico Feti (a menudo confundida con Holbein), titulada Ecce Homo—“He aquí el Hombre.”

En ella, Jesús aparece azotado y coronado de espinas, mirando desde el lienzo no con acusación, sino con sufrimiento silencioso.

Debajo de la imagen, una inscripción decía:

“Todo esto lo he hecho por ti; ¿qué has hecho tú por Mí?”
No era una exigencia. No era una carga de culpa.
Era la voz del pacto herido.

Zinzendorf recordaría después:
“Le he amado desde hace tiempo, pero nunca he hecho nada por Él. Ahora haré todo lo que Él me pida.”
Y lo hizo.

Fundó el movimiento Moravo, un pueblo marcado no por el orgullo doctrinal, sino por un profundo amor pactal, comunidad, y misión global.

Para Zinzendorf, ese momento no fue una conversión en el sentido moderno. Fue reconocimiento.

La herida se volvió visible.

Y así terminamos donde comenzamos:
“Mirarán al que traspasaron… y llorarán.”
El duelo se convierte en misión.
La herida se convierte en fuente de misericordia.

Y el Siervo—el traspasado—permanece por siempre unido a Su pueblo, incluso en el exilio, incluso en la traición, incluso en el silencio.

Él te ha grabado en las palmas de Sus manos.